My contract love story

With a determined glint in her eye, Susan announced, “Unfortunately, it seems our boss won’t be joining us for karaoke tonight. But hey, the night’s been fantastic so far, and we can’t let that dampen our spirits! Let’s get this karaoke party started!”

A wave of cheers erupted from the crowd, quickly dispelling any disappointment. Mocktails, meticulously prepared beforehand, were distributed to lighten the mood. While most were non-alcoholic, a few cheeky younger staff members saw an opportunity for mischief. They pretended to request refills, distracting the assistants while their friends surreptitiously spiked some of the remaining mocktails.

One particular young man exchanged a knowing glance with Chef Larry as he passed by. Larry acknowledged him with a subtle nod, his gaze flickering towards a disheartened Ashleigh. All evening, Larry had been waiting for this moment.

Adrian’s absence was the icing on his cake. Without him there, his plan would be much easier to execute. It was a simple scheme. Seeing Ashleigh downcast, she’d likely reach for a drink. One of the spiked mocktails, laced with a powerful sleeping drug, would be readily available. Meanwhile, the rest of the staff would be served alcoholic mocktails, ensuring they were sufficiently inebriated.

Once the opportunity arose, Larry would guide a drugged Ashleigh upstairs to her room. Using fingerprints he’d collected, he’d gain access to Mr. Cagliari’s study. There, he’d retrieve the file he desired, slip out unseen, and plant the incriminating evidence in Ashleigh’s room, framing her for the theft.

With a predatory glint in his eyes, Larry approached the assistants and barked an order to serve the mocktails. Cluelessly, they began their rounds. Larry swiftly spiked two of the drinks just as Mr. Atkinson arrived at his side.Belonging to NôvelDrama.Org.

“For Madame Cagliari, ensure it’s strictly non-alcoholic,” Mr. Atkinson instructed, eyeing the colorful concoctions with suspicion. “Fruit juice would be preferable.”

“Of course, Mr. Atkinson,” Larry replied, feigning compliance. “Have a drink yourself, sir. I’ll go prepare the fruit juice for Mrs. Cagliari.” He thrust the drugged mocktail towards Mr. Atkinson, who accepted it with a wary glance before walking away. Unbeknownst to him, Larry shot a venomous glare in his direction, silently urging him to consume the drink. Mr. Atkinson, oblivious to the danger, obliged and left the hall.

Larry hurried to the kitchen, retrieving the pre-prepared juice he knew Mr. Atkinson might insist upon. Returning to the hall, he found his plan unfolding perfectly. The staff were in various stages of drunkenness, some slumped over tables, others singing off-key. Mr. Atkinson, his head resting heavily on his arm, appeared thoroughly inebriated. A cruel smile played on Larry’s lips as he approached the mocktail bar, poured the prepared juice, and carried it over to a preoccupied Ashleigh.

“Well, well, Mrs. Celebrant,” he addressed her, his voice laced with a hint of faux concern. “You seem quite out of sorts.”

Ashleigh’s gaze met his, a heavy sigh escaping her lips.

“Can’t be helped,” she said, tossing her phone onto the table. “My husband still hasn’t arrived, and the night’s almost over.”

Ashleigh’s voice trembled slightly as she questioned Chef Larry, “He made a promise, didn’t he? Isn’t that important too? I finally got into Robin College, shouldn’t that be something to celebrate as well?”

Chef Larry offered a tight smile. “I’m sure Mr. Cagliari has a valid reason, Mrs. Cagliari. You know the demanding nature of his work. They say he barely came home before this.” His words were meant to be comforting, but they rang hollow in Ashleigh’s ears.

Disappointment washed over her again, a familiar ache in her chest. Glancing around the room, she saw only carefree revelry laughter, dancing, uninhibited joy.

“Sometimes,” she said wistfully, her voice barely above a whisper, “I wish my life was simpler. Maybe then I could be as carefree as them.”

Chef Larry leaned in, his voice a low murmur. “Well, their carefree nature comes courtesy of a little something extra in their drinks. They have their own burdens, Mrs. Ashleigh, believe me.”

Ashleigh’s eyes widened. Now the uninhibited behavior made sense. A flicker of envy sparked within her, quickly extinguished by a growing unease.

“How did this happen?” she asked, concern etching lines on her forehead. Some of the staff members were becoming increasingly disoriented, their attempts at merriment bordering on the bizarre.

Chef Larry shrugged, a barely concealed amusement dancing in his eyes. “Apparently, one of the younger gardeners snuck some alcohol into the mocktail mix. We only realized it after the drinks were served. It’ll wear off by morning, harmless fun, really.” He threw his head back and laughed as an elderly woman attempted a complicated dance move, only to lose her balance and tumble to the floor.

Ashleigh, however, didn’t share his amusement. A cold dread began to creep into her heart.

“Lucky them,” she mumbled almost to herself. Chef Larry, ever observant, smirked and placed a glass of juice in front of her.

“You know you can’t have any alcohol, Mrs. Cagliari,” he said, his voice dripping with false sympathy. “But this fresh juice should quench your thirst.”

Ashleigh scowled. This was another one of Adrian’s restrictions, another reminder of his control. She grumbled and took a large gulp of the juice, pushing the empty glass toward him with a curt nod.

