Chapter 180 - 179 He Wants to Be Number One in the Whole World

( EMILY )

Secrets carry a distinct, crushing physical weight.

I sit across from Dr. Elias Mercer in his cramped, poorly ventilated apartment. The smell of searing garlic and spicy chicken still hangs thick in the air, but the warm, celebratory atmosphere we shared just moments ago is completely gone.

I watch the muscles in his jaw go rigid. His knuckles turn a stark, bone-white against the edge of the scratched wooden dining table. The mere mention of the Vanguard Medical University Research Institute stripped all the color from his face, leaving his skin looking like fragile, gray parchment under the harsh kitchen lighting. His eyes dart toward the peeling wallpaper, refusing to meet mine. He looks like a man staring down the barrel of a loaded gun.

I want to push him. I want to demand the history behind the sheer terror radiating from his posture. I want to know exactly what kind of horrors occurred inside that institute to break a brilliant mind like his.

I keep my mouth shut.

Pressing him right now will only force him to retreat further behind his walls. He carries ghosts from that campus. Dragging them out into the daylight by force will not help either of us. I promised to keep his identity as my mentor a complete secret, and I intend to honor that promise.

"I should get going, Elias," I say quietly. I stand up, smoothing the wrinkles from my tailored slacks. "I have a lot of planning to do for the bubble tea shop before the semester starts."

He nods slowly. He does not look up from the table. "Stay sharp, kid. Do not let the prestige of that campus blind you."

I gather my purse, stepping out of the gloomy apartment and into the oppressive heat of the late afternoon.

The drive back to the Wolfe Estate is entirely silent. Leo navigates the heavy Asuir City traffic with practiced ease, his broad shoulders squared behind the steering wheel of the black sedan. I lean my head against the cool tinted glass, watching the towering glass skyscrapers transition into the sprawling, heavily guarded private roads of the Wolfe family territory.

The massive wrought-iron gates swing open. We pull into the circular driveway, stopping before the grand, imposing entrance of the main house.

I walk upstairs to my bedroom, craving the quiet isolation of the massive space. The heavy silk curtains block out the harsh evening sun. I drop my purse onto the center of the king-sized mattress and begin unpacking.

My fingers brush against cold, smooth glass at the very bottom of my bag.

I pull it out. It is a small, dark brown glass bottle. The sleep-aid essential oil I blended by hand. I stare at the tiny vial resting in my palm. The faint, earthy scent of valerian root lingers around the tight plastic cap.

I rescued this bottle from the trash can in the walk-in closet yesterday morning. Alistair Wolfe discarded it. He threw away a custom remedy designed specifically to cure the insomnia tearing his body apart.

I grip the small bottle, the smooth glass pressing hard against my skin. Alistair is a man constructed entirely of ice and calculated control. His sudden, harsh rejection of this oil makes absolutely no logical sense, unless he genuinely believes I am attempting to cross a boundary. I am not trying to seduce the CEO of the Wolfe Empire. I am simply trying to fulfill my end of the contract without creating unnecessary friction.

I place the small brown bottle gently onto the bedside table.

I reach back into my purse and pull out the thick, cream-colored envelope bearing the golden crest of Vanguard Medical University. The metallic foil catches the ambient light of the bedroom. I trace the embossed letters of my name. This piece of paper is my ticket to absolute independence.

I walk into the massive walk-in closet. I open my large leather suitcase tucked in the far corner. I lift a stack of folded, neutral-colored sweaters and place the acceptance letter flat against the bottom lining. I smooth the clothes back over the envelope, hiding it entirely from view.

It is safe here. My future is finally secure.

( LEO )

A bruised ego is far more dangerous than a loaded weapon.

I sit on the edge of the stiff mattress in my security quarters on the ground floor of the Wolfe Estate. The room is spartan. A steel desk, a locking footlocker, and bare white walls. I thrive in austere environments. Clutter breeds complacency.

