Chapter 8 Meeting The Wolfe Family
My heart is pounding heavily in my chest as Alistair Wolfe inspects my face.
His gaze occasionally lands on my lips but it doesn’t stay for long. His expression is so intense as he looks over my face, like a man looking for a hairline fracture in a diamond.
The feel of his fingers under my chin is steady. His skin feels warm against mine, which is the opposite of the cold air of the library. I find myself staring at the pulse point in his neck, my own breath coming in shallow, uneven intervals. He leans in so close I can see the silver rings around his pupils. For a moment, the distance between us vanishes, and the scent of sandalwood and rain becomes my entire world. I think he might actually do it. I think he might close that last inch.
I close my eyes for about a fraction and then...he lets go.
"The bruising on your jaw is almost gone," Alistair says. He steps back, his hands retreating into his trouser pockets. The sudden loss of his warmth makes me shiver. I honestly don’t know what’s wrong with me because my heart drops at the realization that he didn’t want to kiss me.
He never did.
"The swelling in your lip has subsided. I think you look presentable enough for a public appearance."
I swallow the lump of disappointment and nerves in my throat. I take a little step back to create more distance between us.
"Public appearance? I thought the whole point of this was to keep me hidden until the baby arrives."
"Hidden from your family, yes," Alistair replies. He walks toward the window, looking out at the dark Atlantic waves. I love the look of his shoulders from behind.
I wonder how strong those muscles are beneath that-
Emily! I internally yell at myself.
"But my family is a different matter," Alistair continues. "Once your skin clears completely, we’re going to the Wolfe ancestral estate. My grandmother insists on seeing the woman I’ve supposedly married in such a hurry."
The word grandmother sounds so scary when he says it. I picture a much older, female version of Alistair. Steel grey eyes, furrowed eyebrows, and a scowl spreading across her face when she sees the unimpressive woman her grandson married.
I physically shudder at the thought.
Without a word, he walks to the desk and pulls out a silver tablet from inside. He presses the power button, then taps some icons on the screen. A few more taps follow and then the screen shines brighter. He reads a few lines on the screen and then slides the tablet across the shiny table toward me.
"Read all the documents in that folder," he commands. "It’s a dossier on every member of the Wolfe clan who will be present. Names, business holdings, even personal scandals they want buried. In case we need some leverage."
Leverage? Against your own family?
He sounds like he’s talking about some business rivals and not his family members. As much as I want to call red flag on that, my family isn’t exactly a big happy, eat-together-in-the-dining, family.
I don’t know if he saw the brief moment of judgment in my eyes but even if he did, he doesn’t seem to care.
"Memorize them. You’re a Wolfe now, Emily. If you walk into that house looking like a deer in headlights, they’ll tear you apart before the first course is served."
My hand shakes a little as I pick up the tablet. The screen which went dim glows brighter, illuminating a digital graveyard of high society. I see faces that have graced the covers of every major financial magazine in the country. Power players. Legacy builders. People who would view a college high school dropout from a failing furniture firm as someone who should be serving their drink and not marrying into their family.
"If you have any questions or you need anything, you can ask Jackson. I’ll be working late for the next couple of days."
I look at him for a second. There are a million things I want to say to him, but I just settle for one.
"Okay."
***
The drive to the Wolfe estate took three hours and cost me every bit of the courage I had used the last three days to gather up. For three days, I tried to convince myself that I could fake it enough to belong there. But all that courage was fading away the closer I got to the place.
I spend the time scrolling through the profiles again. There is Arthur Sr., Alistair’s father, a man whose frown was deep enough to intimidate me just from a picture. There’s only one picture of him smiling and it looks so weird on his face that it looks more like a grimace than a smile.
There are various aunts and uncles who manage the European and Asian branches of the conglomerate. And then there is the Old Madam.
Celia Wolfe. The matriarch. In her photo, she sits on a throne-like chair, her hands draped in pearls, her eyes so sharp that I’m almost sure the photographer was shaking when he took the picture.
Heavens help me.
When we finally pull through the towering iron gates of the estate, my stomach does a slow, painful somersault. The house is a sprawling monster of gray stone and ivy, a monument to a century of ego. It doesn’t look like a home. It looks like a museum where the exhibits are still alive and very hungry.
Alistair, who didn’t say a word to me for the entire drive, leads me through the grand entrance. The first smell that hits me is the smell of floor wax, old paper, and a perfume so thick it makes my head spin.
I always found wearing perfume this heavy a little obnoxious. There’s a thin line between smelling good and suffocating everyone who comes too close to you.
I take a deep breath to calm my nerves only to fill my lungs with the scent of the perfume again.
I stifle a cough and keep moving.
The sound of my heels on the tiles echoes through the vaulted ceiling. I’ve chosen a simple, cream-colored wrap dress. It was the simplest dress among the many dresses Alistair had his secretary bring for me.
I picked it because I didn’t want to feel like I was trying too hard to impress anyone but now, standing in this foyer, surrounded by gold-leafed moldings and oil paintings of stern men, I feel like a smudge on a clean sheet of paper.
I’m about to run my sweaty palms on my dress when I feel a hand in mine.
"You belong here, Emily. You need to believe that."
