Free Web NovelChapter 46: Chapter 46
Fleur stood in the center of the newly renovated master suite, reviewing every detail with a critical eye.
It had been days since Christian had dropped her off at her apartment—days since she had last seen him. Frankly, it was far too many days, according to the restless ache she adamantly refused to acknowledge.
Her wolf had become increasingly unsettled, pacing aggressively beneath her skin whenever his name crossed her mind. More than once, she caught herself wondering where he was, what he was doing, and whether he was taking care of himself.
The realization irritated her. Why should she care? It wasn’t as if she missed him. At least, that was the lie she kept repeating to herself.
You need to stop thinking about him, she silently scolded herself. He’s perfectly fine. He has an entire pack looking after him. And besides, he already has a fiancée.
Even so, the cold logic failed to quiet the unease lingering in her chest.
Determined to focus on the work, Fleur turned her attention back to the room. Designing Christian Wayne’s private quarters had been surprisingly easy; she knew his tastes better than anyone, even after six years apart. Some memories simply refused to die.
The suite perfectly reflected everything he preferred: strength, simplicity, and understated luxury.
The walls were finished in a sophisticated matte gray, creating a calm, masculine atmosphere. At the center of the room stood a custom platform bed with clean lines and a dark leather headboard that exuded quiet power.
Sleek metallic nightstands flanked either side, their polished surfaces catching the warm glow cast by concealed lighting hidden throughout the ceiling.
A thick charcoal rug stretched across the floor, softening the room’s sharp edges while adding warmth to the expansive space, and an elegant velvet bench in a muted silver-gray sat at the foot of the bed.
Against the far wall stood a low dresser crafted from dark walnut wood, accented with brushed steel details—offering functionality and sophistication without overwhelming the room’s minimalist aesthetic.
Across from the bed, Fleur had carved out a comfortable seating area where two modern white leather armchairs faced one another over a geometric glass coffee table.
Above them hung a large abstract painting; its bold strokes of color broke up the room’s monochromatic palette, breathing life into the space.
Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooked the sprawling estate, where sheer curtains softened the sunlight pouring in, bathing every carefully selected piece in a golden hour glow.
In the corner, a contemporary bookshelf displayed a curated collection of books, rare artifacts, and decorative pieces chosen to reflect Christian’s status. free𝑤ebnovel.com
Everything was balanced. Everything belonged.
As Fleur surveyed the finished design, a wave of professional satisfaction washed over her. The room was exactly as she had envisioned.
Throughout the mansion, her team continued moving from room to room, taking measurements and discussing blueprints for the remaining wings.
Fleur always preferred working on-site whenever possible. Paper drafts and corporate conference rooms could never replicate the actual feeling of standing inside a physical space, sensing its energy, and understanding how each design element would interact with its surroundings.
She was in the middle of discussing color palettes with two assistant designers when a shrill voice suddenly shattered the atmosphere.
"Who the hell did this to my room?"
Everyone froze. The sharp outburst echoed violently through the vaulted suite.
Fleur turned, her expression instantly cooling as Carrie stormed into the room, fury blazing across her face. The supermodel’s expensive heels clicked angrily against the polished floor as she marched forward, a trail of thoroughly terrified staff members following in her wake.
Fleur calmly folded her arms. "Is there a problem, Miss Channing?" The question was polite; the tone was not. She certainly hadn’t forgotten the woman’s previous schemes.
Carrie pointed a manicured hand dramatically around the space. "You ruined my bedroom!"
Fleur raised a single eyebrow. "Your bedroom?"
"Who gave you permission to decorate it like this?" Carrie demanded, stepping into Fleur’s personal space. "I want the colors changed. Replace the furniture. Replace everything."
Several members of Fleur’s design team exchanged nervous, wide-eyed glances, but Fleur remained entirely unbothered.
Taking a slow, deliberate breath, she said, "Miss Channing, every design choice in this room was approved by Mr. Wayne personally. The space was furnished according to his exact preferences."
Carrie’s face twisted with rage. "I don’t care what Christian approved! This room belongs to me."
Before Fleur could respond, a sudden movement at the doorway caught her attention. Another woman walked in: Sylvia Wayne.
For a split second, Fleur’s heart skipped a beat.
Six years. It had been six long years since she had last seen Christian’s stepmother. Fortunately, years of forced composure allowed her to keep her expression perfectly neutral. Not a single flicker of recognition crossed her face; she simply regarded Sylvia as though they were complete strangers.
"Miss Channing," Fleur said evenly, returning her attention to the furious model. "There appears to be a misunderstanding. This is Mr. Wayne’s private suite. He hired me to design it, and every detail was selected according to his strict instructions."
Carrie’s eyes widened, the sheer challenge in Fleur’s voice acting like fuel to her anger. "How dare you!"
Her hand flew into the air, aiming straight for Fleur’s face.
Instantly, Fleur’s wolf stirred beneath her skin. Instinct sharpened her senses to a razor edge, allowing her to see the trajectory of the slap long before it could ever land. But just as Fleur braced herself to intercept the attack, a commanding voice cut through the high tension.
"Enough!"
Sylvia stepped forward, her expression hard as she caught Carrie by the wrist mid-air. "I am tired of this childish behavior."
Carrie looked utterly stunned. Sylvia rarely reprimanded her, let alone publicly. The older woman released her with a dismissive flick of her wrist before turning her full attention toward Fleur.
"I apologize, Miss Swann. Carrie can be... impulsive at times."
Though her words were perfectly courteous, Sylvia’s eyes remained locked onto Fleur’s features—watching, studying, searching. The sheer intensity of that calculating gaze made a cold sweat break out on the back of Fleur’s neck.
"It’s fine," Fleur replied, keeping her voice strictly professional. "Thank you for your understanding."
Sylvia smiled faintly, yet she continued to stare. Finally, unable to tolerate the scrutiny, Fleur arched an eyebrow in silent question.
Sylvia seemed to realize her own lapse in etiquette and let out a soft, slightly embarrassed laugh. "My apologies. I’m afraid I couldn’t help myself."
Fleur waited, her posture rigid.
"I’ve heard countless people say that you bear an astonishing resemblance to Christian’s late wife," Sylvia murmured, her voice dropping.
The words struck Fleur like a physical blow to the chest, but she maintained her iron composure.
Sylvia continued, stepping a fraction closer. "When I first heard the rumors, I thought people were exaggerating." Her gaze swept across the lines of Fleur’s face, tracking her jawline, her eyes, the shape of her mouth. "Now that I’ve met you, I understand exactly what they meant."
A strange, carefully curated sadness entered Sylvia’s eyes. "If I hadn’t personally attended her funeral, I would have sworn you were Odette herself."
Fleur lowered her gaze, hoping the shadows of the room hid the way her pulse was currently hammering in her ears. "Oh." The response sounded appropriately distant, uncertain. Nothing more, nothing less.
Sylvia shook her head in sheer disbelief, a bittersweet smile touching her lips.
"It’s extraordinary. If Odette were standing beside you right now, it would be like looking into a mirror. There wouldn’t be a single difference between the two of you."
For a brief moment, genuine grief—or a very convincing imitation of it—flickered across her features. "It truly is a tragedy. She never had the chance to meet someone who looked so much like her."