“I’ll be back to keep you company, if you don’t mind,” he offered, his voice overly solicitous.

Ashleigh, desperate for an ally in this sea of drunken revelry, simply nodded in agreement. She tentatively asked for a mocktail, a plea he granted with a show of magnanimity. The more intoxicated she was, the better, it seemed.

When things settled down somewhat, Chef Larry returned to Ashleigh’s side. As they conversed, she felt a strange sensation creeping in a pleasant tipsiness that gradually morphed into dizziness.

Chef Larry watched her with calculating eyes and finally, the moment he’d been waiting for arrived. He sauntered towards the microphone stand, a grin spreading across his face.

“Well folks,” he announced, his voice booming through the hall, “that last song seems to be the grand finale!”

A chorus of groans and playful boos erupted from the drunken crowd. “No way! The night can’t end until Mrs. Cagliari sings!” someone shouted.

Chef Larry chuckled. “I know, I know, we all wanted our esteemed Madame to grace the stage. Unfortunately, she’s quite exhausted. Therefore, she has requested we wrap things up. Thank you all for coming, and goodnight!”

His words, laced with a hidden urgency, spurred the more sober members of the staff into action. They began helping their inebriated colleagues out of the hall, the festive atmosphere dissolving into a chaotic exodus. With most of the crowd dispersed, Chef Larry’s smile widened into a sinister leer. The stage was set.

Disorientation swirled around Ashleigh like a thick fog. Mr. Atkinson remained slumped in his chair, seemingly oblivious, the perfect picture of sleep. In her woozy state, Ashleigh leaned heavily on Chef Larry, who pretended to be burdened by mocktails but looked suspiciously smug.

“Let’s get you to bed, Mrs. Cagliari,” he purred, his voice dripping with false concern. “You look ready to drop.”

Ashleigh mumbled agreement, her eyelids fluttering shut with each passing moment. “How come you’re not… affected?” she slurred, her words barely forming a question. Chef Larry had indulged in a few mocktails during their conversation, dismissing her earlier concerns.

“High tolerance, Mrs. Cagliari,” he lied, tightening his grip on her arm to steady her swaying form. “But your well-being is all that matters right now.”

He guided her towards the stairs, each step a perilous journey for Ashleigh. Reaching the top floor, a mischievous glint flickered in Chef Larry’s eyes. He tapped his smartwatch, plunging the mansion into sudden darkness.

This wasn’t a random blackout. Chef Larry had painstakingly installed a program capable of overriding the mansion’s security system, but it was a one-shot deal. Triggering it would trigger an immediate alert to the Cagliari estate surveillance team, giving him only minutes before they traced the breach.

With the CCTV cameras on the first floor disabled, the only footage captured would be a dark, empty hallway. It was a risky gamble, but one he was willing to take. He flicked on his flashlight, leading Ashleigh towards her room. He pressed her fingerprint against the security panel, surreptitiously collecting another sample for access to Adrian’s study.

Just as he emerged from the room, a blinding beam of light cut through the darkness. Startled, he stumbled back, playing the part of a drunken reveler.

“Wh-where am I?” he stammered, fumbling around with his hands as if disoriented.

The source of the light was Mr. Atkinson, his face etched with a deep scowl. This was a complete surprise for Chef Larry. The drugged mocktail should have knocked the old man out cold. He himself had succumbed to the effects for a while, explaining the blackout. But there he stood, a formidable obstacle in his path.

What Chef Larry didn’t know was that Mr. Atkinson was no ordinary butler. Years of covert training had equipped him to resist various poisons and intoxicants. While the drug had indeed affected him, causing a deep sleep, the sudden power outage, likely triggered by an external breach, had jolted him awake just in time.

Confusion flickered across Chef Larry’s face as a harsh beam of light sliced through the darkness. Mr. Atkinson stood before him, a formidable figure etched with suspicion.

“Care to explain yourself, Chef Larry?” Mr. Atkinson’s voice was laced with ice.

“M-Mr. Atkinson,” Chef Larry stammered, feigning drunkenness. “Just… helping Mrs. Cagliari to bed. Lost track of the doors in this state.” He crumpled the stolen fingerprint sample into his pocket, a nervous smile plastered on his face.

“You have a light,” Mr. Atkinson pointed out, his gaze sharp. “And you claim to be ‘tipsy,’ not disoriented. Explain the discrepancy.”

Panic clawed at Chef Larry, but outwardly, he remained calm. “Perhaps you misunderstand, Mr. Atkinson. See for yourself.” He gestured towards the door, a forced smile playing on his lips.

Mr. Atkinson examined the study door, finding no sign of tampering. He then checked on Ashleigh, who slept soundly.

“I appreciate your assistance with Mrs. Cagliari,” he said, his voice stern. “However, but your professionalism with our Madame needs… improvement. Discretion and propriety apply to all interactions, a fact you’d be wise to remember. Goodnight..”

With a curt nod, Larry swallowed his anger. Just then, the lights flickered back to life. Mr. Atkinson received a call, his eyes widening in realization. He glanced at Chef Larry as he spoke into the phone.

“A software bug, you say?” Mr. Atkinson’s voice held a hint of accusation, his gaze lingering on Larry before he walked away. Larry was left fuming in silence, as his carefully crafted plan crumbled around him.