Shackled To The Enemy King Chapter 122: He Was Jealous

The doorbell rang again, and Maximilian looked at the door cara. This ti it was Miranda.

She rushed in like a gust of wind—half panic, half guilt written all over her face. Her hair was slightly disheveled, and she clutched her purse like she’d sprinted the entire way.

"I just saw in the group chat that the foolish son of mine left his kids with you... I ca to get them," she said quickly, almost breathless.

Now Maximilian understood the urgency. Her family clearly didn’t mind her watching the kids, when she was alone, but now, with him, they were trying to give them privacy.

He glanced toward Catherine.

She looked deeply offended.

"Group chat?" Catherine repeated slowly. "I didn’t see any texts in the group chat..."

Her brows knitted together, confusion turning into suspicion. Then Miranda tried to usher the kids out quickly.

Catherine’s eyes widened. "You started a group without ?"

Her mouth fell open in disbelief.

Miranda froze for half a second, caught. Then she moved faster.

"You’re all staying with Nana tonight," she announced, scooping up the children one after another. "Gigi has to rest tonight... and if we’re lucky, she’ll give you an uncle or aunt to play with in a year..."

The last part ca out as a muttered whisper.

Like a passing storm, she gathered the children, shoes, bags, noise, and laughter, and within five minutes the house was empty again.

Silent.

Catherine collapsed back onto the couch with a dramatic pout.

"I’m bored," she sighed.

Taking care of the babies had been the best part of coming ho. Their giggles, their tiny hands, their endless chaos.

And now, because he was here, everyone had whisked them away.

She suddenly sat upright and began aggressively typing on her phone.

Maximilian watched with quiet amusent.

It seed their family had dozens of group chats... and each one had a different person excluded. The na of the chat always revealed who had been left out.

Apparently, this was a regular tradition.

Tonight, Catherine had finally landed on the receiving end of it.

ssages flew across the screen so fast he could barely follow them—excuses, teasing, apologies. One by one, people responded and slipped away from the conversation.

Catherine tossed the phone aside with a huff.

"I’m not going to talk to them again."

Maximilian chuckled softly and slid an arm around her shoulders. The movent was gentle, instinctive. His palm rested warm against her arm.

"I’m jealous," he murmured quietly. "Of your family."

Catherine looked up at him.

His jaw was tight, but there was sothing fragile in his eyes—sothing that caught the light like mist.

For a mont, she didn’t tease him, she didn’t laugh. Instead, she leaned her head lightly against his shoulder.

They ate dinner together in a comfortable quiet. Later, Maximilian looked across the table at her.

"Charlotte will be here at Stonehaven tomorrow," he said.

Catherine froze mid-bite. Slowly, she lifted her eyes to et his.

So.

The answers were finally coming.

Maybe tomorrow she would finally learn who killed her son.

"Thank you," she said softly.

Maximilian pressed his lips together and said nothing.

Would she believe Charlotte? What would Charlotte say? Because if Catherine had found a letter sealed with his seal... there was only one other person who could have done it.

Charlotte.

No one else.

He inhaled slowly, deeply.

Catherine would never rest until she untangled this knot. He knew that much about her now.

And tomorrow, the truth would begin to surface.

-----

Charlotte squeezed into the narrow middle seat, wedged tightly between a broad-shouldered man and an elderly woman whose soft arm pressed firmly against hers. The cabin felt stifling. The air conditioner above her barely worked, pushing out nothing more than a weak, warm breath.

This was the cheapest ticket she could afford.

The seat fabric scratched against her skin, and every slight movent from the man beside her shoved his elbow into her ribs. Charlotte exhaled slowly, trying to ignore the discomfort.

Just a little longer, she told herself.

She shifted and glanced down at her phone, mostly out of boredom. The screen refreshed with a breaking headline from a financial news app.

Her tired eyes sharpened instantly.

Edward Blackwood, The Chairman of BioQuant Pharmaceuticals, has passed away at 83. Who will lead the giant corporation now?

For a mont she stared at the na beneath the headline, and that picture... Oh, that picture.

Then her lips slowly curved.

A quiet, dangerous smile.

"So... here you are, King Dorian," she murmured under her breath.

Her thumb lingered on the screen as she reread the article, thoughts racing faster than the airplane cutting through the clouds.

For the first ti in a long while, a spark of hope stirred inside her chest.

Maybe...

Just maybe...

She still had a way out.

-----

Dorian straightened his burgundy tie in the elevator mirror, smoothing the fabric with careful fingers. His reflection stared back at him with a satisfied smirk. Today, his dark eyes carried an unusual brightness—sothing sharp and victorious.

Behind him, his assistant stood stiffly.

He pressed his lips together, swallowing the words that wanted to co out.

Pinstripes wouldn’t photograph well on cara. The press conference later would be full of flashing lights and sharp lenses. A plain black suit would have been safer than navy-blue too—more appropriate for soone who was supposed to be mourning.

But the rumors were everywhere now.

Whispers that Dorian might have killed Edward.

So the assistant stayed silent.

The elevator chid softly.

The doors slid open, and Dorian walked into the conference room like he owned it.

The long polished table was already surrounded by board mbers. Conversations died down as he entered.

The reception was... lukewarm.

Only a few people stood up.

The rest simply watched him, unimpressed.

Dorian didn’t mind.

He already knew how this would end.

He had been planning this mont for a very long ti.

The room settled into a tense silence as the mbers exchanged looks. Finally, one of the older n cleared his throat and leaned forward.

"I think it would be better if we voted Mr. Strauss as chairman," he began carefully. "He has been with the company for—"

*SLAM*

Dorian’s fists crashed down onto the table. The sound echoed across the room. Several mbers recoiled in their chairs, gasping.

Dorian slowly lifted his head, smiling pleasantly. "Let’s just say..." he drawled, his voice smooth and dangerous, "I am the Chairman... and leave it at that."

A murmur rippled through the room.

Disapproval flickered across faces. A few lawyers leaned toward their clients, whispering urgently. So mbers weren’t even present themselves—they had sent legal representatives instead.

Dorian noticed everything.

And he smirked.

Then he clapped his hands once.

Sharp.

The assistant by the door stiffened imdiately.