His Secret Wife: A Dangerous Game

The tires of the black Maybach crunched against the white gravel of the Hamptons country club.

Delinda stepped out of the car. She wore a tailored white tennis skirt and a fitted polo, holding a tablet tight against her chest.

Mitch Dolan, the CEO of Soren Tech, was waiting at the first tee.

Mitch walked forward, his hand outstretched to Ace, but his eyes were glued to Delinda's legs. The look in his eyes was wet and hungry.

Delinda's stomach churned. She forced a polite smile and handed Mitch the briefing folder.

The golf game started. Ace swung his club with brutal, terrifying power. The ball vanished into the horizon.

Mitch played terribly. He kept laughing loudly, making crude jokes to cover his embarrassment.

At the ninth hole, Ace walked ahead to the green to check the slope. He left Delinda standing by the golf cart.

Mitch saw his chance. He waved his caddy away and stepped uncomfortably close to Delinda.

"You know," Mitch whispered, his breath smelling of cigars and stale alcohol, "if you help smooth over the valuation numbers for me, I can make sure you're very well taken care of."

Delinda took a step back, her face freezing over. "The numbers are final, Mr. Dolan."

Mitch's face flushed red with anger. He lunged forward and grabbed Delinda's wrist.

His fingers were thick, rough, and slick with sweat. He squeezed her skin hard, rubbing his thumb over her pulse point.

The physical contact was a violent shock to Delinda's nervous system.

Instantly, the green grass vanished.

The smell of cigars turned into the sharp, metallic stench of copper and gasoline.

Delinda was five years old again. She was trapped in the crushed backseat of a car. A pair of hands, slick with bright red blood, were reaching through the shattered window, grabbing her wrist, trying to pull her out as her father screamed.

Her PTSD ripped through her brain.

Delinda's face turned the color of ash. Her lungs locked up. She couldn't breathe. Her muscles paralyzed completely. She just stood there, staring blankly, shaking violently.

Mitch smiled, thinking she was submitting. He reached his other hand out to grab her waist.

A massive hand clamped down on Mitch's shoulder like a steel vice.

Ace spun Mitch around. The look in Ace's eyes was pure, unadulterated murder.

Ace shoved Mitch backward with so much force that the older man's feet left the ground. Mitch crashed hard into the manicured grass, crying out in pain.

Ace stood over him, his chest rising and falling rapidly. "Get your filthy hands off her."

Mitch scrambled backward like a crab, stuttering, "It-it was a misunderstanding, Ace-"

Ace pulled his phone from his pocket. He dialed Julian.

"Cancel the acquisition," Ace ordered, his voice echoing across the quiet golf course. "Leak the intel on their inflated earnings to the press. Start a proxy fight to oust their board. I want his company dismantled and his name ruined by next Friday."

Mitch let out a pathetic sob, burying his face in his hands.

Ace hung up. He turned around.

Delinda was still standing by the cart, her arms wrapped around her stomach, her whole body trembling.

The rage in Ace's eyes vanished. A sudden, sharp panic seized his chest.

He stripped off his suit jacket. He stepped close to her and wrapped the warm, heavy fabric tightly around her shaking shoulders.

He didn't care who was watching. He put his arm around her waist, pulling her solid against his side.

"We're leaving," Ace said softly.