Addicted To My Secret Genius Wife

Chloe stood in the doorway, her gaze flicking from the single bed to Julian's impassive face.

She crossed her arms, breaking the silence with a voice laced with playful mockery. "One bedroom? Is the Sharpe family going bankrupt? Or did you actually think we'd be sleeping together like a happy couple?"

Zane Foster adjusted his glasses, his response robotic. "It was a rule set by Mr. Sharpe's grandfather. Sharpe couples are required to share a master bedroom, as a show of harmony."

"Harmony?" Chloe laughed, a short, sharp sound. "Look at this place. It feels less like a master suite and more like a high-end containment cell. Are you hiding from the world, or is the world hiding from you?"

"Mr. Sharpe requested this outdated wing himself, Mrs. Sharpe. It is the only place in the estate completely unequipped with modern smart-surveillance."

Ignoring Zane, she walked directly to Julian's wheelchair, looking down at him. The proximity was a deliberate act of provocation.

"Hey, Julian Sharpe," she began, her tone offensively casual. "Are you really paralyzed? Or is it just from the waist down?"

Zane's face pale. "Mrs. Sharpe! Please, watch your language!"

But Julian raised a hand, silencing his assistant. He tilted his head back, his calm blue eyes meeting her challenging gaze without a flicker of emotion.

He spoke slowly, his voice steady and clear. "Loss of function in the lower extremities is called paraplegia. I would have thought someone so eager to provoke me would at least possess basic high school biology."

Chloe didn't flinch. Instead, a spark of genuine, dangerous amusement glinted in her eyes. Finally—a man in this city with a brain worth playing against.

Julian added dryly, "Your father described you as... 'lacking refinement.' It seems he was not mistaken." He stressed the word "refinement" with a biting sarcasm.

She leaned down, her face close to his, her voice a conspiratorial whisper only he could hear. "Since you know so much about me, Mr. Sharpe, then let's play the game. Stay out of my way, and I might just leave your empire standing."

Julian's body stiffened for a fraction of a second, a tiny frown creasing his brow.

Faced with her threat, Julian merely adjusted his position in the chair. "Is that so?" he said, his tone flat. "I'll look forward to it."

Zane stepped in smoothly. "Mrs. Sharpe, your luggage has arrived. If you require anything, please let me know. Mr. Sharpe needs to rest now." It was a polite dismissal.

Chloe pursed her lips, knowing she had pushed as far as she could for one day. She turned to her bags, deciding to regroup.

Zane pushed Julian's wheelchair toward an adjoining study.

Just before they entered, Julian glanced back at Chloe. Her back was slender but defiant as she wrestled a large canvas duffel bag into the walk-in closet.

A dark, silent focus passed through his deep blue eyes. The claws she hid beneath that ragged exterior were far sharper than anyone in New York realized.

Inside the study, Zane closed the door. "Sir, this woman is outrageous. She has no manners."

"Let her be," Julian said, his eyes on a computer screen displaying Chloe's file. "A fearless pawn is more useful than a spineless one. Keep an eye on her, but don't interfere."

"Yes, sir." Zane nodded, though his eyes were still filled with doubt.

Meanwhile, Chloe unpacked in the dilapidated closet. Besides a few worn-out clothes, there was the heavy canvas bag.

She carefully removed a sealed glass jar from it, filled with dark soil. She caressed the glass, her expression softening. It was from her hometown, Havenwood Creek.

From a hidden compartment, she pulled out a folder... Inside was her Columbia University acceptance letter and a perfect 1600 SAT score report. Let New York society believe Cedric's lie that she was an illiterate punk. The trashy makeup and wild temper were her ultimate armor—a smokescreen to keep the Sharpe family and the Beaumonts from realizing that the girl they just bought was coming for their blood.

In a second, deeper compartment—one no routine sweep would think to check—she hid a worn journal and a matte black USB drive. The journal's margins were crowded with molecular diagrams, neurotoxin pathways, and notes on viral mutations. The USB drive was encrypted with the same custom cipher she had used on Ethan's medical records.

This marriage to Julian Sharpe was her battlefield. The Sharpe family's vast wealth was her treasury to fund Ethan's independent medical trust, and Columbia was her gateway to the cure. Julian Sharpe was either an ally or a stepping stone—either way, she would use this house to win her brother's freedom, then find out the truth.

She glanced around the decaying room, her gaze sweeping over the heavy paneling with cold, clinical assessment. The dilapidated state of this wing wasn't a setback; it was an advantage—less eyes, less surveillance. Closing her suitcase, Chloe walked out of the closet, her expression smooth and unbothered. It was time to manage the logistics of her new living arrangement.