His Last Command Came Back to Kill Him novel Chapter 152

Whitley let Leroy's demands go straight out the other ear.

She had a mountain of work to get through tonight, and the estate had a full staff to handle meals. She wasn't about to play personal chef to a spoiled brat.

They drove in silence until they pulled up to the estate.

Relying on her memory, Whitley tapped in the security code on the front door, only for the screen to flash red: *Access Denied*.

She let out a dry, internal laugh.

Of course. Every time she learned the code, they changed it, guarding the house as if she were a common thief.

Leroy smugly stepped in front of her, effortlessly punching in a string of numbers. With a soft beep, the heavy door clicked open.

Whitley froze.

It was the old code—the one she had originally set years ago, which she thought had been permanently deleted.

It was absurd. Honestly, she was too exhausted to even try and psychoanalyze this family anymore.

She stepped inside and said flatly, "Go find somewhere quiet to sit and don't cause trouble."

Leroy immediately laid claim to the living room. Spotting a small desk in the corner that had once belonged to Whitley—now buried under his video games and junk—he puffed out his chest.

"This whole house is mine now. You're just a guest," he sneered.

Whitley's brow twitched, but she didn't take the bait. Instead, she turned and walked into a small, repurposed study, gently shutting the door behind her.

Leroy scowled, suddenly feeling annoyed that he hadn't gotten a reaction. Grabbing his homework, he barged into the study anyway, aggressively pulling up a chair right next to her.

Whitley glanced at him but didn't kick him out.

After dinner, she headed upstairs to retrieve Shamar's pottery vase.

She searched the master bedroom top to bottom, but it was completely empty. Her heart sank.

She pulled out her phone and dialed Clive's number.

"Where is the vase?"

"On the cabinet in the study," came his flat, emotionless reply.

Whitley's grip on her phone tightened.

The main study had always been entirely off-limits. Throughout their marriage, he had forbidden her from stepping foot inside, going as far as hiring specialized staff just to clean it. He knew she needed to get the vase, yet he deliberately placed it in restricted territory. He was purposefully making this difficult.

"The door's locked," she said coldly.

"No, it isn't."

Whitley paused. She walked slowly to the heavy oak doors of the main study and turned the handle.

It clicked open instantly.

There, sitting perfectly intact on the center cabinet, was the white porcelain vase.

"I see it. Thank you," she said, hanging up. She reached out and carefully pulled the vase against her chest.

As she turned to leave, her gaze inadvertently caught on the massive mahogany desk. She stopped dead in her tracks.

Spread open on the desk was a familiar business proposal. The title alone made her eyes sting.

It was the exact project blueprint she had spent sleepless nights drafting right before she left the National Research Institute. It was the physical embodiment of her old dreams.

When she left, everyone told her the project had been scrapped and forgotten. She never imagined Clive had kept it in his private study all this time.

Her chest ached briefly, but she forced herself to look away.

It was all in the past. It had nothing to do with her anymore.

By nine o'clock, the lights in Leroy's room were still on.

Knowing he'd throw a tantrum if he couldn't wake up for school, Whitley went to tell him to go to bed.

She pushed the door open and stopped. His desk was littered with tiny gemstones and half-finished jewelry settings.

To avoid the master bedroom entirely, she had chosen to sleep in the guest room. Unfortunately, the only good hair dryer was still sitting on the master vanity.

After a moment's hesitation, she quietly eased the master bedroom door open and grabbed the dryer.

Just then, the front door downstairs clicked.

Assuming Leroy had gotten up to throw a fit, Whitley turned around—

And froze.

Standing in the doorway of the bedroom was Clive.

It was four in the morning. He was supposed to be in the neighboring city with Yelena, yet here he was.

He looked exhausted, his dark eyes locking onto her instantly.

She had just stepped out of the shower and was wrapped only in a towel. The dim light highlighted the elegant curve of her neck and shoulders, making her look both vulnerable and incredibly awkward.

Instinctively, Whitley pulled the towel tighter, her knuckles turning white.

In the past, even when he was cold to her during the day, their nights had always been intensely physical. Back then, she had been naive enough to mistake sex for love, believing that if she just held on long enough, she could melt the ice around his heart.

Now, on the brink of divorce, being caught like this felt utterly humiliating.

"I didn't know you were coming back tonight," she said, her voice tight.

Clive just gave a low "Mhm," his tone completely unreadable.

He lazily broke eye contact, reaching up to loosen his tie. He began unbuttoning his dress shirt, dropping a sentence that sounded as casual as if he were discussing the weather:

"Since you're already here, don't leave."

The words were spoken lightly, but they hit harder than a slap in the face.

In his eyes, she was still just a convenience. Someone to be summoned and dismissed at will.

He couldn't even offer her an ounce of basic respect.