Chapter 310: Elias Mercer Knew Theo Marsh Wasn't the Gossiping Type

Elias Mercer knew Theo Marsh wasn't the gossiping type, but accidents could happen.

Once words escaped, they'd snowball uncontrollably.

The best solution was to end it here.

"What's your plan for this afternoon?" Theo asked.

"Lab work."

"You're always so busy..."

Elias grabbed his coat. "I'm heading out."

"Wait, what did you come back for?" Theo pressed.

"Curiosity isn't always a virtue."

"..."

After Elias left, Clara Whitmore took a short nap.

She needed to stay sharp for the afternoon's data analysis.

At exactly 2 PM, she woke up, splashed cold water on her face, and returned to her workstation.

Elise Warren and other colleagues gradually trickled back.

"Clara, your face is so red. Heatstroke?" Elise asked.

Clara touched her cheek instinctively. "Is it? Maybe it's the heat..."

Theo chimed in, "The break room has AC."

"I forgot to turn it on today..."

"No wonder. Professor Mercer looked flushed earlier too. Both of you heat-sensitive?"

Elise giggled. "That dramatic? Clara, you're turning redder. Felix, lower the AC..."

Clara: "..."

She secretly checked her reflection on her phone.

Completely normal!

* * *

Evening came as experiments concluded.

Clara left work on time, stopping by the supermarket.

The farmer's market had closed, leaving supermarkets the only option.

She carefully selected ingredients and prepared two dishes with soup at home.

Propping up her phone, she video-called Daniel Whitmore while eating.

"Dad, still fussing over your flowers this late? Doesn't Mom mind?"

"She's racing against deadline. No time for me."

"Creative surge lately?" Clara raised an eyebrow.

"Peace with her editor means good mood; good mood means inspiration flows."

Daniel suddenly lowered his voice. "Speaking of that editor—Phoebe Ward—no calls recently. Odd how she suddenly went quiet."

"Guess what?"

Clara played along. "What happened?"

"Found out she blocked all of Phoebe's contacts!"

With their recent move, the editor couldn't track them down.

Clara chuckled. "That's so Mom."

At nearly fifty, Helen Whitmore retained childlike whimsy under Daniel's devotion.

Like when critics panned her work years ago, she rage-quit online—pure teenage tantrum.

"Dad," Clara turned serious, "keep an eye on Mom. No contact with Phoebe."

Julian Cross's referred editor had connected.

After reviewing Helen's manuscript, Spencer Hale called at 3 AM.

Clara answered half-asleep.

The "golden editor" of thriller novels—every title under him became bestsellers, every adaptation blockbusters.

He cared only for quality, not names.

After understanding Helen's situation, he'd said just one thing...