Chapter 6

Ivy

The days after the wedding passed faster than I'd expected.

Sebastian was busy every day. The morning after we met with my parents, he was already gone, staying out until evening. The following days followed the same pattern—present at breakfast, occasionally joined by Willow or Warren who came to brief him on various matters, then out the door, returning for dinner, sometimes calling midway to say he'd be late.

At first, I suspected he might be deliberately avoiding me.

After observing for a few days, I realized he was genuinely busy. The Sinclair family business wasn't like the Clairmonts', coasting on old wealth—at least judging by how frequently his phone rang, there was real operational activity happening.

While he was out, I familiarized myself with the villa's basic layout.

The first floor had three exits: the main entrance, a back door accessible from the kitchen for the butler and staff, and a side door from the living room leading to the garden. The study had an emergency door disguised as a bookshelf. At the end of the second-floor hallway was a storage room, empty with nothing stored inside, and behind the wardrobe in the master bedroom's dressing room was a hidden door fitted with an electronic lock. I examined it—custom-made, would take considerable time to crack. Judging by the sound, it was probably another storage space.

What would he keep in there?

If it were me, I'd probably line it with shelves for supplies. Mainly firearms and ammunition.

This villa's security was a notch above the Clairmont estate, but... from a professional perspective, still riddled with vulnerabilities. Perhaps they assumed no one would dare touch someone from the Round Table.

I knew Vivian probably wouldn't do this sort of thing—she'd more likely do yoga, read, or scroll through her phone. But I couldn't help myself. Without checking everything once, I couldn't sleep well at night, and sleep deprivation would only expose my flaws faster.

During this time, Lane sent me a message: "She's arrived safely. She asked me to thank you. The Sinclair family situation is complicated—be extremely careful."

After reading it, I deleted the message.

Fortunately, Sebastian was barely home during the day, giving me plenty of time.

Marta taught me quite a bit these past few days.

Not just the silverware etiquette I should have learned before the wedding, but things only someone close would know—like how Vivian always added lots of sugar to her coffee and tea. How Vivian's habit of photographing meals stemmed from her love of documenting things, whether the food was good or not, she'd snap a photo and post it to her social media accounts. I'd scrolled through her Instagram—indeed, every few posts featured a food photo, usually with brief captions, an emoji or a single word. She hated people touching her hair but would tolerate it during styling sessions. She was a light sleeper and would get irritable if woken in the morning.

Very bossy.

I scrolled through her entire Instagram history from beginning to end, noting everyone who appeared in photos, her commonly used emojis, liking patterns, and reply habits. The photos showed her as genuinely lively, completely unlike me. Her chats with Jane were completely random and disjointed, while conversations with Chloe mostly revolved around meeting up, occasionally sharing bits of daily life. With other friends, she rarely initiated conversations.

The only problematic part: she'd never posted a photo of Robert on Instagram.

That was strange—I couldn't even find anything that might be him.

"You seem much more energetic today, Miss," Marta said this morning while adjusting my collar.

"Do I?"

"Miss Clairmont used to stay in bed until the last possible moment. This new habit of yours is excellent."

I was just accustomed to waking at dawn. I wondered how Vivian was managing now.

Breakfast these past few days had been uneventful. He'd either sit at the dining table or by the kitchen island. His eating movements were quiet, occasionally exchanging a few words about the weather or estate matters. Not intimate, but not distant either. Like two roommates who happened to eat at the same table.

Until this morning, when Sebastian appeared unexpectedly cheerful, holding a tablet with the corners of his mouth slightly upturned. He seemed to be reviewing some reports, making annotations on the screen.

"Do you have plans today?" I asked, setting down my coffee cup.

Too much sugar—still getting used to it.

"I'm going to the shooting range this afternoon." He took a sip of coffee, his gaze shifting from the tablet to me. "The family just acquired a batch of new training equipment that I need to inspect. Would you like to come along?"

Shooting range.

How would Vivian respond? Her Instagram didn't seem to have any shooting range content. Margaret said she enjoyed hunting, and Marta mentioned she went every hunting season. But hunting and target shooting were two different things. The former involved outdoor tracking, testing patience and judgment, while the latter was mostly indoors, demanding precise firearm operation.

But refusing would be more suspicious.

Someone who enjoyed hunting having zero interest in a shooting range didn't make sense.

"Sure!"

He nodded without further comment.

The morning passed uneventfully. I walked around the garden. This villa's landscape design was more modern, with neatly trimmed lawns and a low wall along the garden's edge. I walked over and ran my hand across its surface—stone, very solid. Security cameras were mounted atop the wall, their angles covering the entire perimeter. But the southwest corner had about a two-second alternating blind spot where two cameras' fields of view intersected. During a nighttime operation, if the power were cut beforehand, that window could be extended even further.

At two in the afternoon, the car waited at the entrance.

I wore black trousers and a white shirt, pulling my hair back to keep it from obstructing my vision during shooting, and got into the car.

