After My Groom Returned with His Secret Family

The movers work with efficient silence, wrapping my life in bubble wrap and packing tape. Two days. That's all it took to dismantle five years of waiting.

Marcus hovers near the door, tablet in hand, running through the Seattle itinerary. "The Griffin patriarch requested a formal dinner, but I've pushed it to next week. Gives you time to—"

"Ms. Hart." Cleo's voice cuts through the apartment like nails on silk.

She stands in my doorway without invitation, the baby on her hip. She's wearing cream—trying for elegance, landing on bridal. The Patek Philippe catches the afternoon light.

Marcus's jaw tightens. "Mrs. Cunningham. We're in the middle of—"

"It's fine." I set down the crystal paperweight I've been holding. "Give us a moment."

He leaves, but his disapproval lingers in the air.

Cleo drifts through my penthouse like she's already redecorating. Her fingers trail across the back of my Italian leather sofa. "Such beautiful taste. Felix always said you had an eye for quality."

I don't respond. I fold a cashmere throw and place it in the donation box.

"I wanted to thank you," she continues, her voice syrup-sweet. "For keeping the seat warm. For managing everything while Felix was away. He told me how dedicated you were."

The baby reaches for a Lalique vase. Cleo shifts him away, her wrist turning. The watch glints.

"And thank you for this." She touches the Patek Philippe like it's a pet. "Felix gives me everything I ask for. He's so generous. I mentioned I needed a watch for the charity luncheon next week, and he said, 'Take the Patek.' Just like that."

Something cold settles in my chest. Not pain. Something sharper. Cleaner.

"I hope you enjoy it," I say, my voice carrying the same temperature as the marble beneath our feet.

Cleo beams. "Oh, I do. It's vintage, isn't it? So unique."

"Very." I meet her eyes. "I hope you enjoy the stone you traded a diamond for."

Her smile doesn't falter. The metaphor sails past her, landing somewhere beyond her comprehension. "Stone? It's a Patek Philippe."

"Exactly." I turn back to my packing. "Marcus will see you out."

She lingers, waiting for something—a crack in my composure, maybe. A tear. A breakdown.

I give her nothing.

When the door finally closes behind her, I remove my earrings and set them on the empty mantle. The apartment echoes.

---

Seattle greets me with rain.

The Griffin headquarters rises from the waterfront like a steel monument to Pacific Northwest ambition. Forty stories of glass and concrete, reflecting clouds that haven't stopped weeping since my plane landed.

Marcus adjusts his umbrella. "The patriarch sends his apologies. He's in Tokyo until Thursday. His son will handle the initial tour."

"Jonathan?" I've read the files. The heir apparent. Harvard MBA. Reputation for aggressive acquisitions.

"Anders, actually."

The spare. I know less about him. The reports focused on Jonathan's trajectory, mentioning Anders only in footnotes. "Second son. Handles logistics."

"Among other things."

The lobby is all minimalist design and understated wealth. A man stands near the reception desk, studying his phone. Tall. Dark hair that needs a trim. A suit that costs less than Felix's but fits better. When he looks up, his eyes are gray—the same color as the Seattle sky.

"Ms. Hart." His voice is quiet. Measured. "Anders Griffin."

His handshake is firm without being aggressive. There's a scar on his left hand, pale against his skin.

"Thank you for meeting with me on short notice."

"Your proposal was compelling." He gestures toward the elevators. "I thought we'd start with the executive floors, then move to—"

The elevator doors close behind us. He presses forty. The car rises smoothly for three floors.

Then stops.

The lights flicker. The emergency system kicks in with a soft hum.

Anders touches the intercom. "Maintenance? We're stuck in elevator three."

A crackling voice responds. "Working on it, Mr. Griffin. Twenty minutes, maybe thirty."

He releases the button and turns to me. "I apologize. The main elevator's been temperamental."

"The main elevator." I lean against the wall. "You have backup systems?"

"Four. But Jonathan insisted on taking clients through this one. Optics." Something dry enters his tone. "Impressive views."

"Impressive maintenance bills."

His mouth quirks. Almost a smile. "You've read the operational reports."

"All of them. Your Q3 logistics costs are fifteen percent above industry standard. The elevator contract is part of it, but the real issue is your shipping routes. You're still using the Panama Canal for Asian imports when rail through Vancouver would cut transit time by forty percent."

He's quiet for a moment. Studying me with those gray eyes.

"The lawyers said you were here to discuss marriage terms."

"The lawyers don't understand market volatility." I meet his gaze. "Neither does your brother, apparently."

"No," Anders says slowly. "He doesn't."

The elevator hums around us. Twenty minutes stretches ahead.

"Tell me about your Pacific Rim strategy," he says.

So I do.