chapter2182

With Charlotte's wedding racing toward the calendar like a bright-white comet, Cecilia found her own days swallowed by errands that glittered and hummed. She studied lace and silk under showroom spotlights, matched earrings to veils, and signed for gifts large enough to fill a delivery truck.

Yet she never dared loosen her grip on the Jamieson Group. She had not sat in that chair long, and the veterans could smell new paint on the walls.

Old leverage-secret files her late mother had hidden away-kept those silver- haired shareholders docile for now.

But Cecilia understood steel-sharp skill, not blackmail, would be the only thing that lasted.

News of the upcoming ceremony sent a fresh spark through Chelsea, who treated Charlotte's happiness as though it were her own.

"Lottie, you're really getting married! Congratulations!" Chelsea typed, thumbs flying. "Looks like I'm the last single woman standing."

"What are you talking about, Chelsea?" Charlotte replied. "Aren't you and Jason practically glued together?"

Chelsea lounged on the secondhand couch in Jason's rented apartment, a slice of fruit balanced on her tongue while she stared at the ceiling and sighed, the room's quiet pressing in on her ribs.

"My parents don't approve of us, and a wedding feels impossible now. I've stopped wishing for it." Her words wavered, as fragile as soap bubbles.

Charlotte, unsure how to patch that tear, responded with a single hug emoji— cartoon arms outstretched in silent comfort.

Seeing it, Chelsea let the chat fall idle and the screen dim to black.

She set the phone aside and let her gaze drift around the small apartment.

With Jason away, Chelsea drifted through the house like a ghost in her own life. Running away had felt heroic the night she did it. Reality collected the bill by dawn: her parents froze every account, revoked every allowance, and quietly fired her from the family firm.

Applying elsewhere, she asked for a manager's desk-she knew no other rung— and watched recruiters' brows shoot sky-high.

Rejection followed rejection, each polite e-mail a little blade. Abroad, she'd worn privilege like air; here, companies reminded her she had no resume, only expectations.

She almost called Jason-almost-but the image of him hunched over overtime spreadsheets made her swallow the impulse.

Restless, she wandered the apartment and spotted one of Jason's coats hanging near the doorway, the faint scent of him still clinging to the fabric.

An idea sparked—small, bright, undeniable.

Without another thought, she hugged the coat to her chest, marched to the washer, and

dropped it in with a satisfying thud. Wateroared, the drum spun, and in that small, ordinary act, she felt the day steady beneath her feet.

Back when she was living overseas, she had done her own laundry; soap suds were hardly beneath her now.

Hoping to surprise Jason, Chelsea stayed busy around the apartment. All afternoon, she moved from room to room, dusting crown moldings polishing the tiny windowpanes and scrubbing the grout until every surface gleamed like new.

Chelsea had meant to cook a real dinner. She tried again and again, yet every pot of

pasta emerged half-raw, mocking her patience.

At last, worn out and smelling faintly

of smoke, she pulled out the bank

card Jason had given her and

hurc

ordered takeout with a few hurried, taps, her pride sinking with each

click.

When the clock struck eight, Jason finally unlocked the door, his shoulders sagging

from the commute and carrying the chill of the night air.

He swung the door open and froze on the threshold. Chelsea stood in the dining room, arranging dishes on the table like a hostess determined to salvage the evening.

"You're back!" she called, her voice bright with the relief of someone who has waited all evening. "Come sit. Dinner's ready."

He slipped off his shoes, the clean hardwood cool beneath his socks, and noticed the apartment smelled clean and fresh.

Because Chelsea had transferred every delivery container into plates and bowls, the spread looked convincingly homemade.

"Did you make all of this?" Jason asked, unable to hide the flicker of awe in his eyes.

"Um... Sort of," Chelsea answered with a small, guilty laugh.

Jason blinked, trying to decode what that could possibly mean in a kitchen that still smelled suspiciously unsinged.

He let the mystery lie, pulled out a chair, and joined her at the table.

One bite told him the truth-the subtle seasoning was the signature of their favorite takeout food.

"How much did all this set us back?" he asked casually.

The harmless question snatched the disguise right off Chelsea's secret like a gust of wind pulling sheets from a clothesline.

"Only a little over one thousand," she said, as though discussing loose change.