Chapter 50 A New Friend
ALISTAIR
"I know you had some grand scheme or plan when you married her. You wouldn’t actually fall in love with her, would you?"
The question hangs in the heavy air of the private dining room. Warren leans across the white tablecloth, a knowing smirk playing on his lips as he waits for my answer.
The rare trace of amusement vanishes from my face entirely. The muscles in my jaw pull tight, grinding my teeth together as I stare at my oldest corporate ally.
"Do you really think that is possible?" I ask, keeping my voice utterly devoid of warmth.
Warren takes another slow sip of his Cabernet. He sets the crystal glass down, the red liquid swirling gently. He’s looking at me like he can see right through my head and read my mind. "I think you just smiled while watching a woman hold a street thug at gunpoint. I think you are spending an awful lot of time admiring your contractual wife. Are you still chasing the ghost, Alistair? Are you still looking for the girl from your past?"
I look away, fixing my gaze on the dark city skyline outside the soundproof window. My chest feels suddenly tight. The memory of the girl he’s talking about is a fractured image I have guarded for years. "I will never care for a second woman, Warren. You know this. She is the only one."
Warren scoffs quietly. He cuts another piece of his steak. "You are already married. The ink on the Wolfe family registry is dry. Even if you don’t want to think of another woman, you already have another. And she’s your wife."
"It is a business contract," I reply, my tone sharp and absolute. "We will divorce the exact minute that child is born. Emily gets her financial independence. I get my heir. The arrangement ends there."
Warren pauses, his silver fork hovering over his plate. He studies my face with the clinical precision of a prosecuting attorney. "Let us play a hypothetical game. What if that girl from your past never existed? What if you never met her? Would you still divorce Emily so quickly?"
I open my mouth to answer, but the words turn into ash in my throat. I look down at the half-eaten ribeye on my plate. A heavy, suffocating silence stretches between us. I push my heavy leather chair back, the wooden legs scraping loudly against the floor. I toss my cloth napkin onto the table and stand up.
"I have early meetings tomorrow," I say, buttoning my charcoal suit jacket.
Warren does not stand to see me out. He leans back in his chair, swirling his wine again. "Have you ever considered the possibility that you might never find her? She could be completely gone, Alistair. You might spend your entire life chasing a shadow while a very real, very lethal woman is sleeping in your house and in your bed."
His words strike the deepest, most heavily guarded nerve in my body. A sudden spike of pure panic flares in my blood, a terrifying thought I usually drown in corporate mergers and board meetings. I grip the brass handle of the dining room door, suppressing the unease behind a wall of pure stubbornness.
"Even if I do not find her for the rest of my days," I declare, looking over my shoulder, "I will spend the rest of my life searching."
EMILY
The small brass bell above the door jingles brightly as I step into the Didi Coffee Shop. The rich, dark aroma of roasted espresso beans and warm vanilla syrup washes over me, completely erasing the smell of burnt pizza crust from earlier. It even overwhelms the smell of gun powder. The afternoon rush is in full swing. Customers line up near the glass pastry display, holding their wallets and checking their watches.
I walk to the front counter where the second person I left the Wolfe estate to look for is standing.
Zoe is rushing between the cash register and the espresso machine. Her hair is tied in a messy ponytail, and she looks exhausted, her apron stained with dark splashes of coffee. She looks up, her eyes widening in recognition.
"You are the lady from yesterday," Zoe says, wiping her hands on a towel.
"Emily," I say, offering a warm smile. I lift a beautifully wrapped gift box filled with expensive teas and imported chocolates, placing it on the counter. "You helped me when I was terrified and searching for my niece. I wanted to bring you a proper thank you."
Zoe shakes her head instantly, pushing the box back across the laminate counter. "I cannot take that. I just pointed you toward Aunt Cherry. I did not do anything special."
A businessman in a gray suit taps his credit card impatiently against the counter. "Excuse me, I need to pay for my Americano."
Zoe looks overwhelmed, glancing between the growing line of customers and the steaming milk pitcher waiting on the machine.
"Wait just a minute," I tell her. I walk around the side of the counter, slipping behind the swinging wooden gate. I grab a spare brown apron from a hook on the wall and tie it securely around my waist. "I worked as a barista for two years before my family locked me away. Let me help you clear this line."
Zoe blinks in surprise, but she does not argue as I step up to the espresso machine. I grab a cold metal pitcher, pour the whole milk, and engage the steam wand. The familiar, loud hiss of the pressure valve fills the small space. It is a simple, honest task, a stark contrast to the absolute chaos of the Wolfe estate.
LEO
I stand near the front entrance of the coffee shop, keeping my hands folded neatly over my belt. My boots are planted firmly on the floorboards. I watch Emily move behind the counter. She pours steamed milk into a ceramic cup, creating a perfect white leaf pattern on the surface of the dark coffee.
