Chapter 49 The Brave Wife
ALISTAIR
For a man that has built an empire off business meetings, I’m really growing tired of them.
The sharp scent of roasted garlic and dry-aged ribeye fills the private dining room of L’Aura. The restaurant sits fifty floors above the city streets, a sanctuary built for men who make decisions that shape the skyline. The thick, soundproof glass windows block out the noise of the evening traffic below, leaving only the soft clinking of silver forks against bone china.
I cut a small piece of my steak and bring it to my mouth. The meat is tender, perfectly medium-rare, and crusted with sea salt, but my appetite is entirely absent today. The corporate fallout from the morning’s meetings still lingers in my head, mixing with the exhaustion of managing the constant chaos of the Wolfe estate.
Across the table, my associate, Warren swirls a heavy crystal glass of Cabernet. He is a man who thrives on information and leverage. His fitted navy suit catches the warm light of the crystal chandelier overhead. He takes a slow sip of his wine, rolling the vintage over his tongue before swallowing. He sets the glass down on the crisp white linen tablecloth, his dark eyes locking onto mine with the intense, predatory curiosity that makes him a ruthless corporate ally.
In this business, men like Warren were a hassle to have as enemies and just like me, everyone wanted to be on his good side. We worked perfectly as allies.
"I have to admit, Alistair," Warren says, leaning forward and resting his elbows on the table. "You completely blindsided the entire financial district this week. The Wolfe patriarch getting married overnight? It sent the corporate boards into a total panic."
I wipe my mouth with a cloth napkin and toss it onto the table. "My private life is not a corporate prospectus, Warren. The board will adjust to the new reality. I don’t have to ask their permission to make these decisions.”
Warren laughs, a short, sharp sound that echoes in the quiet room. "Oh, they will adjust. But I see the board clearly. I know exactly what you did and why you did it.." He points his silver steak knife at me. "Councilor Mark Zone has been breathing down your neck for six months. He wanted to merge his political capital with your financial empire by forcing his daughter into your bed. You used a pregnant girl from the Vance family to build a concrete wall right in his face. It is a brilliant, ruthless tactical move."
I pick up my water glass, taking a slow drink. Naya Zone; Councilor Mark Zone’s daughter, threw a screaming tantrum in my office just hours ago, proving his point perfectly. Warren is absolutely right about the political shield, but he only sees a tiny fraction of the actual board. He assumes Emily is just a pawn, a convenient, empty vessel for the Wolfe heir. He does not know about her intellect. He does not know I am actively protecting a medical genius from her own abusive family. And not even him, nor anyone in this world knows the real reason I chose Emily out of every other woman in this country.
"It is a practical arrangement," I say, keeping my tone perfectly flat.
"Practical, yes," Warren agrees, slicing a piece of his own steak. "But why an ordinary woman? You could have paid off anyone to play the part. The Vance family treated her like a servant. She has no connections. No power. She brings absolutely nothing to the table besides a positive pregnancy test."
I lean back in my heavy leather chair. The image of Emily standing in the freezing lake water flashes in my mind. I think of her snapping a mock military salute in my bedroom, demanding combat training so she never has to rely on my guards for protection. She is a woman fighting desperately for her independence. She spends her nights studying complex chemical compounds and planning the licensing of her new cardiology formula with Dr. Aris. She wants her own money. She wants her own life, entirely free of the aristocratic chains my family tries to lock around her wrists. She is far from ordinary and I’ve slowly grown an admiration for her and her fighting spirit.
"She is quite interesting," I say.
Warren stops chewing. He looks at me, his eyebrows raising toward his hairline in genuine surprise. He opens his mouth and I know he’s about to probe further, but the heavy mahogany door of the private dining room clicks open. I’m happy for the interrupting because I’m not comfortable with him drilling me about Emily.
Jackson steps inside. His dark, tactical security uniform looks distinctly out of place against the silk wallpaper and fine art. He walks straight to my side of the table, his heavy boots sinking deep into the plush carpet.
“Sorry for the interruption sir,” he says. “But you’ve given me permission to interrupt concerning this particular matter.”
I already know what he’s talking about. Actually, the second he stepped into the room, I knew what he was coming to report about.
“It’s fine.”
