Chapter 89 - 88 Growing Seed
** ALISTAIR **
Self-deception is the most dangerous poison a man can swallow.
The glossy black Bentley glides up the long, sweeping driveway of the Wolfe manor. The tires crunch heavily over the pristine white gravel. I sit in the dark backseat. My blood runs hot and fast through my veins. The digital image of Victor Sterling looking at my wife burns securely in my mind. We abandoned the aggressive detour to Bordeaux 101 when my security detail confirmed Emily had already left the restaurant.
Jackson parks the car near the massive stone portico. I step out into the cool night air. The sharp scent of damp earth and crushed pine needles hits my nose.
Another vehicle pulls up right behind us. A silver sedan stops idling. The rear door opens.
Emily steps onto the driveway.
She looks entirely exhausted. Her black blazer hangs slightly loose on her slender frame. The pristine white silk blouse is wrinkled at the elbows. Her dark hair falls in messy waves over her shoulders. She holds her bandaged hands carefully at her sides.
She stops walking when she sees me standing by the stone pillars. Her dark eyes meet mine. The warm glow of the porch lights illuminates the pale, smooth skin of her face. She doesn’t look like she’s guilty of anything wrong. She looks like a queen returning from a conquered battlefield.
I want to march over to her. I want to grab her by the shoulders and demand to know why she is smiling at other men in secluded restaurant booths. I want to lock her inside this manor and throw the keys into the ocean.
I don’t know when I became so protective of her.
I force my jaw to relax. I bury the violent possessiveness deep down under thick layers of cold, corporate discipline.
"Good evening," I say. My voice is perfectly flat. It carries absolutely no warmth.
"Good evening, Alistair," Emily replies. She doesn’t flinch at my icy tone. It’s almost like she’s used to it now. She simply walks past me. The faint scent of expensive restaurant food and sweet vanilla lingers in her wake. She walks up the grand marble steps and pushes the heavy oak doors open.
I watch her disappear into the grand foyer. I turn to my head of security.
"My study," I tell Jackson. "Right now."
The study is completely silent. The heavy oak door shuts tightly behind Jackson, sealing us in. The large room smells of old leather bindings and aged scotch. I walk over to the massive mahogany desk near the window. I don’t sit down. I pour myself a glass of scotch from the crystal decanter. The amber liquid splashes loudly in the quiet room.
I take a slow sip. The alcohol burns my throat. It does nothing to thaw the ice in my veins.
"Give me the exact timeline of everything that happened with my wife tonight. I’m sure Leo must have briefed you," I command. I place the heavy crystal glass on a leather coaster.
Jackson stands perfectly straight on the opposite side of the desk. He is wearing his standard black tactical suit. He holds an encrypted silver tablet in his hands.
"Miss Vance arrived at Bordeaux 101 at seven o’clock," Jackson reports. His tone is strictly professional. "She reserved the private booth designated as Table Number One under Dr. Aris’s name. The primary objective was a corporate partnership discussion regarding her cardiovascular formula."
"I know about the meeting with Sterling," I interrupt sharply. "What else happened?"
Jackson taps the screen of his tablet. "Before the meeting with Victor Sterling commenced, Miss Vance encountered two familiar individuals on the second floor. Julian Thorne and Chloe Vance."
My eyes narrow. Julian Thorne. The pathetic heir to Thorne Medical. The man who wasted years of Emily’s life and discarded her.
"Did Thorne touch her?" I ask. The glass in my hand suddenly feels incredibly fragile. If I squeeze hard enough, I’m sure I can break it.
"No, sir," Jackson answers immediately. "The interaction didn’t involve Miss Vance directly at first. Julian Thorne and Chloe Vance apparently mistook the second-floor restroom janitor for the developer of the medical formula. They cornered the elderly man and harassed him."
I let out a short, dark laugh. The sheer stupidity of Julian Thorne is almost impressive. He has always made stupid decisions. For example, letting Emily go and cheating on her with her sister.
"Miss Vance intervened when the situation escalated," Jackson continues. "She threatened to involve the police. Thorne and Vance fled the premises immediately."
"Send the security footage to my monitor," I order.
Jackson taps his tablet again. A soft electronic chime rings from the large flat-screen monitor mounted on the oak paneled wall.
I pick up a small black remote and press play. The silent, high-resolution video fills the screen.
I watch the entire evening unfold in black and white. I see Julian pushing the old man. I see Emily sprint across the hallway to catch him. I see the fierce, unyielding set of her jaw as she stares her ex-boyfriend down. She looks magnificent. She looks utterly fearless.
The footage cuts to a different camera angle. The interior of Table Number One.
I watch Victor Sterling walk into the booth. I watch Emily sit across from him. I watch her raise her bandaged hand and slap him directly across the face.
My eyebrows shoot up. I take another sip of scotch. My wife is a complete menace to polite society.
Then, the footage shows Victor returning from the restroom. It shows the handshake. It shows the exact moment Warren captured on his phone. Victor looks at Emily like she holds the secrets of the universe in her damaged hands.
I press the pause button. The image freezes on Victor’s face.
Pure jealousy floods my veins. I take a sharp, ragged breath. I want to dismantle Sterling Pharmaceuticals piece by piece. I want to bankrupt Victor Sterling so completely that he ends up sweeping the streets. I grip the edge of the mahogany desk. I close my eyes. I need to regain my rational mind.
I’m not jealous because I love her. Love is a weakness. Love is a poorly constructed liability that destroys empires. I don’t harbor romantic feelings for Emily Vance. Our relationship is a transaction. It is a legally binding contract.
I open my eyes and stare at the paused screen.
She is my wife. She belongs in my household. More importantly, she is currently carrying my child.
The thought anchors me entirely. It provides a perfect, logical justification for the violent rage bubbling in my blood.
She is pregnant with the sole heir to the Wolfe legacy. That unborn child represents the absolute future of my empire. It is completely unacceptable for the mother of my child to spend her evenings drinking ice water with ambitious rival executives. Victor Sterling represents a direct threat to the stability of my family unit.
My anger is entirely primal and completely justified. Any man would feel fiercely protective of his pregnant wife. Any man would despise seeing another predator circling his territory.
It has absolutely nothing to do with the way her dark hair falls across her collarbone. It has nothing to do with her sharp intellect or her fearless defiance. I don’t care about her personal brilliance. I only care about protecting my bloodline.
"Jackson," I say. I don’t look away from the frozen monitor.
"Yes, sir," Jackson replies.
"Dig deeper into Victor Sterling’s conflict with the Monroe family," I instruct him. My voice is icy and calm. "Find every single weak point in his supply chain. Find his outstanding debts. I want to know exactly how much pressure it will take to break him completely."
If Victor Sterling thinks he can lay claim to my pregnant wife, he is about to learn exactly why the Wolfe family rules this city in the dark.