Chapter 52: Her Strategy

Alexander’s lips curved into a slow smirk as Whitcombe swiped through the videos.

“They don’t have six hours,” Alexander said calmly. “If this drags on, it becomes a loss for the taxpayers. Interim elections in five states aren’t cheap.”

Whitcombe looked up sharply, bristling. “Are you threatening us?” he snapped. “Do you really think you can get away with this?”

Alexander did.

He was well aware that his rise toward politics had been swift—like riding a luxury car at full speed. No legacy family. No inherited power. Just strategy, timing, and relentless work. And now, he was placing a deliberate obstacle on that path by challenging men who had ruled unchallenged for decades.

He didn’t regret it.

Family came first. Always.

“Let’s see,” Alexander replied evenly, his expression unreadable.

“Leave!” Whitcombe barked, slamming his hand on the desk.

Alexander merely smirked.

He turned toward the window instead, hands sliding casually into his pockets, gaze fixed on the city below. He didn’t need to say anything. His presence alone made his message clear.

He wasn’t leaving until the trucks moved.

—

Half an hour later, Alexander walked out of the office wearing that same infuriating smirk.

Duncan blinked and hurried after him, awe written plainly across his face. He had no idea what his boss had done… or threatened, but getting government machinery to move that fast bordered on miraculous.

Alexander’s phone buzzed.

William.

“You did it,” William said, disbelief and relief tangled in his voice. “I—I had to involve you. Did I just ruin your ambitions?”

Alexander laughed. “Ruin? Never. Just… delayed. I can live with that.”

William hummed softly. He understood. They always had.

Family first. If anyone touched what was theirs, they would close ranks like the world itself was ending. William would burn everything for Alexander just as easily.

Money solved many problems. If necessary, he’d bankroll another campaign. Setbacks could be mitigated.

“Dad had a mild heart attack an hour ago,” William added quietly. “He’s stable and resting now. Catherine doesn’t need to know yet.”

Alexander exhaled slowly. “Bobby’s with him?”

“Yes.”

“Good.”

He ended the call, the weight of the morning settling heavier than before.

Maximilian’s earlier warning surfaced in his mind, unbidden.

This was too big. Too sudden.

Alexander’s jaw tightened as he stepped into the elevator.

He had a sinking feeling this wouldn’t end here.

And somewhere deep down, he knew William felt it too.

—–

Maximilian watched Catherine from across his faculty office.

She sat by the window, sunlight brushing the edge of her hair as she stared intently at her laptop, expression composed, distant—utterly unreachable.

It had been three days since the confrontation.

Three days since everything between them had fractured into something colder, sharper.

She spoke to him only when necessary. Yes. No. Clarifications stripped of warmth. Logistics. Rules. Polite detachment.

And yet… she laughed easily with others.

His students adored her. They clustered around her desk, whispering, giggling, sneaking glances at him as though she were already part of the faculty. She played the role she had assigned herself flawlessly—his temporary assistant, his shadow, bound by clauses and conditions.

He had introduced her to professors in the neurology department. Mutual assistance—one of her rules.

Professional. Civil. Bloodless.

Twice since then, she had kissed him.

If those could even be called kisses.

Five seconds. Clinical. Measured. Lips touching with surgical precision. No warmth. No tremor. No racing heart.

Nothing.

And the curse rewarded it.

Fifteen meters.

As long as the kiss lasted more than five seconds, the distance widened obediently—proof that numbness, not affection, was the key.

Pure emptiness.

Pure torture.

Maximilian hated the curse with a violence that surprised even him. Death would have been kinder than this slow, deliberate erasure. To touch her and feel nothing… to know she was doing it only to escape him…

His fists clenched beneath the desk.

He had thought that by Winthorp, they would be closer. That something—anything—would soften between them.

Instead, she was slipping further away every day.

His phone chimed softly.

A message from Sebastian.

A PDF attachment.

“Charlotte O’Hara.”

Captioned beneath it: [How do you paint so realistically?]

Maximilian’s jaw tightened as his thumb hovered, then tapped.

The image at the top loaded.

His fingers stilled.

So… you were always this close.

—

Catherine closed her laptop and stretched, rolling her shoulders slightly.

That had been a productive rabbit hole.

With Bernice’s help—thankfully, Bernice understood the kind of technical jargon Catherine didn’t—she had gained access to a private forum. Password-protected. Invitation-only. A digital gathering place for women who moved through elite circles.

Escorts. High-end companions. Discreet socialites. Women who traded information the way nobles once traded favors.

It was gossip, yes—but informed gossip.

Not all of it was reliable. Catherine knew better than to believe everything written by anonymous hands. But she had lived in courts long before this life. She understood patterns. Motives. Exaggeration.

Upper society hadn’t changed as much as people liked to believe.

By the time she was done, she had compiled a list.

Men who were suitable. Eligible. Strategic.

Potential husbands.

She committed the important details to memory. It would serve her well at Winthorp.

Because she would find a husband there.

That was decided.

One name, however, stood apart—wrapped in deliberate mystery.

The heir to the Blackwood family. Founder of BioQuant.

Hidden. Shielded. No public photographs. No first name. Appeared only two years ago, kept out of sight by the old patriarch himself.

That alone made him dangerous.

And useful.

Wouldn’t it be delicious, she thought, if she married the heir to BioQuant—while Ashley and Jonathan plotted to steal her research just to claw their way onto the board?

She smiled faintly to herself.

Closing her laptop, she turned toward Maximilian.

“Have you met the Blackwood heir?” she asked casually.

She didn’t notice his phone. Didn’t see what had drained the color from his face.

Maximilian looked up.

The stiffness in his expression deepened. Something flickered—too quick to name—before his features went carefully blank.

“Blackwood?” he echoed.

Catherine studied him.

She had the sudden, unsettling certainty that whatever came next…

Would not be the truth.

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