The Unseen Price of Gold
The first sliver of dawn barely kissed the leaded glass windows of the Blackstone Estate.
E.g. ：Floating Magic Academy Student Discovers Looming Evil: Is Her Prophetic Vision a Conspiracy?
- 1、The Unseen Price of Gold
- 2、The Sleeping Dragon
- 3、The Chilling Void
- 4、The Echo of Betrayal
- 5、The Unraveling
- 6、The Maid's Gaze
Marcus Thorne, a titan of industry and a man who measured his mornings in millions, was already a hurricane of furious intent.
Today was not just another Tuesday; it was the culmination of a decade’s ruthless ambition.
The merger with Meridian Corp was set to be announced, solidifying his empire, doubling his net worth, and cementing his legacy in the annals of global finance.
And Eleanor, his wife, his elegant, often-silent accessory, was supposed to be impeccably dressed, by his side, ready for the cameras by 7 AM.
It was 6:58.
The Sleeping Dragon
He didn't knock; he never did.
The heavy mahogany door to their master suite—more a wing than a room—flew open with a thud that echoed through the otherwise hushed mansion.
"Eleanor!" he barked, his voice sharp enough to cut through marble.
He saw her form, a delicate mound beneath the silken duvet, seemingly oblivious to the seismic tremors of his wrath.
His jaw tightened.
This wasn't mere oversight; this was defiance.
Another deliberate slight, a passive-aggressive act in their cold war of a marriage.
He strode purposefully across the vast, Persian-rugged floor, past antique furniture and priceless art, his expensive leather slippers crunching softly.
Each step was fueled by a mixture of impatience and a deep, simmering resentment for what he perceived as her eternal indolence.
"Eleanor," he repeated, closer now, his tone dripping with menace, "Are you truly so fragile that a single press conference frightens you?"
He reached the king-sized bed, its opulent frame a testament to their gilded prison.
Still, she didn't stir.
Her profile was barely visible, a wisp of dark hair against the pristine white pillowcase.
A surge of genuine, unadulterated fury coursed through him.
He grabbed the edge of the heavy, silk-embroidered duvet.
"Enough of this charade!" he snarled, and with a swift, violent motion, he yanked the covers back.
The Chilling Void
The bed was empty.
His hand, still clutching the fabric, froze mid-air.
The duvet fell back to reveal perfectly smoothed sheets, tucked in with unnerving precision.
Eleanor wasn't there.
She hadn’t been there for hours, perhaps all night.
A strange, cold dread, entirely alien to his usual calculating composure, began to prickle his skin.
Then he saw it.
Resting precisely in the center of her pillow, where her head should have been, lay a single piece of aged, vellum parchment.
It was folded once, meticulously.
His eyes, accustomed to dissecting complex financial reports, narrowed as he reached for it.
His fingers, usually steady as a surgeon's, trembled slightly as he unfolded the note.
Two words.
Scrawled in elegant, unmistakable script:
"I'M FREE."
The Echo of Betrayal
The air left Marcus's lungs in a silent whoosh.
The world seemed to tilt on its axis.
"Free?" he whispered, the word a foreign, bitter taste on his tongue.
Free from what?
From him?
From their life?
His mind, sharp and ruthless, raced backward, replaying every cold glance, every quiet meal, every unspoken accusation.
He remembered the endless nights Eleanor spent in her private study, supposedly managing her family’s dwindling trust funds.
He’d dismissed it as a woman’s hobby, inconsequential.
Now, a terrifying suspicion began to bloom in the pit of his stomach.
He spun around, his gaze darting wildly across the room.
His eyes landed on her antique writing desk, usually immaculate, now subtly disturbed.
A small, intricately carved wooden box, a gift from her late grandmother, usually held trinkets.
He rushed to it, flung open the lid.
Empty.
He knew what it had contained: the original deed to the sprawling beachfront property her family had owned for generations.
The very land he had legally, meticulously, cornered her into signing over to his holding company just last year.
He stumbled back, his eyes scanning the room like a cornered animal.
The wall safe, hidden behind a landscape painting, usually stood ajar during her morning routine.
He ripped the painting aside.
The safe door hung open.
