Chapter 7 The Wolf’s Den
My sister is either really stupid or the name Alistair Wolfe is common enough that she thinks I married a glorified bouncer. Just before Jackson closes the door of the storage room, Chloe cries out.
"Wait!"
Inside the suffocating dark of the storage room, Chloe’s voice is a jagged rasp of disbelief. She has seen the marriage certificate. She has seen the army of men. But the human brain is remarkably good at lying to itself when the truth is too heavy to carry. Jackson pretends not to hear her.
"Is he really the CEO!" Chloe shrieks. Her voice bounces off the damp walls as Jackson prepares to slide the bolt home. "Is Emily actually the wife of Alistair Wolfe?"
Jackson looks at the screen, at Alistair and me. Alistair’s face remains blank. My heart races a little, wondering if we can really hide the fact that Alistair is a billionaire. Jackson looks away from the screen and looks up. He offers a short, mocking laugh that sounds like dry leaves skittering across pavement.
"The CEO of Wolfe Global? You think a man worth hundreds of billions spends his Tuesday morning kicking down the doors of a two-bit factory owner? It’s a common name. My boss is a bodyguard for a high-ranking VIP. He’s muscle with a nice suit and a very short temper."
I don’t see Chloe’s face, but the silence that follows tells me all I need to know. She believes him. As ridiculous as the excuse sounds, she believes him, and I’m sure my parents do too. At this point, they are ready to believe any lie, no matter how ridiculous it sounds, as long as it doesn’t end in me marrying a billionaire.
"A bodyguard?" Chloe says. I can hear the slight shake in her voice, but there is also an excited raise in her tone. The terror doesn’t vanish, but it is joined by something familiar: a poisonous, simmering resentment. Now that I think about it, Chloe has always had a particular tone to her voice when she is talking to or about me. I don’t think my sister ever cared about me. Not even for one second.
If Alistair is just a grunt, she can handle that. She can rationalize that. In her mind, I am still the loser who has settled for a man who works for a living, even if that man happens to own a gun, a few guards, and a very large SUV.
The heavy iron bolt slams into place, and Alistair drops the call.
"Drive," he says without looking up.
The sound of the engine fills the empty space. As the car moves, I look back at the Vance estate, the place where I was just locked up for three days without food or water. I still feel like all this might be a dream. Alistair coming to save me, punishing my family on my behalf, it doesn’t feel real. I’m scared that I’ll wake up and find myself in that dark tunnel room again.
"You’re safe now, Emily. You need to relax."
I tear my gaze from the disappearing Vance estate and turn to meet Alistair’s eyes. There is a look in his eyes that I can’t really explain. His eyes still have that stone-cold look, but at the same time, it makes me feel safe. Like no one can harm me as long as he is with me. We hold eye contact for a few seconds, and then he averts his gaze. He picks up his phone and starts typing.
"I’m taking you to the hospital to get you checked. Try not to be too agitated before we get there."
I nod softly and then force myself to settle into the seat. I take a deep breath and distract my wandering mind with the interior of the car. Alistair’s car feels like a spaceship compared to the tomb I just left. The leather is buttery soft, and the air is filtered to a crisp perfection. I take more deep breaths while sitting in the back seat, wrapped in his heavy overcoat, watching the city blur past in a smear of gray and neon. My hand is a map of bruises, and my ribs throb with every breath, but the baby is the only thing on my mind.
The hospital is a blur of white light and cold stethoscopes. The doctors move with a frantic energy that suggests they know exactly whose muscle brought me in. After an hour of scans and blood tests, the verdict comes back. The baby is fine. A miracle of resilience, the doctor calls it. I prefer to think the little baby is just as stubborn as his mother.
Alistair doesn’t stay for the results. He has business that can’t wait. Instead, his drivers take me to a place that looks less like a home and more like a fortress made for a royal family. The Wolfe villa sits on a cliffside, overlooking the churning Atlantic. It is a masterpiece of modern architecture: all floor-to-ceiling windows and cold, white marble. It smells like expensive lilies and sea salt.
It is beautiful, silent, and utterly devoid of anything that feels like a soul. There isn’t a family picture, no unnecessary furniture like a porch swing, no bright colors, not even those expensive paintings rich people like to keep in their houses. I start a brief tour by myself of the ground floor, but I immediately grow exhausted after two rooms.
I am propped up on a sofa when Alistair finally appears. He stands in the doorway of the living room, his silhouette sharp against the moonlight streaming through the glass. He is adjusting his cufflinks, his face a mask of iron.
"You’re staying here," he says. He doesn’t look at me. He looks at a painting on the far wall. "The staff has been instructed on your diet and medical needs. Don’t leave the grounds without an escort."