The Sinclair family's private shooting range was in the suburbs. The drive took about forty minutes, passing through two checkpoints where personnel verified identities at each. The facility's exterior was a low concrete building painted dark gray with no visible windows. The entrance displayed only a number plate—from outside, it looked like an ordinary warehouse.

The car stopped at the entrance.

A staff member in a black uniform approached, greeted Sebastian, then led us inside. Beyond the door was a corridor. The walls were bare concrete coated with matte varnish. Overhead, LED strips embedded in the ceiling provided even lighting without shadows. Every few meters stood a door bearing a number plate.

I walked half a step behind Sebastian, my peripheral vision scanning the door plates on both sides—they looked like ordinary office spaces. Judging by the security access specifications and these offices, rather than a private shooting range, this resembled a security company handling specialized operations.

The factory's public business area and training zone had similar designs. The only difference was that the factory's corridors had visible cameras every few meters, while here they were more discreetly placed, embedded in corners.

Not surprising.

The families beneath the Round Table all had their own training systems to varying degrees. They could do what the factory did—it was just a matter of scale.

The staff member stopped at a fire door at the corridor's end and swiped his card again. The door opened inward, revealing the main shooting area. Eight lanes, twenty-five meters, with professionally soundproofed walls and non-slip rubber flooring. In the corner sat several unopened wooden crates, two brand-new handguns on the floor beside instruction manuals with dark green covers bearing the manufacturer's logo.

"The equipment for inspection is over here." The staff member gestured toward the corner crates.

Sebastian walked over and bent to open one of the boxes. His movements were practiced—taking the gun, racking the slide, checking the chamber, examining the sights, all in one fluid motion. After inspecting one, he returned it to the crate and picked up another, repeating the same sequence.

I stood nearby watching for a while, and once I confirmed his attention was on the equipment, I began examining the indoor range's ceiling. The corner had ventilation ducts—not wide enough for a person to pass through, but sufficient for concealing items. The soundproofing layer on the walls appeared over five centimeters thick, with perforated acoustic panels on the surface and likely composite damping layers behind.

If there were space on the other side, sound would barely penetrate. As long as you dealt with the entrance security and corridor cameras, this would make a perfect sealed execution chamber.

"Want to try?"

He set down the gun and turned toward me.

"Me?" I looked at him.

"Your mother mentioned you're quite fond of hunting. Your marksmanship should be decent."

How many people had Margaret told about this?

Oh, right—he was the one who proposed the marriage to Margaret, so they might have discussed hobbies.

Actually, hunting and target shooting were different. On a hunt, you dealt with living, moving targets—wind drift and distance required real-time calculation, plus patience. A range had static targets—the paper wouldn't run, and once you controlled your breathing, everything fell into place. Of course, this range could also set up moving targets. But had Vivian ever handled a handgun? Hard to say—neither Marta nor Vivian herself had mentioned it. The Clairmont family's hunting tradition likely involved shotguns or rifles; handguns weren't practical for hunting.

I hesitated for two seconds before walking to the shooting position. He handed me the new handgun. I took it, testing its weight. Nine-millimeter caliber. The grip's anti-slip texturing was fresh. This was a new gun.

I racked the slide to check the chamber—empty. I took a magazine from the ammunition box beside me, pressed rounds into it, inserted it into the grip, and chambered a round. I deliberately slowed my movements to avoid him noticing anything unusual.

He was watching me, lips pressed together, eyebrows slightly raised.

Oh, right... though she hunted, she probably wouldn't be this smooth with a handgun. A wealthy young lady's first reaction to an unfamiliar handgun shouldn't be this routine—at minimum, she should ask where the safety was.

He was already watching. Changing my actions now would only be more suspicious.

I turned back to face the lane. The target was twenty-five meters out—white background, black concentric circles. I drew a breath, raised the gun, aimed, and squeezed the trigger.

Bang.

The recoil traveled from my palm to my wrist, then to my shoulder. The second shot followed, then the third. I deliberately slowed my rate of fire, leaving obvious aiming intervals between each round.

After eight shots, I lowered the gun. The target center now had seven holes, their distribution not particularly tight, but I'd intentionally missed with one shot. Making the spread look like an inexperienced handgun shooter.

I stared at the target for two seconds—perhaps I'd been overly deliberate. The ratio between torso and head hits was too obvious, making it look like I'd intentionally avoided the head. But then again, beginners shouldn't aim for the head anyway—early training always focused on center mass, with the occasional head shot being possible.

I lowered the gun and turned around.

He approached the lane, looking at the target.

"Nice accuracy."

His tone was understated. I felt a bit concerned. A normal person seeing their newlywed wife produce this kind of result would at least ask more questions. Unless he simply didn't care, or he already knew something and just wasn't ready to address it yet.

He walked over to the wooden crate, took out another gun, and began loading it. His movements were equally practiced. Then he stood at the position beside me, raised the gun, and fired.

His grouping was much tighter than mine—more than enough to be lethal. In the factory environment, he'd probably rank among the best.

It seemed we both had secrets.

"Let's go." He also set down his gun, looked at me, and patted my shoulder.

"Inspection complete—no issues."