Chapter 2182

With Charlotte’s wedding racing toward the calendar like a bright-white comet, Cecilia found her own days swallowed whole by glittering, humming errands. She examined lace and silk beneath showroom spotlights, matched earrings to veils, and signed for gifts large enough to fill an entire delivery truck.

Yet she never loosened her grip on the Jamieson Group.

She hadn’t occupied that chair for long, and the old guard could smell fresh paint on the walls. For now, they stayed obedient only because of the leverage she held—secret files her late mother had hidden away. Those documents kept the silver-haired shareholders quiet, but Cecilia knew blackmail was never a lasting weapon.

Only sharp skill would endure.

News of the upcoming wedding sparked fresh excitement in Chelsea, who treated Charlotte’s happiness as if 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?” Charlotte replied. “Aren’t you and Jason basically glued together?”

Chelsea lounged on the secondhand couch in Jason’s rented apartment, a slice of fruit resting on her tongue as she stared at the ceiling. The silence pressed against her ribs.

“My parents don’t approve of us, and a wedding feels impossible right now. I’ve stopped wishing for it.” Her words trembled, fragile as soap bubbles.

Unsure how to mend that ache, Charlotte replied with a single hug emoji—cartoon arms stretched wide in quiet comfort.

Seeing it, Chelsea let the chat go dark.

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

With Jason still at work, she drifted through the rooms like a ghost in her own life. Running away had felt heroic that night. Reality sent the bill by morning: her parents froze her accounts, cut off her allowance, and quietly removed her from the family company.

When she applied elsewhere, she asked for management roles—she knew no other rung—and watched recruiters’ brows shoot upward in disbelief.

Rejection followed rejection, each polite email another thin blade. Overseas, privilege had been invisible, like air. Here, companies reminded her she had no résumé—only expectations.

She almost called Jason. Almost. But the image of him hunched over overtime spreadsheets made her swallow the urge.

Restless, she wandered toward the door and noticed one of Jason’s coats hanging there, his faint scent still clinging to the fabric.

An idea sparked—small, bright, undeniable.

Without hesitation, she hugged the coat to her chest, marched to the washer, and dropped it in with a solid thud. Water roared, the drum spun, and in that simple, ordinary act, the day finally steadied beneath her feet.

Back when she lived overseas, she did her own laundry. Soap suds were hardly beneath her now.

Determined to surprise Jason, Chelsea kept herself busy. All afternoon, she moved from room to room—dusting crown molding, polishing the narrow windowpanes, scrubbing grout until every surface gleamed.

She meant to cook a proper dinner. She really did. But every pot of pasta came out half-raw, mocking her patience.

Exhausted and faintly smoky, she finally pulled out the bank card Jason had given her and ordered takeout with a few hurried taps, her pride sinking with every click.

When the clock struck eight, Jason finally unlocked the door, shoulders slumped from the commute and carrying the night’s chill with him.

He froze on the threshold.

Chelsea stood in the dining area, carefully arranging dishes like a hostess determined to save the evening.

“You’re back!” she said brightly, relief spilling into her voice. “Come sit. Dinner’s ready.”

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

Because Chelsea had transferred everything from the delivery containers into plates and bowls, the meal looked convincingly homemade.

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

“Um… sort of,” Chelsea replied, letting out a small, guilty laugh.

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

He let it go, pulled out a chair, and sat down.

One bite told him the truth—the familiar seasoning of their favorite takeout.

“How much did all this cost?” he asked casually.

The question stripped away her disguise like a gust ripping sheets off a clothesline.

“Just a little over one thousand,” she said lightly, as if she were talking about spare change.