The Heiress's Comeback

Chapter 201: [ Volume 1] Chaper 201- Meeting with a client.

"I’ve got to head out for a meeting with a client," he said, placing a lunchbox on her desk. His eyes met hers, steady and unwavering. "I’ll be back in two hours. Make sure you eat your lunch, okay?"

Esme raised an eyebrow, caught off guard by the domestic insistence. She leaned back in her chair, arms crossing loosely over her chest as a smirk pulled at the corners of her mouth. "Oh my God," she teased, tilting her head to the side. "Is my husband actually worried about me?"

Ray paused for a second, his jaw tightening ever so slightly. His gaze sharpened, eyes locking onto hers with that intensity she had grown used to but never quite fully understood. Then he leaned forward, his voice dropping to a lower, almost intimate tone. "Worried?" He let out a short, humorless chuckle, but the tension didn’t leave his face. "No, Esme. I just don’t want you keeling over before our child is even born."

The air between them seemed to still for a moment, the weight of his words hanging between them. Esme blinked, feeling the unexpected heat in her cheeks, a reaction she hadn’t anticipated. There was a seriousness to Ray’s tone that wasn’t lost on her. For a fleeting second, her heart stumbled over itself, caught between the lightness of the banter and the depth of his words. But she quickly regained her composure, covering her mouth with a hand as she laughed. "Did you just... hurt my feelings?" she asked in mock offense, her voice laced with humor even as her pulse quickened slightly.

Ray leaned back in his wheelchair, his lips curling into a half-smile, though his eyes remained fixed on her. "Yeah, yeah. Go ahead, pretend you’re wounded," he quipped, though there was an edge of playfulness in his tone now. "Just eat your damn food. I made it."

He gestured to the lunchbox on her desk, and Esme’s gaze followed his hand, her amusement giving way to quiet dread. Ray was many things—a brilliant businessman, a master at reading people, and a strategist who could turn a crumbling company into a thriving empire. But when it came to cooking? He was, in a word, abysmal.

The thought of what lay inside the lunchbox made her stomach turn, but she couldn’t bring herself to refuse. Not when she imagined Ray, usually so absorbed in his work, getting up early to prepare this for her. Not when she thought about him balancing meetings, phone calls, and the constant demands of his business, all while making time to care for her in his own, stubborn way. The effort was clear—even if the result was destined to be disastrous.

With a quiet sigh, Esme opened the lunchbox, revealing what appeared to be a well-arranged meal—slices of meat, some vegetables, and rice. It looked good. Too good, almost. She couldn’t help but feel a sliver of hope that maybe—just maybe—this time it wouldn’t be so bad.

She picked up the fork, speared a piece of meat, and cautiously took a bite. The moment the food hit her tongue, she regretted it. The meat, though cut into neat pieces, was tough and chewy, and the flavor was... well, there wasn’t any. It was like chewing on cardboard, except worse, because it left a strange, almost metallic aftertaste. Her throat tightened as she tried to swallow, and she had to fight the urge to spit it out. Every chew was a battle, every swallow a test of endurance.

She grimaced, her face contorting in pain as she forced down another bite. "Oh God," she thought, barely managing to hold back a gag. If I don’t stop him from cooking, his food might actually be the thing that kills me.

Still, she couldn’t bear the thought of wasting it. Ray had tried. He’d probably woken up at dawn, fumbling around the kitchen, determined to make something for her despite his glaring lack of culinary skills. And that effort—however misguided—meant something.

Esme forced herself to take a few more bites, each one worse than the last, until the lunchbox was mostly empty. She pushed it aside, her stomach churning in protest, and leaned back in her chair with a sigh of relief. She’d survived.

Meanwhile, across town, Ray had just finished his meeting with the client. He rolled out of the building and into the garage, his mind already shifting back to Esme. He wasn’t usually the type to hover, but something about the way she had teased him earlier lingered in his mind.

As he made his way toward his car, he stopped short. Something wasn’t right. The front tire was flat. Ray’s brows furrowed in confusion. A flat tire? Now?

He bent down to inspect it, but as he did, a strange feeling crept over him—a sense of unease that had nothing to do with the car. It was like a small shift in the atmosphere, subtle but undeniable. He straightened, glancing around the garage, his instincts kicking in. Something about this didn’t sit right with him.

At the same moment, back in her office, Esme’s phone buzzed on her desk. She glanced down, expecting another work email or maybe a message from Ray. But what she saw on the screen made her blood run cold.

Esme’s breath hitched as her eyes remained glued to the cryptic message on her phone screen:

"I am taking back what’s belonged to me."

Her fingers trembled slightly as she read it again, and then once more. There was something undeniably sinister about those words, something that unsettled her deeply. A chill ran down her spine, making her feel as though the walls around her were closing in.

Esme wasn’t one to panic easily, but this—this felt different. It wasn’t the usual anonymous prank or some bizarre spam. No, this felt personal, as though the sender knew exactly how to tap into her worst fears.

She carefully placed the phone down on her desk, trying to steady her breathing.