Chapter 220 Be your Idiot

Chapter 220 Be your Idiot
The air of the master suite was suddenly shattered by a sound that Ridge hadn't heard in what felt like a lifetime: genuine,pure laughter.

Elisa, standing by the crib where little Sunny was dozing off again, let out a loud, ringing laugh that echoed off the high ceilings. It wasn't the polite, guarded chuckle she used at high-society galas. It was bright, melodic, and entirely unguarded,the kind of laugh that came straight from the gut.

She had her back turned to the doorway, completely unaware that the scorched, soot-covered disaster of a billionaire had quietly followed her inside.

"What’s so funny?" Ridge’s deep, gravelly voice suddenly rumbled from right behind her ear, warm and low. "Can I join in on the joke, or is the newly appointed divorce lawyer already telling you funny stories?"

Elisa jumped as if she’d been zapped by a live wire. She whipped around so fast her vibrant red hair lashed across her shoulders.

The moment her dark eyes landed on his face,streaked with black charcoal, flour caked in his eyebrows, and his custom shirt looking like it had survived a tactical bombing run,she stiffened. But the residual humor won out, her gaze hardening into a sharp, icy glare meant to mask the amusement dancing in her eyes.

"Look in the mirror, Mr. Lockhart," Elisa snapped, pointing a sharp, accusing finger toward the full-length antique glass near the walk-in closet. "Tell me if you still find anything funny about the way you look right now."

Ridge slowly turned his head toward the mirror.

For three agonizing seconds, absolute silence hung in the room. He stared at his reflection, taking in the smoky, chimney-sweep aesthetic, the singed collar, and the tragic state of his once-imposing CEO presence. Inside his head, a full-blown psychological crisis was taking place. I am a multi-billionaire cartel-adjacent kingpin, his brain screamed. I control ports, media outlets, and financial markets. Why do I look like an extra who wandered off the set of a Victorian coal-mine documentary?!

Panic spiked in his chest. Andrew.

The young master was due back from his private school in a few hours. If Andrew saw him looking like this, the boy would never let him live it down. His authority as a father and protector would evaporate instantly.

And the maids,good lord, every single maid in the wing had already witnessed his tragic culinary descent. Thankfully, old Arthur was currently sequestered in his wing; if the old man had caught sight of him like this, Ridge would have had to fake his own death and move to a remote island out of sheer embarrassment.

"Right," Ridge muttered under his breath, clearing his throat and attempting to maintain a shred of dignity. "A minor chemical imbalance in the convection system. Nothing to panic about."

Without missing a beat, Ridge decided it was time for a tactical retreat. But not before deploying a little psychological warfare of his own.

With slow, deliberate movements, Ridge began unbuttoning the ruined, soot-stained charcoal shirt right there in front of her. He peeled the fabric away from his broad, corded shoulders, tossing the ruined garment onto the velvet armchair like a discarded wrapper. He kicked off his boots and stripped down to his dark, fitted briefs, moving with the casual, unapologetic confidence of a man who knew exactly what kind of physical specimen he was.

He glanced sideways, noticing that Elisa had frozen dead in her tracks.

She hadn't looked away. In fact, her dark eyes had inadvertently drifted downward, taking in the broad sweep of his chest, the sculpted lines of his abdomen, and the lean, powerful muscles of a man who spent three hours a day sparring in private security rings.

For three whole seconds, the air in the master suite grew dangerously hot. Elisa stared just a fraction of a second too long before she snapped out of it, her cheeks flushing crimson as she violently whipped her head away toward the window, pretending to be utterly fascinated by a pigeon sitting on the balcony rail.

Ridge let out a low, victorious hum in the back of his throat. He turned on his heel, deliberately flexing his back muscles as he slow-walked toward the master bathroom. He could feel Elisa’s furious, burning glare boring straight holes into his bare back.

"What's there to see anyway?!" Elisa suddenly burst out, her voice cracking with indignant frustration as she spun back around, her hands balled into tight fists. "You look like a burnt marshmallow! There is nothing down that hallway worth looking at!"

Ridge stopped dead at the entrance of the bathroom. He didn't rush in. Instead, he slowly pivoted on his heel, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe, crossing his arms over his chest with a slow, devastatingly wicked smirk spreading across his soot-dusted face.

"If I show you what's there, Mrs. Lockhart," Ridge drawled, his voice dropping an octave into a low, rumbling tease, "then we'll be making ten more Sunnys before the week is out."

Gulp.

The sound of Elisa swallowing hard echoed loudly in the quiet bedroom. Her eyes widened, her face instantly flushing from an innocent pink into a blazing, tomato-red sunset. The audacity! The sheer nerve of this man to stand in his underwear looking like a burnt toast leftover and talk about populating a small army of babies!

"You….you arrogant, impossible jerk!" Elisa stammered, pointing a shaking finger at him as she scrambled to regain her defensive armor. "Don't you dare flatter yourself! You are not forgiven! Not by a long shot! You walked in here smelling like a grease fire, and you have the absolute gut to stand there dreaming of another child?!"

She crossed her arms tightly, trying to look terrifying, but her chest was rising and falling rapidly, and her breath was coming in short, flustered gasps.

Ridge didn't back down. He pushed off the doorframe, taking two slow, deliberate steps back toward the bedroom, his dark eyes glittering with absolute amusement.

He stopped right in front of her, close enough that she could smell the faint trace of cedarwood beneath the burnt smoke. He reached out with one large, warm finger, gently tapping the tip of her brilliantly red cheek.