I look at him, at the man who has pulled me out of the dark and then immediately put me back into a different kind of cage. "Thank you, Alistair. Thank you for caring about me."
His eyebrows dip and he stops moving.
"Caring about you?" His gaze drifts toward me, cold and clinical. "Don’t thank me, Emily. I didn’t do it for you. You’re the vessel for my heir. Keep that in mind so we don’t have any more emotional misunderstandings."
He turns and walks away, his footsteps echoing on the marble like a countdown.
"Thank you anyway," I whisper to his retreating back.
He doesn’t stop, but I see his shoulders stiffen for a fraction of a second. Whether he did it for the baby or not, he still saved me. He took me out of that dark storage room and protected me from the cruelty of my family. In my world, that is enough to earn a thank you.
Sleep doesn’t come easily that first night. I lie in a bed that feels too big, staring at the ceiling and watching the shadows play across the white plaster until morning comes. My mind keeps drifting back to the girl I used to be. The one who lived in a house full of laughter before the cancer took my mother. I remember the way the light changed in the Vance estate after Lydia moved in. It was like a slow-moving eclipse. My father’s affection didn’t disappear all at once; it just eroded, piece by piece, until there was nothing left but a man who saw me as a reminder of a life he wanted to forget. When my grandmother died, the last person who truly saw me was gone.
Then came Julian. He had been my lighthouse. My savior. I’d clung to him like a drowning person, believing his smiles were genuine and his promises were iron. The infidelity was a blade, but the betrayal, the way he and Chloe talked about me like I was a chore to be completed, was the poison. It has seeped deep into my heart and every time I think of them together in the hospital room, something cuts deeper inside me.
I sit up and swing my legs over the side of the bed. My feet hit the cold floor and I shiver slightly. The Emily Vance who believed in lighthouses died in that storage room. The one who survived is someone new. Someone who doesn’t need a savior because she is learning how to carry her own sword.
A knock at the door startles me. Jackson enters, carrying a battered leather suitcase. My suitcase.
"Recovered from your father’s house," Jackson says, setting it on the bench at the foot of the bed. "I thought you might want your things."
"Is it all there?" I ask, my voice tight.
"Untouched."
He leaves with a nod, and I practically dive into the luggage. I don’t care about the clothes or the jewelry. I dig through the layers of silk and denim until my fingers hit something hard and familiar. I pull out a thick, leather-bound notebook. The edges are frayed, and the pages are swollen with dried pressed flowers and ink stains.
This is my life’s work. My mother was a healer, a woman who knew the language of plants and the chemistry of the human body. She taught me everything before she died, and I’ve spent the years since teaching myself the rest. Tucked beside the notebook is a small, hand-painted metal case. I open it, and the scent of dried lavender, eucalyptus, and other earthy herbs fills the room. Inside are rows of small glass vials: remedies I’ve made myself for everything from fever to bruising.
I hold the case against my chest and let out a long, shaky breath. As long as I have these, I am not helpless. I am not just a vessel.
"I’m going to live for myself," I whisper to the empty room. "For me. And for you," I add, resting a hand on my belly.
The next three days are a blur of high-protein meals and clinical check-ups. Alistair is gone, likely in meetings that decide the fate of many businessmen, and I am left to roam the glass halls of the villa. I use the time to heal. I apply my own salves to my hand and ribs, watching the purple bruises turn to yellow and then fade into nothing. I feel stronger with every sunrise.
On the evening of the third day, the front door chimes signal his return.
I am in the library, looking out at the ocean, when I heard his footsteps. Alistair doesn’t call out. He just appears in the doorway, shedding his suit jacket and tossing it onto a chair. He looks tired, his hair slightly mussed, but his presence is still as overwhelming as a storm front. He walks toward me, his eyes locked on mine. He doesn’t stop until he is inches away, standing so close I can feel the heat radiating off his skin. He smells so good.
"How are the injuries?" he asks. His voice isn’t cold, but it isn’t warm either. It’s just there.
"Healing," I say.
I try to step back, but he reaches out, his hand moving with a speed that makes my breath hitch. He grabs me. Actually, he doesn’t grab me per se. He simply tucks two fingers under my chin and tilts my head back, forcing me to look up into the gray depths of his eyes. His touch is firm, his skin slightly rough against mine.
I can see the fine lines at the corners of his eyes and the way his pupils dilate as he studies my face. He looks at my lip, then my cheek, his gaze lingering on the places where the bruises have been. The library is silent, save for the sound of the waves crashing against the cliffs far below.
My heart begins a frantic, irregular rhythm against my ribs. My breath catches in my throat, trapped by the sheer gravity of him. He is leaning in closer, his face looming larger and larger until I can see the individual lashes on his eyelids.
What is he planning to do?