[BL] Transmigrated as the Villain CEO's Mermaid Secretary Chapter 167: Flowers Don’t Suit You

The words felt wrong in his mouth. Tasted like ash.

Sothing changed in the air behind him. Grayson’s posture didn’t change, but there was a subtle tension now, a tightening of the invisible threads between them.

Neville’s stomach dropped.

Keaton let out a soft snort. His lips curved into a smile that was all teeth and no warmth. "Just an employee, then. How... fortunate."

He straightened his cuffs and asked, "Well then, shall I take you out for a al? To discuss potential opportunities, of course—purely professional."

"There’s no palatable al out there," Grayson cut in before Neville could even open his mouth. His voice had dropped to that dangerous register.

Keaton’s eyebrow arched higher. "Then is there a food you prefer?"

"He can cook his own food."

Keaton’s eyes widened slightly, and he turned to Neville with renewed interest.

"You can cook?" A pause. Then, slowly, like he was savoring each word: "Would you like to cook for ?"

[Oh boy,] Shelly muttered. [Here it cos.]

Grayson stepped closer, close enough that Neville could feel the solid wall of his chest against his back. "He’s already busy cooking for ."

"Why does he have to cook for you?" Keaton demanded, there was irritation bleeding through his composure.

Neville opened his mouth to explain, but Grayson beat him to it.

"Because he’s mine."

Neville felt the air leave his lungs in a rush—

No. No, he couldn’t think about that right now.

"I have a contract," he said quickly, too quickly, the explanation spilling out in a rush. "It’s a part of my duties as his employee—"

"Then how about I hire you to cook for , too?" Keaton interjected smoothly. "I’m sure we can work out comparable terms. Better terms, even."

Before Neville could co up with a response that wouldn’t make this situation exponentially worse, a familiar voice cut through the tension.

"Oh no, that can’t be."

Bryan appeared as if summoned by chaos itself, his poker face firmly in place but his eyes glittering with barely suppressed amusent.

"Hope is already busy with orders from the Maxwell Corporation. The demand for his culinary services has quite overwheld our internal scheduling."

Grayson’s expression flickered in confusion mixed with betrayal.

Bryan continued smoothly, utterly unperturbed, "However, if Mr. Hewitt is interested in similar services, perhaps I could interest him in our new line of cooking robots? They’ve been programd with over a thousand recipes made by Mr Hope over here."

Keaton’s attention was moved to Bryan, and Neville could practically see the calculations happening behind his eyes. "Oh? You’ve developed cooking robots?"

"State of the art," Bryan confird, producing a QR code from his light brain. "The latest in Maxwell Corporation’s dostic automation division. After the cleanup from today’s... events... I’d be happy to arrange a demonstration."

"Happy cooperation," Keaton murmured, scanning the QR code with a smile that said he knew exactly what ga Bryan was playing and was choosing to play along anyway.

He turned back to Neville. Before anyone could react, he already took Neville’s hand and brought it to his lips.

The kiss was a brief brush of warmth, but Keaton’s eyes never left Neville’s face as he did it.

"Until next ti," he said softly, and the promise in those words made Neville’s skin prickle. "Don’t let your employer work you too hard."

Then he was gone, striding out of the assembly hall with the confident gait of a man who had lost a battle but fully intended to win the war.

Silence reigned for exactly three seconds.

Then Grayson grabbed Neville’s hand—the one Keaton had kissed—and began rubbing at it like he was trying to remove a stubborn stain.

"Um," Neville tried to say sothing, but he noticed that Grayson wasn’t even paying attention to him.

He just kept rubbing, his thumb pressing firm circles against Neville’s palm. His fingers worked over each knuckle with intensity.

[Host, your hand is turning red,] Shelly observed.

In the background, Bryan’s voice heard: "Fifty-star coins says Mr. Hewitt will barge in to ask Hope for a date within the month."

"Fifty says Mr. Hewitt will be banned within the month, but still wait for Neville outside," Sarah countered, coming from out of nowhere. Her tone was bright, cheerful. It seed that she was expecting to win.

Then Iris approached from behind and joined the impromptu gambling session: "Fifty. Mr. Hewitt will be too ’busy’ to date."

Bryan and Sarah turned to her in unison, surprise flickering across their faces.

"Deal," they said together.

Grayson heard all of this—Neville could tell by the slight tension in his shoulders—but he didn’t pay attention to them. He just kept rubbing Neville’s hand, kept erasing whatever traces of Keaton Hewitt remained on his skin.

The friction was starting to sting.

"Mr. Maxwell," Neville managed, "I think it’s clean now."

No response.

"Sir?"

Grayson’s grip tightened, his thumb found the center of Neville’s palm, and pressed it. It was a grounding gesture that sent unexpected warmth shooting up Neville’s arm.

Then, without warning, his other hand reached up and plucked the flower from Neville’s hair.

Neville watched, stunned, as Grayson crushed it in his fist.

The petals crumpled with a wet sound. Deep red sap oozed between Grayson’s fingers, thick and dark. It dripped down his wrist like blood from an open wound.

It should have been disturbing.

Instead, Neville found himself fixated by the way Grayson’s eyes had darkened. He seed to be restraining himself.

"Flowers don’t suit you," Grayson said, and his voice had gone rough at the edges.

[!!!!!!] Shelly’s thought processes had stopped.

Neville’s throat felt dry. "I... it doesn’t really matter if flowers suit or not. I was just being polite. I just failed to decline imdiately."

The excuse sounded weak even to his own ears. But what was he supposed to say?

Grayson’s expression changed. His expression eased a little and seed to be satisfied with his answer. "I see."

He released Neville’s hand and reached for the handkerchief in his breast pocket, thodically wiping the crimson sap from his fingers.

"You did great handling that situation earlier."