I place the matte black Glock 19 on the steel desk. I strip the weapon down with efficient, practiced movements. I wipe the barrel with a cloth soaked in solvent, the sharp, chemical scent of gun oil filling the small room.

The physical mechanics of cleaning the firearm usually clear my head. Today, the repetitive motion does nothing to erase the image of Naya Zone sitting on the hot concrete pavement outside Bordeaux 101.

I run a dry patch through the barrel.

The Madam handled the situation flawlessly. Emily Vance possesses a spine forged from solid titanium. She did not flinch when confronted by the daughter of a presidential candidate. She stepped forward, delivered a crippling physical blow to Naya Zone’s face, and stripped away the spoiled socialite’s armor in front of a dozen witnesses on the street.

I respected the Madam before today. Now, I view her as a genuine tactical asset.

I reassemble the weapon. The slide snaps into place with a sharp, echoing metallic crack. I drop the loaded magazine into the grip, holstering the firearm at my hip.

The Madam told Naya Zone to go home and cry to her father. She brushed the encounter off as a minor inconvenience. I know better.

I spent five years in the Special Forces conducting threat assessments in hostile territories. I recognize the look in Naya Zone’s eyes. It was not just anger. It was pure, unadulterated venom. A woman operating with the financial backing of Congressman Marcus Zone does not swallow a public humiliation and walk away. She commands private investigators, corporate lawyers, and highly paid security details. She will not challenge the Madam to a fair fight. She will strike from the shadows. She will orchestrate a campaign of sabotage and retaliation.

The Madam is strong, but she is currently operating an exposed flank. She is setting up a bubble tea shop in a commercial district, meeting with college students, and finalizing real estate contracts. She is a stationary target.

I pick up my heavily encrypted mobile phone from the steel desk.

My primary directive comes directly from the top of the Wolfe Empire. Alistair Wolfe ordered me to protect his wife and his unborn heir at all costs. Keeping a threat of this magnitude a secret violates protocol.

I unlock the screen. I hit the single speed-dial button programmed into the device.

The line connects instantly.

( ALISTAIR )

Second place is simply the first loser.

I walk down the pristine, brilliant white corridors of the Ultimate Power Laboratory. I established this underground research facility three years ago, burying it deep beneath the corporate headquarters of the Wolfe Empire. The air down here is heavily filtered, smelling faintly of ozone and sterile cleaning solutions.

Scientists wearing full-body hazmat suits and crisp white lab coats step out of my path immediately. They keep their heads bowed, pressing their backs against the glass walls to give me a wide berth.

I wear a tailored charcoal suit, the dark fabric cutting a sharp, imposing silhouette against the blinding white environment. I hold a transparent data tablet in my right hand, swiping through the latest performance metrics from the engineering division.

The numbers are completely unacceptable.

"The lithium-ion density threshold failed again," I say, my voice echoing off the polished steel floors.

The lead chemical engineer walks half a step behind me, clutching a clipboard to his chest like a physical shield. He is a brilliant man holding three doctorates, yet he sweats profusely under my scrutiny.

"Sir, we pushed the synthetic polymers to their absolute breaking point," the engineer stammers, struggling to keep pace with my long strides. "The heat dissipation requirements for this level of energy storage violate standard thermodynamic limits. We need more time."

"You don’t have more time," I reply coldly, handing the transparent tablet back to him. "You have unlimited funding. You have the most advanced equipment on the planet. Fix the thermodynamic limits, or I will find someone who can."

I leave the trembling engineer behind, stepping through a set of heavy, biometric security doors into the central command center of UPL.

Massive digital monitors cover the walls, displaying global market shares, resource acquisitions, and real-time competitor analysis. The financial media consistently lumps the Wolfe Empire into the same category as the Odin Group and the Deep Blue Group. They call us the ’Big Three’.

I despise the moniker. I refuse to share the podium with anyone.