"Tell that to your burning cheeks, Elisa," Ridge whispered, his voice smooth as silk, a low laugh vibrating in his chest. "And honestly... you might want to check your posture, because I'm willing to bet your panties are just as wet as your temper right now."

If smoke could come out of human ears, Elisa’s head would have blown off its hinges.

"Get out!" she shrieked, grabbing a decorative throw pillow from the sofa and hurling it directly at his chest with maximum velocity. "Get in that shower before I let Higgins use the fire extinguisher on you again!"

Ridge caught the pillow effortlessly out of the air, a deep, rumbling laugh echoing in his throat as he backed away toward the bathroom.

"Enjoy the view while you're mad, sweetheart," Ridge teased over his shoulder, slipping through the glass doors and finally sliding them shut as the sound of running water filled the suite.

Downstairs, the estate was slowly returning to a state of high-society order, though the kitchen staff looked like they had just survived a tour of duty in a combat zone.

Higgins stood by the service pantry, holding a silver clipboard, supervising two maids who were scrubbing the ceiling vents with industrial-grade degreaser. The smell of burnt flour had finally been masked by a generous amount of lavender room spray, but the psychological scars of the billionaire's culinary experiment would likely take months to heal.

"Make sure you get that patch of carbon off the stainless-steel hood," Higgins instructed crisply, adjusting her pocket square. "If the old master asks, we are officially calling it a ventilation malfunction. We must protect his fragile CEO ego at all costs."

Just then, the heavy front double doors swung open.

Step-by-step, the sharp click-clack of polished leather shoes echoed through the foyer. Andrew walked in, his private school blazer buttoned neatly, his tie straight, and his backpack slung over one shoulder with the swagger of a heir who had just successfully negotiated extra recess time.

Higgins immediately smoothed down her apron and glided over to the foyer, wearing her most polished, welcoming butler smile.

"Welcome home, Master Andrew," Higgins greeted, bowing slightly. "How was your day at the academy? Did you successfully educate your peers on the geopolitical relevance of baby Sunny?"

Andrew dropped his backpack onto the marble floor with a heavy thud, rolling his eyes dramatically.

"It was adequate, Higgins," Andrew declared, marching toward the grand staircase like a visiting head of state. "Though Tommykins tried to argue that his golden retriever puppy is more intelligent than my brother. I had to set him straight with a lecture on infant neural plasticity. Frankly, the education system is falling behind."

"Indeed, sir. A tragic failing of modern pedagogy," Higgins agreed smoothly, keeping a completely straight face. "Would you care for some juice in the study? Your mother is currently... occupied upstairs.”

Andrew paused on the bottom step, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “"What's wrong?”

"Let us simply say that the master has discovered a newfound appreciation for ordering takeout," Higgins replied dryly, gesturing toward the stairs. "Run along, Master Andrew. Leave the domestic diplomacy to the professionals."

Upstairs, the bathroom door finally slid open, and a wave of cool, fragrant steam rolled out into the master bedroom.

Ridge stepped out, having miraculously transformed back into the terrifyingly handsome billionaire he was meant to be. His dark, damp hair was combed back from his face, smelling faintly of soap and expensive mint. He was dressed impeccably in a crisp, dark navy button-down shirt with the top two buttons open, and tailored wool trousers that fit him with razor-sharp precision.

The soot was gone. The burnt marshmallow aesthetic had been successfully banished.

Elisa was sitting back down in the plush velvet armchair by the window, her red hair tied up in a loose, elegant bun with a few stray curls framing her flushed face. She was holding her phone, scrolling through messages, but the second Ridge stepped into the room, her eyes snapped up.

She took in the clean lines of his shirt, the damp tips of his dark hair, and the way he carried himself with that effortless, predatory confidence.

Her breath hitched for a microsecond. Damn him, she thought furiously. Why does he have to clean up so well?

Ridge noticed her staring. He didn't say a word. He walked slowly over to the mahogany dresser, his dark eyes locking onto hers with a smoldering, unapologetic intensity, and picked up the bouquet of blood-red roses he had rescued from the earlier disaster.

He walked across the room, his steps deliberate and silent, until he was standing right beside her chair.

Without a word, he knelt down on one knee in front of her,the exact same posture he had taken at the altar, but without the cameras, the crowd, or the tension of a syndicate wedding. Just the two of them in the quiet, sunlit afternoon.

He held out the blood-red roses, resting them gently across her lap.

"I messed up," Ridge said, his deep voice stripped of all corporate armor, carrying a raw, unguarded sincerity that made Elisa’s heart skip a violent beat. "I let my paranoia run the show, and I insulted the only woman in this world who ever made this house feel like a home. I'm sorry, Elisa."

Elisa looked down at the roses, then slowly raised her gaze to meet his dark, piercing eyes. The anger that had burned so fiercely in her chest earlier hadn't completely vanished,she still wanted him to sweat a little bit more, still wanted him to understand that trust wasn't something he could buy with flowers or build with secret lab work.

But looking at him now,sober, humbled, and entirely willing to put his pride on the line,she felt the sharp edges of her fury soften into something warm and deep.

She didn't take the flowers immediately. Instead, she reached out, her fingers gently grazing his jawline, feeling the smooth skin where the soot had been washed away.

"You're an idiot, Ridge Lockhart," Elisa whispered, a faint, breathless smile finally breaking through her stubborn expression.

Ridge caught her hand in his large, warm palm, pressing a lingering, reverent kiss against her knuckles. A triumphant, devastatingly handsome smirk touched the corners of his lips.

"Maybe so," Ridge murmured against her skin, his dark eyes sparkling with wicked promise. "But I'm your idiot. And dinner tonight is definitely being catered."