Charlotte’s POV:

I spotted Alexander the moment he strode into the main living room of the Kingsley mansion. His piercing gaze immediately locked onto me with an intensity that made my stomach clench nervously. My heart skipped a beat—was he angry about me calling him “old man”? The cold calculation in his eyes suggested he might be preparing to retaliate.

Time to control the situation.

“Darling, you’re back,” I said in a saccharine voice, wearing my sweetest smile. The transformation from my true self to dutiful wife was accomplished in an instant.

Alexander’s response was as direct as it was cold: “Get lost.”

I lowered my head, adopting a practiced posture of contrition. “I’m sorry, dear,” I maintained an appropriately remorseful expression.

To my surprise, it was Richard Kingsley who erupted first.

“Alexander Kingsley,” he thundered, his voice echoing throughout the living room. “Is this how I raised you to treat your wife?”

Alexander’s expression remained impassive, clearly disdaining any explanation, though I caught the slight tightening of his jaw. “If you have something to say, say it,” he replied coolly, settling into an antique armchair with calculated nonchalance.

“Apologize to Charlotte,” Richard commanded, a demand that left no room for negotiation.

I watched as Alexander’s gaze slid to me, deep and unreadable beneath those perfectly sculpted brows. My mind raced. Apologize to me? Why? Had Alexander said something about me to his father?

This was my chance to escape before things got more complicated.

“We’re married—we’re one unit,” I interjected smoothly. “My husband doesn’t need to apologize to me. Please don’t be angry, Dad. Now that Alexander is here, you two can talk. I’ll return to my room.”

Without waiting for a response, I hurried away, retreating to the relative safety of the bedroom like a rabbit—well, as much safety as any place in this mansion could offer.

I leaned against the bedroom door, letting out a breath of relief.

I spent half an hour contemplating my situation, mapping out the complex power dynamics of the Kingsley household in my mind. One thing became clear: I couldn’t afford to alienate Richard, who was my only protector in this gilded prison. My impulsive behavior last night had already tested his patience. If he discovered I was deliberately stirring up conflict, my already precarious position would become even more dangerous.

As for Alexander… I could provoke him, but not too much. Mild irritation was acceptable; genuine anger might make my already uncomfortable living situation even more unbearable.

The problem was my temper—the instinct to fight back when cornered might one day get the better of me.

Suddenly, the bedroom door was pushed open by a force from outside that sent me stumbling forward a few steps. I quickly regained my balance and turned to face the intruder.

Alexander Kingsley stood in the doorway, his expression inscrutable.

“Hey… old guy?” I greeted awkwardly, the nickname slipping out before I could stop myself.

In two strides, he closed the distance between us. His hand shot out, gripping the back of my neck firmly, forcing my head down.

“Ah! Sneak attack—not fair!” I protested, my voice rising at the humiliating position.

“Alexander Kingsley, let me go!” I demanded, trying to sound authoritative despite my forced posture.

“What exactly did you say to my father to manipulate him?” he asked, his voice low and dangerous.

With my head pinned down, unable to look up, I responded by pinching a bit of flesh on his wrist tightly with my hand. I wouldn’t be intimidated. “I should be asking you that! What did you tell your father about me that made him demand you apologize?”

We were at an impasse. Neither of us had the information the other wanted. Time to change tactics.

“How about this?” I proposed, my voice becoming steady. “You agree to my two requests from this morning, and I promise I’ll never call you ‘old man’ or ‘old guy’ again. We won’t interfere with each other—you live your life, I’ll live mine. Deal?”

I felt his grip loosen slightly as he considered my proposal. “Your mind,” he finally said with a cold smirk, “is quite clever indeed.”

I could feel him realizing he’d been maneuvered, but unable to find a graceful exit. If he continued holding me, he would appear petty; if he let go, it would signal acceptance of my terms. Either way, I won.

His hand released my neck, and I straightened up, rubbing the sore spot while surreptitiously checking his wrist. My fingernails had left angry red marks on his skin.

“Your wrist might bruise tomorrow,” I said with a mixture of concern and satisfaction. “Perhaps you should wear a watch to cover it?”

The morning of our visit to my parents’ home arrived sooner than I expected. I woke up early, wearing an elegant yet simple navy blue dress my mother had given me for my birthday. Alexander was already in the grand foyer, where Morris had arranged an impressive array of gifts.

“Remember what you promised me,” I reminded Alexander quietly but firmly, my eyes conveying both hope and warning.

He didn’t acknowledge my words, silently loading the gifts into the trunk of his Rolls-Royce.

According to the navigation system, the drive from Nob Hill to Palo Alto would take about an hour. We drove in tense silence until I noticed Alexander glancing at me.

“Why do you keep looking at me, Alexander?” I asked warily.

“Nauseating,” he replied, though his tone lacked the sharp edge I had become accustomed to.

Deep breath. Hold it in. For Mom and Dad… I kept my expression neutral despite the urge to retaliate, my fingers fidgeting nervously with the hem of my dress.

I noticed Alexander’s gaze lingering a moment longer before returning to the road. The slight softening around his eyes made me wonder what he was thinking.

As we approached my parents’ home, I saw my parents waiting at the front door. My heart swelled at the sight of them standing together in front of our cozy house. The well-tended garden wasn’t as grand as the Kingsley estate, but it was filled with my mother’s favorite flowers and felt like home.

Sudden anxiety gripped me. What if Alexander reverted to his cold, contemptuous self in front of my parents? I couldn’t bear the thought of them seeing how my husband truly felt about me.

“Alexander,” I blurted out, instinctively reaching to grab his arm but accidentally grasping his hand instead. “You must remember our agreement.”

He turned to me, one eyebrow slightly raised. “Have I given you the impression that I don’t keep my word?” he asked, with a hint of offense in his tone.

“I’m just… I’m just nervous,” I mumbled, lowering my gaze.

I suddenly realized I was holding his hand, warm and solid against my cooler skin. When I tried to pull away, I felt his fingers tighten.

“Weren’t you supposed to be selling the whole lovebirds act? Take my hand .“