Alistair’s hand around mine drives all my fears, doubts, and worries out the window. That feeling returns again. Like with him by my side, I can do anything.
I follow him quietly behind till we enter a living room. It’s a cavernous space filled with people who all stop talking the moment we cross the threshold.
"Grandmother," Alistair says, his voice carrying through the room with effortless authority. He doesn’t let go of my hand. "This is Emily. My wife."
I feel twenty pairs of eyes lock onto me. They scan my hair, my simple dress, my shoes. I see the corners of mouths turn down. I hear the rustle of silk as women shift in their seats, their disdain clearly written in their faces.
Celia Wolfe sits in a high-backed armchair by the fireplace. She doesn’t rise. She just stares at me, her gaze traveling from the top of my head to my toes and back again.
"She’s a...plain thing," the Old Madam says. Her voice is clear, lacking any of the warmth you’d expect from a grandmother. In fact, despite her comment, she doesn’t have any form of malice in her voice.
Her voice is just...plain.
As plain as... me, I guess.
Her eyes travel down. "She has the hips for bearing children, I suppose. That is the one thing you’ve managed to get right, Alistair."
Alistair’s grip on my hand tightens, but he doesn’t speak.
"But as for being a wife?" Celia stands. She lets out a sharp, dismissive breath and I finally hear the disappointment. "She isn’t fit to carry the Wolfe name. She’s a high school dropout from a family that can’t even manage a small-scale factory without falling into debt. She is utterly unworthy of standing at the head of this clan."
"She is my wife," Alistair repeats.
An aunt in a sharp lavender suit chimed in from the sofa. "Alistair, be reasonable. Wolfe Global is a tech giant. You are the face of an empire. You can’t honestly expect us to allow a girl who didn’t even finish her basic education to host our gala events. She can’t even cross the threshold of our social circles without embarrassing the family."
"Alistair, listen to your grandmother," his father, Arthur Sr., says. He steps forward, his hands behind his back. "Keep the child. We will ensure the baby is raised with the best of everything. But divorce this girl. Pay her off. We’ll find a suitable mother for the heir, someone who actually knows which fork to use at a dinner party."
I feel the blood drain from my face. They’re talking about me like I’m a piece of faulty equipment they can just return to the factory. Worse than that, they’re talking about me like I’m not standing right here.
My hand goes to my stomach. My motivation for this entire farce was to give this child a future, but as I look at these people, I realize that "future" looks more like a gilded cage. I wanted a safe place for my child. I didn’t realize I was bringing him to a pack of wolves.
"I am the head of this clan," Alistair says. He lets go of my hand and steps forward. I know he’s trying to make a point, but I wish he hadn’t let go.
He looks taller, more imposing than I’ve ever seen him. "The decisions regarding my marriage are mine alone. I will not divorce her."
The Old Madam stands up then, her cane hitting the floor with a sharp thud. Her face finally held an emotion. Rage.
"You think your title gives you total immunity?" she asks. "If you insist on keeping this...this person as your wife, then you will relinquish your position as clan head. We will hold a vote. Your uncle is more than capable of taking the reins of Wolfe Global. Is a girl worth the empire, Alistair?"
The room goes silent. I look at the back of Alistair’s head. I know how these stories go. Men like Alistair Wolfe don’t give up power. They thrive on it. It’s the air they breathe. He married me for an heir, for a biological legacy to keep his seat on the throne. If he loses the throne, the heir doesn’t matter. He can always find another woman, someone with a degree and a pedigree, to carry a replacement. There is only one seat for the head of the Wolfe clan. He won’t sacrifice his life’s work for a contract.
I wait for him to cave. I wait for him to turn to me and tell me the deal is off. I’m already planning my escape, wondering if Jackson will still let me keep my suitcase.
"Fine," Alistair says.
The word is so quiet I almost miss it.
"What did you say?" Celia asks sitting up in her chair, her eyes narrowing.
"Take the position," Alistair says. He turns to look at his father and then back at his grandmother. "Hold your vote. If the price of being the head of this family is letting you dictate who I have in my bed and my home, then the price is too high. I’m done."
It takes a few seconds for everyone in the room to process what just happened and then the room explodes. Shocked gasps and frantic whispers fill the air. Arthur Sr. looks like he’s been slapped. He lunges forward, his face turning a dark, mottled red.
"You arrogant boy!" Arthur Sr. shouts. He doesn’t go for Alistair. He turns toward me, his rage finding an easier target. He shoves me back, his hand hitting my shoulder with enough force that I stumble into a side table. "This is your fault! You’ve poisoned his mind with whatever low-rent charms you have!"
I hit the floor, the edge of the table scraping my arm.
"Don’t touch her!" Alistair roars.
He moves to help me, but the Old Madam lets out a strangled, wet sound at the same time.
She clutches her chest, her face going pale as she stumbles back into her chair. Her cane clatters across the marble.
"Mother!" Someone screams.
The living room descends into more chaos. People are shouting for a doctor, for water, for an ambulance. Arthur Sr. is yelling at Alistair, but Alistair is already on the floor beside me, his hand reaching for mine.
I look at the Old Madam, whose eyes are rolling back in her head, and then at the sea of panicked, angry faces surrounding us. My heart is thumping against my ribs. I came here looking for protection, but all I’ve found is a war.