My contract love story

A dull ache throbbed in Mr. Atkinson’s head, a lingering echo of the electrical malfunction he’d spent hours fixing. He patrolled the silent staff quarters well past midnight, ensuring everyone was tucked in. Finally, at 2 am, the quiet shattered with the arrival of Mr. Cagliari, his ever-present bodyguards flanking him like shadows. They deposited their employer at the door with a curt nod before melting back into the night.

Adrian shrugged off his jacket, handing it to Mr. Atkinson with a sigh that spoke volumes. The air crackled with tension, and Mr. Atkinson, a seasoned observer, knew to navigate cautiously.

“Good morning, sir,” he ventured tentatively. “Your trip seemed… taxing.”

Adrian grunted in response, his long strides carrying him straight for the kitchen. A midday flight to Italy, fueled by a supposed family emergency, had landed him face-to-face with his mother’s machinations. Lunch with Caelia, another unsubtle nudge towards an unwanted relationship, had devolved into a bitter argument. Disagreements with his mother were never pleasant, but her manipulative tactics left a particularly foul taste in his mouth.

Mr. Atkinson anticipated his needs, pouring a glass of water that awaited Adrian on the deserted kitchen counter. Adrian drained the glass in one long gulp, his gaze sweeping across the sterile silence. The eerily quiet house extended to the kitchen, a stark contrast to his usual late-night encounters with one or two staff members and the ever-present crew catering to his nocturnal cravings.

“The house is empty,” he finally spoke, a hint of suspicion lacing his voice. “Where is everyone?”

Mr. Atkinson hesitated, a flicker of worry crossing his features. “Everyone is asleep, sir, except for myself.”

Adrian’s brow furrowed. He vaguely recalled Ashleigh mentioning a karaoke night, but surely that wouldn’t incapacitate the entire staff. “A karaoke session shouldn’t leave everyone comatose, should it?”

Mr. Atkinson shook his head, a grim expression settling on his face. “No, sir. It wasn’t the event itself, but something that transpired during the event that seems to have knocked everyone out.” He paused, letting the weight of his words hang heavy in the air before continuing.

A deep frown etched itself onto Adrian’s face as Mr. Atkinson spoke. “Sir, the evening’s festivities went well for the most part. However, near the end, mocktails served from the kitchen appeared to contain a significant amount of alcohol.”

Adrian’s already deep voice rumbled with anger. “Why is that? Weren’t there strict instructions on alcohol consumption?”

“Indeed, sir. I ensured everything adhered to your guidelines. But after investigating the incident, I discovered some younger members of the gardening staff had snuck alcohol into the mocktail mix without anyone’s knowledge.”

“Why wasn’t this caught immediately? Couldn’t it have been stopped as soon as it was noticed? Or are you implying some incompetence on your part, Mr. Atkinson?”

Mr. Atkinson’s voice remained calm despite the rising tension. “My apologies, sir. The last thing I recall is ensuring Mrs. Cagliari received fruit juice instead of a mocktail. They offered me a drink as well, but I passed out shortly after. I only awoke when the estate surveillance informed me of a blackout in the mansion.”

With each word, Adrian seemed to simmer further. “What about Mrs. Cagliari? Did she consume the mocktail?”

“I am unsure, sir. However, she was also deeply asleep when I found her. Chef Larry escorted her to her room. He too appeared to be under the influence when I encountered him,” Mr. Atkinson finished.Content © NôvelDrama.Org.

Adrian sprang to his feet, a surge of fury coursing through him. He couldn’t bear the thought of the chef anywhere near Ashleigh. Despite his repeated warnings about maintaining a professional distance, she had clearly ignored him once again. In his absence, she’d seized the opportunity to get close to another man. He stormed towards her room, his hand reaching for the knob, only to be stopped by Mr. Atkinson’s voice.

“Sir, I believe confronting Madame about this now would be unwise. As I mentioned, she is fast asleep.” Adrian’s hand on the doorknob faltered.

“Sir,” Mr. Atkinson continued, “I believe Mrs. Cagliari relied on Chef Larry in the absence of any other clearheaded individual to assist her.”

“And why was she knocked unconscious after consuming only a glass of fruit juice?” Adrian countered, his voice tight with suspicion.

Mr. Atkinson paused, letting the question hang in the air, forcing Adrian to connect the dots.

Realization dawned on Adrian’s face. He pivoted towards his study, his long strides echoing through the quiet hallway. Pushing open the door, he strode purposefully to his desk. With a deft press of a button, a concealed compartment opened, revealing a laptop. He swiftly logged into the mansion’s surveillance system.

The footage confirmed Mr. Atkinson’s account: the male staff spiking the mocktail mix, the drinks being served, and even the moment Chef Larry offered Ashleigh the juice followed by the spiked mocktail. Adrian saw the sinister look in Chef Larry’s eyes as he noticed Ashleigh’s severe dizziness and announced the premature ending of the event. And then, as they reached the first-floor hallway stairs, the lights abruptly cut out.

Though the screen remained dark, Adrian could practically hear the conversation between Mr. Atkinson and Chef Larry, a cold glint flashing in his eyes as he stared into the black void.

It wasn’t entirely clear what infuriated him more: Ashleigh’s seemingly unfettered trust in the chef or the man’s blatant ulterior motives.

“Sir,” Mr. Atkinson’s voice broke the silence, “in all my years of training for tolerance to various substances, I’ve never encountered anything as potent as what was used tonight. I barely managed to make it to confront Chef Larry. It begs the question: what did he administer to Mrs. Cagliari, and how will she feel in the morning?”

Adrian remained silent, leaning back in his chair, lost in a whirlwind of thoughts. Mr. Atkinson’s words resonated with a chilling certainty. The drug used on Ashleigh was strong, far beyond anything intended for mere intoxication.

Dawn arrived, painting the sky with streaks of orange and pink. The mansion, however, remained shrouded in a different kind of haze a collective hangover. Staff members stirred, their heads pounding and memories fuzzy. Mr. Atkinson, ever the pillar of efficiency, secured large quantities of pain relievers and hangover remedies. Gratitude filled the air as he dispensed them, work grinding to a halt for the first hour as the medication kicked in.

Ashleigh, scheduled for a 6 am wake-up call, remained blissfully unaware of the chaos. When she finally stirred at 10, a throbbing headache hijacked any attempt to rise. Disoriented, she clutched her head, a vague memory of orange juice and a single sip of mocktail swirling in her foggy mind. Her phone, buzzing with missed calls, mocked her from the nightstand. As she fumbled for it, the door creaked open. Adrian, his face an unreadable mask, stepped into the room.