After my woken husband chose his mistress

I huddled into the dark alcove of a closed bakery, shivering violently. The rain lashed the pavement, soaking through my clothes and chilling my skin. I needed a moment to breathe. I needed to figure out where to go.

Two voices cut through the storm, echoing from the narrow alley beside the shop.

I pressed my back against the damp brick.

"Cody Garrison woke up today," a gruff voice stated.

"I heard," a second man replied. "The succession war is back on. What does his uncle want us to do?"

"Clean up the mess. The wife found the 2019 settlement contract."

My blood ran cold.

"Gina?" the second man asked.

"Yes. She knows too much about the payoff. If she takes that document to the board, Cody's uncle loses his leverage in the company."

"So we just scare her?"

"No," the gruff voice corrected. "The uncle said to eliminate her. Tonight. Make it look like a mugging gone wrong."

My hand flew over my mouth. Cody’s family didn't just want me gone. They wanted me dead.

I took a step backward. My wet sneaker squeaked loudly against the slick concrete.

"Did you hear that?" the first man snapped.

A bright flashlight beam swept out of the alley. It hit my face, blinding me momentarily.

"There she is! Grab her!"

I bolted. Panic fueled my legs. I tore down the sidewalk, dodging overflowing trash cans and abandoned umbrellas. Heavy footsteps pounded the pavement right behind me.

"Do not let her cross the avenue!" one of the thugs shouted.

I slipped on a metal grate, scraping my knee, but forced myself upright. The street ahead was empty. No taxis. No police. Just an endless stretch of rain and darkness.

A sleek black luxury sedan idled at the corner. The rear passenger door swung open as a man in a chauffeur uniform stepped out, holding a large umbrella.

I didn't think. I didn't hesitate. I dove past him and scrambled into the backseat.

The door slammed shut behind me, sealing out the roar of the storm. The cabin smelled of cold cedar and expensive leather.

"Get out," a deep voice commanded.

I scrambled back against the opposite door. A man sat in the shadows. He possessed a sharp jawline, dark eyes, and an aura of absolute danger.

"Please," I begged, gasping for air. "They are going to kill me."

"That is not my problem."

"I will give you anything. Just drive!"

"I do not run a taxi service," he replied evenly.

Fists pounded on the tinted glass next to my head.

"Open the door!" the gruff voice muffled through the window.

The stranger in the car studied my face. He didn't flinch at the noise. He simply assessed me.

"You are Cody Garrison's wife," he noted.

"How do you know that?" I asked.

"Break the glass!" a thug yelled outside.

The man beside me finally moved. He reached across the seat, his large hand wrapping firmly around the back of my neck.

"What are you—"

He yanked me forward. My cheek crashed against his solid chest. He ducked his head and pressed his lips against my forehead. His broad shoulders completely shielded my body from the window.

The glass rolled down exactly two inches. Cold rain sprayed inside.

"Step back," the stranger ordered. His tone was quiet, yet it carried a lethal authority.

I peeked upward. The thug standing by the window froze. All color drained from his face.

"Mr... Mr. Howard," the thug stuttered, taking a quick step away from the vehicle.

The man tapped his earpiece. "Boss, call it off. She is in Mr. Howard's car."

A pause followed.

"No, sir," the thug spoke into the device again. "We do not dare make a move. We are leaving."

The window glided shut. The locks engaged with a sharp click.

"Drive," the man instructed.

The engine purred to life. The car surged forward, leaving the assassins standing helplessly in the rain.

I pushed myself out of his grip and retreated to the far side of the leather seat. My heart hammered against my ribs.

"Thank you," I whispered, wiping wet hair from my eyes. "I do not know what I would have done."

He adjusted his cuffs. "Do not thank me yet."

"You saved my life."

"You ruined my suit," he countered.

I glanced down. Mud and rainwater stained his tailored jacket.

"I am sorry. I will pay for the dry cleaning."

"It is custom Italian wool. You cannot afford it."

"I have money," I argued, lifting my chin.

"You have nothing. Your husband cut off your credit cards an hour ago."

I flinched. The sting of betrayal hit me all over again. "How could you possibly know that?"

"It is my business to know when the Garrison family makes a move." He turned his gaze out the window.

"Who are you?" I demanded.

"Someone who hates a mess."

We drove in silence for twenty minutes. The city skyline faded, replaced by towering trees and imposing stone walls. The car turned onto a private road and approached a massive set of wrought-iron gates.

"Where are you taking me?" I asked, gripping the door handle.

"Somewhere they cannot shoot you."

"I want to get out."

"Open the door, then," he challenged. "Walk back into the city. See how long you survive."

I released the handle.

The gates swung open. We traveled up a winding driveway until a sprawling, palace-like estate loomed ahead. The architecture was massive, bathed in golden security lights.

The sedan parked in front of a grand marble staircase. A dozen men in black suits flanked the entrance. Beside them stood a line of uniformed staff.

As the chauffeur opened my door, every single person on the steps bowed deeply.

"Welcome home, Mr. Howard," the staff chanted in unison.

I stepped out into the crisp night air. I stared at the man emerging from the other side of the car.

Mr. Howard.

The name clicked in my mind, bringing a fresh wave of shock. Dylan Howard. The ruthless heir to the Howard business empire. He owned half the real estate in the city and controlled the rest through sheer intimidation.

"You are Dylan Howard," I stated across the roof of the car.

"I am."

"Why did you save me?"

Dylan paused. He met my gaze, his eyes entirely unreadable.

"Because your husband's uncle owes me money," he said. "And you are going to help me collect it."

"I do not know anything about their finances."

"You know enough to get yourself marked for death," Dylan replied. "That makes you valuable."

"I am not a pawn," I warned him.

"Everyone is a pawn, Gina. The only difference is who moves the pieces." He turned and started up the marble steps. "Are you coming inside, or do you prefer to wait for the assassins?"