The Odin Group dominates traditional logistics. The Deep Blue Group controls global telecommunications. The Wolfe Empire leads in tech and manufacturing, but parity is not my objective. I demand absolute, uncontested global supremacy. I want the Wolfe Empire to stand alone at the summit, dictating the economic future of the entire world.

The path to that absolute supremacy relies entirely on new energy.

The world runs on power. Whoever controls the next generation of energy storage, battery capacity, and hyper-advanced microchip cooling systems controls the future. I pour billions of dollars into UPL every single quarter. I recruit the most brilliant, ruthless scientific minds on the planet.

Yet, we remain stalled against a massive technological wall.

I stand before the primary display monitor. The screen shows a rotating, three-dimensional digital rendering of a jagged, dark metallic rock.

Stellar Core Meteorite Gold.

It is the holy grail of materials science. A fragment of an asteroid that struck the surface of Mercury billions of years ago. The intense solar radiation and unimaginable impact pressure forged the rock into a natural superconducting crystal template. It defies the laws of modern physics. It possesses the capability to store and transfer limitless energy with zero heat generation.

Fifty years ago, a specialized government research institute attempted to unlock its secrets. They made zero progress for three decades. Then, a catastrophic explosion leveled the entire facility. Dozens of top-tier researchers perished in the fire.

The Stellar Core Meteorite Gold vanished in the aftermath.

No trace. No fragments. No black-market sales. It completely disappeared from the face of the earth. Finding it now borders on chasing a ghost, but I do not believe in ghosts. I believe in leverage, and I believe in resources. I established UPL with the dual purpose of synthesizing a replacement for the meteorite, or locating the missing original artifact.

Whoever holds the Stellar Core holds the keys to the world.

My encrypted phone vibrates in the interior pocket of my suit jacket.

Only three people possess the clearance to ring this specific device. I pull the phone out, checking the caller ID. Leo.

I press the phone to my ear. "Speak."

"Sir," Leo says. His voice is a low, disciplined baritone, delivering information with strict military precision. "I am calling to report a hostile interaction involving the Madam."

I stop walking.

My expensive leather shoes halt on the polished floor. The technicians monitoring the data consoles in front of me freeze instantly, their fingers hovering silently over their keyboards. The ambient noise in the command center seems to vanish.

"Explain," I command, the temperature in my voice dropping to absolute zero.

"The Madam secured a private dining suite at Bordeaux 101 this afternoon," Leo reports steadily. "She was confronted by Naya Zone. Miss Zone attempted to use political leverage to steal the reservation. When that failed, she verbally assaulted the Madam on the street outside the establishment."

A dark, violent cold begins to radiate outward from my chest. Naya Zone. The spoiled, arrogant daughter of Congressman Marcus Zone. A woman who mistakenly believes her father’s political ambitions grant her immunity from consequence.

"Did she touch my wife?" I ask. The grip on my phone tightens until the metal casing groans under the pressure.

"No, sir," Leo replies. A faint trace of professional respect colors his tone. "Miss Zone insulted your marriage. The Madam retaliated immediately. She struck Miss Zone across the face and physically restrained her when she attempted to fight back. Miss Zone ended up on the pavement. She issued direct threats of destruction against the Madam before fleeing the scene."

The image of Emily standing on the hot pavement, striking a politician’s daughter to defend my name, flashes through my mind. She possesses a terrifying, beautiful ferocity.

But ferocity does not deflect bullets, and it does not stop corporate sabotage.

"Miss Zone will not let this go, sir," Leo concludes. "She lacks the temperament for defeat. She will utilize her father’s resources to target the Madam’s new business venture."

"Understood," I state.

I end the call, lowering the phone slowly to my side.

The technicians in the command center are staring at their screens, terrified to make a single sound. The cold fury surging through my veins demands immediate action. Congressman Marcus Zone needs the Wolfe Empire’s financial backing to secure his presidency. He relies on my goodwill.

His daughter just threatened the mother of my heir.

I turn my back on the digital rendering of the Stellar Core Meteorite Gold. Global supremacy can wait a few hours. I have a pest to exterminate.