My brain struggles to reconcile the image. Twenty minutes ago, this exact woman pressed a firearm against the skull of a local gang leader and forced seven violent thugs to tie themselves to a concrete pillar. Now, she is smiling at a customer and handing over a cappuccino. It feels entirely like a dream.
I reach up and tap the small, dark lapel pin on my suit jacket. The hidden camera lens captures the busy scene. I open the secure messaging app on my phone and transmit the live feed directly to Alistair’s private server, just as I did with the pizza shop footage.
My phone vibrates in my palm almost immediately. I open the new text message, expecting a command to extract her and return to the estate.
*From now on, you do not need to report her affairs to me anymore.*
I stare at the glowing white text on the dark screen. My thick eyebrows pull together in deep confusion. Alistair is a man who demands absolute control over every variable in his life. He assigned me to be her shadow specifically to monitor her movements. The sudden, cold dismissal makes no tactical sense.
I look at Emily, who is laughing at a joke the cashier just made. I hesitate, wondering if I should warn her about the sudden shift in her husband’s attitude. But I quickly lock my phone and slide it into my pocket. I am a bodyguard, not a marriage counselor. My only job is to ensure she survives. I will stay quiet and focus entirely on the perimeter.
EMILY
The afternoon sun is beginning to dip lower in the sky by the time the coffee shop line finally clears out. I untie the brown apron, my hands smelling strongly of roasted coffee beans. I hang it back on the wall hook and turn to Zoe, who is leaning against the counter with a tired but grateful smile.
"Thank you," Zoe says, handing me a complimentary glass of iced lemon water. "I really needed the backup today. I am usually not this slow, but my brain is completely fried. I just finished my college entrance examinations this week."
I take a long drink of the cold water. "How did you do?"
Zoe’s smile grows huge, reaching all the way to her eyes. "I got the acceptance letter yesterday morning. I am going to Etlan University of Medicine in September."
My heart gives a sudden, hard jump against my ribs. Etlan University. It is the premier medical institution in the country. It is the exact place I need to be. If Dr. Aris approves the licensing for my cardiology formula, the profits will easily cover the massive tuition fees. I could walk through those historic stone archways as an independent student, completely free from the suffocating grip of Thomas and Lydia Vance. I feel a bright, fierce wave of envy and excitement rushing through my veins.
"That is incredible, Zoe," I say, keeping my own plans a total secret. "You are going to do amazing things."
I wave goodbye, grab my purse, and walk out of the shop. Leo falls right into step behind me, his massive shadow stretching over the hot pavement.
The drive back to the Wolfe estate is quiet. I watch the city buildings blur past the tinted window, my mind racing with thoughts of tuition fees and chemistry labs. As the armored SUV pulls up the long gravel driveway, a sudden realization hits me. I completely forgot to buy the bacon pizza for Lily.
I step into the grand foyer, ready to apologize to the little girl. Greyson, the head butler, stands near the staircase.
"Mrs. Wolfe," Greyson says, offering a polite bow. "Madam Martha took Lily to the country club for the afternoon. They will not be returning until much later."
A wave of pure relief washes over me. I do not have to explain the missing pizza or sit through another tense family interaction. "Thank you, Greyson."
I walk straight past the main living room and head directly for the cellar door. The cool, damp air of the basement greets me as I step into the armory. I pick up the Nightblade from the steel workbench. For hours, the only sound is the metallic clacking of the slide and the heavy springs. My thumbs burn, the skin rubbed raw, but my assembly time drops steadily.
"It is ten o’clock, Mrs. Wolfe," Leo says, stepping into the armory and checking his watch. "You need to stop. The baby requires rest, and you are pushing your physical limits."
I drop the slide onto the frame, locking it in place with a sharp snap. I nod, wiping the dark grease from my hands with a rag. My muscles ache deeply as I walk out of the cellar and climb the long stairs to the master suite.
I push open the heavy bedroom door, expecting the dark, empty quiet of the room. Instead, the sharp, woodsy scent of expensive cologne fills my lungs. The bedside lamps are glowing warmly.
Alistair stands near the foot of the bed. He has already removed his suit jacket and tie. His white dress shirt is unbuttoned at the collar, and he looks incredibly tired. His dark eyes meet mine, but they are completely guarded, hiding behind a wall of thick ice.
"You are home early," I say, stepping into the room and closing the door. "Did the corporate meetings finish ahead of schedule?"
Alistair looks away, his jaw tightening just like it did yesterday during the family argument. "The meetings concluded. That is all."
He does not wait for me to speak again. He turns his back, his broad shoulders stiff and unyielding, and walks straight into the dressing room. The heavy wooden door clicks shut behind him, leaving me standing alone in the bedroom with the lingering smell of his cologne and a deep, unsettling feeling of confusion.