Chapter153 Clifton's Contrast
In the living room.
Clifton's gaze shifted from the magazine, across the spacious living room, landing on the semi-open kitchen.
The woman wore that light blue apron, her long hair casually pinned up, a few strands falling by her ears, gently swaying with her movements.
Hot oil sizzled in the pan, the aroma drifting through the air.
Clifton's grip on the magazine tightened.
This sound and smell full of domestic warmth was very unusual for him.
He was used to fighting through gunfire and smoke, used to the silent warfare of the business world.
But a scene like this, watching a woman cook for him in the kitchen, was rare.
Clifton just watched quietly until the phone beside him suddenly vibrated, breaking the tranquility.
The man snapped back to attention and glanced at his phone. It was his assistant, Mia.
He answered, his voice instantly returning to its usual coldness. "Speak."
"Boss."
Mia's voice was respectful and efficient. "The matter you instructed last time has been handled. Several of Whitmore Group's key projects were intercepted, and they're having some cash flow problems. Just before market close, Whitmore's stock price dropped by a point."
The sound of keyboard typing could be heard on the other end. "Harrison has been dealing with the company's issues constantly lately, completely overwhelmed. He threw a huge fit at the office."
Clifton listened, a slight smile playing at his lips.
Heh, dare to take what's mine? Better be prepared to pay the price.
"Well done."
Clifton's fingers tapped lightly on the wheelchair armrest. "Keep watching."
"Yes." Mia responded.
"All employees who participated in this operation get an extra month's bonus this month."
"Thank you, Boss."
Hanging up the phone, Clifton was about to set down his mobile when he heard a soft voice from the kitchen.
"Who were you talking to? Looking so serious."
Clifton looked up.
Miranda was walking out carrying a dish, a light smile on her face, flushed from the kitchen heat.
"Employee reporting work."
Clifton casually tossed his phone aside and maneuvered his wheelchair to the dining table.
The food was already set out, a balanced mix of meat and vegetables, nutritious and healthy.
It looked appetizing.
The atmosphere at the dinner table was warm.
Halfway through the meal, Miranda spoke as if casually. "By the way, are you free this weekend?"
Clifton paused, looking up at her, his eyes carrying a hint of inquiry.
"Something up?"
"I want to treat you to dinner."
Miranda set down her chopsticks, her clear eyes bright as she looked at him.
Clifton raised an eyebrow, setting down his spoon and leaning back slightly, looking at her with amusement.
"Why the sudden desire to treat me to dinner?"
Miranda felt a bit guilty under his gaze but still found an excuse with feigned composure.
"Last time you and your team members rescued me from the mining site, I haven't properly thanked everyone yet."
She blinked, her tone sincere. "If you're all available, I'd like to treat everyone to dinner. Of course, mainly I want to treat you."
Actually, she wanted to find a proper occasion to give him the finished cufflinks.
Clifton looked at her expectant expression, already agreeing in his heart.
"If there's no special mission." Clifton's tone was light but carried a hint of indulgence. "I'll clear my weekend schedule."
"Great!" Miranda's eyes lit up.
After dinner, Miranda helped the servants clear the dishes into the kitchen.
She'd just turned on the faucet when she heard the sound of wheelchair wheels behind her, followed by steady footsteps.
Miranda turned around to see Clifton had already stood up from his wheelchair and walked into the kitchen.
The kitchen space wasn't large to begin with. With him entering, that intense sense of presence instantly filled the entire space.
"Why did you come in?"
Miranda was somewhat surprised, instinctively glancing at his legs. "Your legs, if someone sees..."
"It's fine."
Clifton walked to her side, casually unbuttoning his shirt cuffs and rolling his sleeves to his elbows, revealing strong, powerful forearms.
Blue veins stood out slightly, full of strength.
"I already sent all the servants away."
As he spoke, he naturally reached out and took the foam-covered plate from Miranda.
Miranda's hands were suddenly empty, and she froze completely.
"You... you're going to wash dishes?"
Her eyes widened as if witnessing a world wonder.
Clifton, born into a top-tier wealthy family, actually knew how to wash dishes?
In her understanding, someone like Clifton should use those hands to sign billion-dollar contracts or hold wine glasses at banquets making polite conversation.
Places like kitchens were practically a different world from people like them.
Even her father Dominic had never entered the kitchen once in all these years.
"What?"
Clifton skillfully rinsed the plate, glancing at her sideways, eyebrow raised. "Surprised?"
Miranda leaned against the counter and nodded honestly. "I really didn't expect you to do this kind of—very ordinary thing."
Her gaze fell on his hands washing dishes.
Those hands with prominent knuckles, thin calluses on the fingertips and palm, wrapped in white foam, looked completely natural and even carried a strange kind of sexiness.
"I thought someone of your status would never do this kind of thing. Probably wouldn't even know how much dish soap to use."
"That used to be true."
Clifton chuckled softly, his voice especially magnetic in the small kitchen.
He placed the cleaned plate on the drying rack and picked up a bowl.
"After I joined the team at twelve, that changed."
The man's tone was calm. "In team training, no one cares whose young master you are. You wash your own clothes, wash your own dishes."
Miranda was stunned.
Twelve years old.
At that age, she was still worrying about which dress to wear, still acting spoiled with her brother for the latest necklaces and bags.
And Clifton had already joined the team.
"After I got in, I never relied on my family's influence."
Clifton turned off the faucet, shook the water from his hands, and turned to look at her.
"In that place, my call sign was everything. No one knew I was the Prescott heir, and I didn't see myself as some wealthy young master."
He'd reached his current position through his own abilities.
Miranda's heart felt like something had struck it hard, beating rapidly.
She looked at the man before her.
Without the cold distance he showed outside, at this moment he wore a simple shirt with rolled-up sleeves, still-wet hands, standing in this kitchen full of domestic warmth.
Real, yet powerful.
That strong sense of contrast was very attractive to her.
"Clifton..."
Miranda reached out as if possessed, taking the dry towel from nearby and gently wiping the water from his hands.
"You've worked so hard all these years."
Clifton looked down at the woman's lowered eyes, her long lashes sweeping across his heart like two small fans.
He took her hand instead, his palm's rough calluses rubbing against her delicate skin.
"Heh, not hard." The man chuckled softly.
"This is the path I chose for myself. I think it's worth it."
Though she didn't know why Clifton, as heir to a top wealthy family, would choose such a path, Miranda didn't press him. After all, everyone has their own secrets.