Chapter 186
Chapter 186
Market panic evaporated instantly in the face of iron-clad facts.
Retail investors who'd been fooled by rumors into selling their shares beat their chests in regret.
And the capital that had followed the short-selling trend was caught completely off-guard by this sudden counterattack.
The Prescott Group's stock price dipped briefly after opening, then surged upward in a nearly vertical green candlestick, not only recovering the previous day's losses but climbing even higher than before the turmoil.
Ryan looked at that beautiful red candlestick, hands trembling with excitement. "Boss, we won! Those bastards probably lost their shirts on that deal!"
Theodore stood before the massive floor-to-ceiling window, overlooking the city below, expression utterly calm.
"I just put what they wanted to see on the table."
What he wanted was never just victory in a financial battle.
He wanted those hiding in the shadows to understand—any attempt to shake the Prescott Group would cost them ten times, a hundred times over.
---
In the Swiss estate, another antique vase shattered.
"Useless! All of you!" The man's eyes were bloodshot. His carefully orchestrated media storm had been completely crushed by Theodore in the most brutally simple way.
"Boss," a subordinate's voice carried fear, "the Wall Street allies suffered heavy losses. They... they've pulled out. The board is asking when we'll regain control of the Prescott Group."
The man's chest heaved violently. He stared at the glaring red candlestick on screen representing the Prescott Group.
Can't steal it. Can't smash it.
His gaze finally settled on a photograph.
In it, Yasmin stood under the spotlight at a launch event.
The madness in the man's eyes slowly gave way to cold calculation.
"Theodore's armor has no cracks, but his weakness has walked into the sunlight on its own." He spoke softly, as if to himself. "Book the fastest flight. Send Henry to handle it personally."
---
Days later, a private jet from Zurich quietly landed in a second-tier domestic city.
A man with European features—Henry—walked out of the airport. He didn't check into any upscale hotel, instead moving into an inconspicuous apartment.
He dialed a number.
The person on the other end sounded nervous.
"You... why did you come personally?"
"Because you've disappointed me." Henry's voice was calm. "Can Scarlett's people still be used?"
"Yes! Of course!" The other party hastily assured. "It's just... Yasmin's security level is very high now. Our people can't get close."
"Soon, she'll have to go somewhere we can reach but Theodore cannot." The man walked to the window, looking down at children playing in a kindergarten below, lips curling into a cold arc. "A mother will do anything for her child."
---
Yasmin's due date drew closer.
The success of "Plume Weaver" had multiplied the studio's workload, but Theodore had practically forced her to stop all work.
Yasmin was arranged to stay at the city's most elite private postpartum recovery center.
A standalone compound with obstetric specialists, nutritionists, pediatricians, psychological consultants—a twenty-four-hour medical team on standby.
Outside, security personnel stationed every few steps. Every person and vehicle entering underwent strict screening.
Yasmin felt somewhat helpless, thinking he was making too big a deal of it.
"Is this really necessary? I'm just having a baby, not going to war." She leaned against the bed, watching Theodore personally inspect every detail of the room—from the curtains' light-blocking capacity to the air humidifier's humidity level.
Theodore ignored her complaints. He crouched down, opened a suitcase, and began removing items.
Not valuables—Noah's favorite dinosaur plush, the bedside lamp she was used to, a book on aesthetics she'd been halfway through.
He placed these items one by one in this unfamiliar room, trying to recreate a familiar corner of home for her.
Yasmin watched his back and said nothing more.
---
That evening, Theodore was peeling an apple for her, movements focused, producing a thin, long peel that never broke.
Yasmin's phone rang. A video call from Maria.
"Boss! Look at this! The Roberts Group is in trouble again!" Maria's voice sounded both angry and anxious.
The video showed the Roberts Group's newly appointed CEO being interviewed. When asked about the Prescott Group and Yasmin Studio's success, he wore a fake smile. "Of course we congratulate Ms. White. She's a very talented designer. Of course, we all understand that in the business world, good family background and a powerful husband matter more than talent."
The passive-aggressive implication practically dripped off the screen.
Maria was furious. "These people just can't accept losing! When direct attacks don't work, they go underhanded, insinuating you rode your husband's coattails!"
Before Yasmin could respond, a hand reached over and took her phone.
Theodore.
He glanced at the CEO on screen, then turned the camera toward the long apple peel in his hand.
"He means I'm very useful." Theodore's tone was flat as he spoke into the phone. "Tell your PR department—no response needed. An opponent of this caliber doesn't deserve one."
With that, Theodore hung up the video.
Then he cut the peeled apple into small pieces, speared one with a toothpick, and held it to Yasmin's lips.
Yasmin looked at him and suddenly laughed.
"When did you become so... humorous?"
Theodore said nothing, just moved the toothpick closer to her lips again.
But neither of them knew—real danger never comes through the front door.
---
Outside the postpartum recovery center, in a café by the window, Henry was reading news on a tablet.
Dressed in ordinary casual wear, blue-eyed—the type of tourist visible anywhere in any international city.
Several delivery riders in different colored uniforms gradually entered the café, each ordering the cheapest drinks and sitting in different corners.
They looked down at their phones or chatted casually with companions. No one noticed their phone cameras, seemingly by accident, were all aimed at the heavily guarded estate-style building across the street.
"Zone A entrance—two fixed posts, four-person patrol, fifteen-minute rotation."
"West wall three meters high, infrared sensors on top, but near the landscaping there's a two-second detection delay."
"Delivery vehicles require license plate and driver information submitted one day in advance. Upon entry, dedicated personnel escort."
Message after message, transmitted through encrypted chat software, compiled on the blond man's tablet.
Henry didn't reply. Just gradually refined a hand-drawn sketch.
It showed the postpartum recovery center's layout and security patrol routes—every camera's coverage area, every guard post's shift gap, all clearly marked.
"Too hard." A voice came from the booth behind him—one of Scarlett's remaining associates, tone hesitant. "This place is harder to enter than a consulate. Our people tried applying as gardeners—didn't even pass the résumé screening."
Henry didn't look up. His finger drew a red line across the screen from the west wall's landscaping all the way to the small building where Yasmin stayed.
"Then lure her out." He finally spoke. "Or give her a reason she must come out."
---
The Prescott Group, CEO's office.
At 3 a.m., Ryan was jolted awake by a phone call.
When he rushed to the office with bedhead, Theodore sat before a surveillance wall—the massive screen divided into hundreds of small squares, live-streaming 360-degree surveillance footage of the postpartum recovery center inside and out.
"Boss, what happened?" Ryan's heart leaped to his throat.
Theodore didn't answer. Just pointed at several feeds.
"This delivery person—past three days, came seven times. Each time at the same spot, stayed over five minutes."
"This jogger—every morning at eight and afternoon at four, passes the south gate. His fitness tracker is a three-year-old model, but his running shoes are the latest professional racing edition."
"And this cleaning van—its tire wear doesn't match its dispatch frequency."