"Alright sir," Jackson says, keeping his voice entirely professional. "I just received the secure file you asked for. Leo sent it. It is ready for your review."
He places an encrypted tablet onto the tablecloth right next to my water glass. The screen is dark.
"What is that?" Warren asks, craning his neck to look. "Corporate espionage? Details on a new acquisition?"
"Something like that," I reply. I pick the tab up from the table, away from Warren’s view. But then, I change my mind and place the tab back on the table. I tap the screen to unlock it and pull up the video file Leo just sent from his phone. I press play.
The camera angle is slightly tilted, clearly recorded from Leo’s hidden position in the corner of a dingy pizza shop. The lighting is terrible, but the high-definition lens catches everything. Silas Hunt stands in the center of the frame, looking like a filthy stray dog that wandered into a clean house. He slaps an older woman across the face. The sharp, meaty sound of the strike makes Warren wince across the table. He sets his fork down and a deep frown cuts across his face. He seems to have lost his appetite completely.
Then, Emily moves.
I watch her slide out of a red vinyl booth. She blends perfectly into a crowd of screaming, fleeing customers. She wears a dark zip-up jacket and denim jeans, her dark hair pulled back. Her face is a study in absolute, chilling calm. She does not scream. She does not run for the door. She draws my Nightblade pistol from her purse, her fingers wrapping around the textured grip with the precise, mechanical confidence Leo taught her just hours ago. She slides directly behind Silas and jams the freezing steel muzzle right into the soft skin at the base of his skull.
Warren leans across the table, his jaw dropping open. He watches the screen as Emily takes total control of the room. She orders the thugs to tie themselves up. She forces Silas to his knees with a casual, brutal efficiency.
"Tell your biggest man to take that packing rope and tie his friends up," Emily’s voice plays through the tablet speakers, sharp and commanding.
"Good god," Warren whispers, staring at the small screen. "Is that your wife? The new Mrs. Wolfe?” When I don’t answer, he just continues speaking. “She is terrifying."
The video continues. The older woman ties Silas’s hands behind his back. Emily confiscates their phones and gags the men with thick strips of silver duct tape. She secures them to a concrete pillar like animals ready for slaughter.
Then comes the final moment. Emily stands in the bright sunlight outside the shop. She turns back, smiles brightly at Silas, and tells him the gun was completely empty the entire time.
The video cuts to black.
Silence stretches across the dining table. The only sound is the soft rush of air from the ventilation duct above us.
Warren sits back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. "I take back everything I just said. That woman is a completely lethal asset. The sheer psychological dominance it takes to bluff an entire street gang with an empty weapon is incredible. I want her on my corporate security team. I will double whatever allowance you are currently giving her."
I pick up the tablet and hand it back to Jackson, who slides it into his jacket pocket with a small, knowing nod before stepping back toward the door. I turn my attention back to Warren. My hands rest flat on the white tablecloth.
"You cannot poach her, Warren," I say. My voice carries a hard, territorial edge that surprises even me. The thought of Emily working for another man, sitting in another corporate office, causes a sudden, sharp spike of irritation in my chest. "She is not for hire. That is Mrs. Wolfe you are talking about. My wife."
Warren watches my face closely. He studies the rigid tension in my shoulders and the absolute finality in my tone. The surprise on his face melts away, replaced by a slow, calculating smirk. He picks up his wine glass, twirling the dark red liquid against the crystal.
He leans over the table, his dark eyes shining with pure amusement.
"Look at you," Warren says, his voice dropping into a teasing rhythm. "Sitting there defending her honor like a knight in a tailored suit. You are actually smiling, Alistair. I have not seen you smile at anything or anyone in over five years."
I touch the corner of my mouth. A strange, unfamiliar tension rests in my jaw. I quickly pull the muscles of my face back into a neutral mask, annoyed that I let my guard slip in front of him. I pick up my silver fork, intending to return to my meal and ignore his observation completely.
Just like I expected, Warren does not let it go. He takes a sip of his Cabernet, setting the glass down with a soft clink.
"I know you had some grand scheme or plan when you married her. You wouldn’t actually fall in love with her, would you?" Warren asks.
I stare at my plate, the perfectly cooked ribeye suddenly holding zero appeal. The question hangs in the air, thick and suffocating, and for the very first time in my adult life, I do not have an immediate answer.