Semua Bab Not Your Typical Live-In Son-In-Law: Bab 1 - Bab 10

The glass doors of the Torque Solutions corporate lobby hissed open as Julian Ward stepped inside, his shoes quiet against the marble. He paused just inside the threshold, taking a second to absorb the space—not out of awe, but from habit. It was a trait left over from his old job in supply chains, a quiet instinct to evaluate every new space: exits, security cameras, guard presence, seating layout.It was all there. Opulent. Glassy. Self-congratulatory.He walked up to the front desk with a calm smile, holding out a printed authorization letter with the gold-embossed Lancaster crest.“I’m here to collect a sealed delivery packet for Charlotte Lancaster. Torque Solutions was expecting someone from our side.”The receptionist—a polished blonde in a navy-blue blouse—blinked, then gave a quick glance at the letter. Her smile stayed neutral, but Julian caught the quick mental calculation behind it: well-dressed man, but no tie; polished shoes, but scuffed from wear. He doesn’t look import

The Lancaster estate sat atop Ridgemont Hill like a fortress that had long ago stopped pretending it was a home.Evening fog pooled low across the manicured lawn, creeping along the driveway like a silver tide. Black security gates guarded the entrance with a quiet, mechanical vigilance—motion sensors, rotating cameras, heat-detection arrays that saw the world in threats and shadows.Inside, however, the dining hall glowed with warm amber lighting. The long walnut table had been stripped of formal dinnerware, replaced with laptops, printed reports, and black coffee. No chefs. No servers. No small talk.This wasn’t a family meal.This was war planning.Julian Ward stepped through the archway and paused, just long enough to absorb the scene.Robert Lancaster sat at the head of the table in a crisp navy shirt, sleeves rolled, hands tented in front of him. To his right sat Eleanor, dressed in her habitual soft black—an eternal widow to the battlefield of commerce. Charlotte stood behind h

Julian arrived at The Windmill Café five minutes early, as always.It was a quiet little place tucked between a florist and a secondhand bookstore, one of those “charming” gentrified haunts with pastel blue walls, old wood furniture, and indie folk music humming under the smell of espresso. He chose it deliberately—public, neutral, and forgettable.He took a table near the window, ordered an Earl Grey, and waited.His stepmother, Margaret Ward, was never early. Punctuality wasn’t her style. Guilt was.She arrived seven minutes late, breezing in with a smile that tried too hard and a floral scarf that made her look like she was still dressing for church potlucks.“Julian!” she said with exaggerated delight, setting down her purse. “I wasn’t sure you’d actually come.”Julian stood, nodded politely, then sat. “You asked for thirty minutes. You have them.”Margaret’s expression faltered, just for a second. She adjusted her scarf like it might fix her tone. “Don’t be so stiff. I just wante

Julian adjusted the collar of his slate-gray dress shirt as he stepped into the lobby of the Alabaster Pavilion, Westbridge City’s newest high-end exhibition space. Light streamed down from skylights above, flooding the pale stone interior with soft gold. Floor-to-ceiling banners flanked the entrance, announcing the arrival of THE WESTBRIDGE FUTURE DESIGN EXPO in bold copper typeface.The event was Charlotte’s idea—a soft power appearance. “Walk through the space, smile once or twice, and leave a photo trail,” she’d said. “It’s time they see you in daylight.”He wasn’t there to make a speech. He wasn’t there to network. He was just there to be seen. Walking confidently. Standing beside the city’s most dangerous woman. Silent, sharp, and impossible to ignore.He arrived a few minutes before Charlotte, as planned, wearing no tie, just a tailored suit and polished leather shoes. Simple. Clean. Quiet authority.The pavilion was already humming with activity—tech developers, architectural

The Lancaster estate’s west wing was usually silent after dark.That’s why Julian noticed the music.Low, rhythmic bass echoed faintly down the hall—modern, stylish, and very much Sophie Lancaster. He followed the sound toward the glass-walled mezzanine known as “the green room”—a converted solarium filled with plants, lounge seating, and Sophie’s favorite vice: tactical chaos.She was curled in a leather chair near the open skylight, tablet on her lap, legs folded beneath her. Her nails were painted matte gold, and her silk robe fluttered faintly in the cross-breeze.When Julian entered, she didn’t look up.“Took you long enough,” she said. “I’ve been waiting to pitch this all day.”Julian walked over, settled into the opposite chair, and crossed one ankle over his knee.“Pitch what?”Sophie tapped the tablet. “You.”Julian raised an eyebrow. “I’m not for sale.”“That’s what makes you valuable,” she replied. “Public loves a reluctant icon.”She turned the screen toward him. A slide d