Married To The Wolf: My Ruthless Revenge

Javen Doyle, with another woman in his arms, watched her. His gaze was cold, a silent promise of the devastating words to come as he stared at Araminta, who stood drenched and broken in the doorway. It felt like a lifetime ago, but the storm that had shipwrecked her life had only begun an hour before. Rain lashed against the dark wood of the dock, stinging Araminta's face like icy needles. She stood shivering, her knuckles white as she gripped her phone. The screen illuminated her pale face, displaying the text message from Javen one last time. Get the contract back. For the future of the Doyle family. Don't come home without it. She shoved the phone into her clutch, her fingers trembling not from the cold, but from a nausea that had settled deep in her stomach. Ahead of her, the massive black hull of the superyacht Leviathan bobbed rhythmically on the dark water. It looked less like a boat and more like a floating fortress, isolating its owner from the laws of the mainland. Araminta stepped onto the gangplank. Two security guards in black suits blocked her path immediately. They didn't speak. One simply held out a hand. "I'm here to see Mr. Wolfe," she said, her voice fighting against the wind. "I have the merger documents from Doyle Industries." The guard snatched her clutch, rifling through it with insulting thoroughness. He pulled out the thick envelope, checked the seal, and then nodded toward the main cabin. "He's expecting you." Araminta walked into the main salon, and the silence was instant. The roar of the storm vanished, replaced by the soft hum of climate control and smooth jazz. The air smelled of expensive leather, sea salt, and aged scotch. Alfonse Wolfe sat in a high-backed armchair in the shadows of the room. He didn't stand. He held a crystal tumbler of amber liquid, his index finger tracing the rim. He was watching her. It wasn't a polite glance; it was a dissection. Araminta felt water dripping from the hem of her dress onto the pristine teak floor. She felt small, dirty, and out of place among the women lounging on the velvet sofas-models with perfect skin and dry hair, sipping champagne. She approached Alfonse, her heels clicking too loudly in the quiet room. She extended the folder. "Mr. Wolfe," she said. She forced her spine to straighten. "The revised terms. Javen-Mr. Doyle-has agreed to everything." Alfonse didn't take the folder. He took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving hers. "Javen," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the floorboards. "Is this what he sold you for?" A ripple of laughter went through the room. One of the models whispered something to her companion. Heat flushed up Araminta's neck, burning her ears. "This is a business transaction," Araminta said, though her voice wavered. "It shows our sincerity." Alfonse set the glass down. The sound of crystal hitting the coaster was sharp. He stood up. He was taller than she expected, broad-shouldered, blocking out the light from the sconces behind him. His shadow fell over her, swallowing her whole. He stepped closer. Too close. He smelled of rain and tobacco. He reached out, his hand large and rough, and gripped her chin. He tilted her face up, forcing her to look at him. His thumb brushed over her bottom lip, a gesture that was possessive, not affectionate. Araminta's breath hitched. Every instinct screamed at her to slap his hand away, to run. But the image of her brother, Griffin, hooked up to machines in a state facility, flashed in her mind. Javen paid the bills. She had to endure this. "Tell me," Alfonse whispered, leaning down so his lips brushed her ear. "If I sign this, do you stay? Are you part of the entertainment package for the evening?" Araminta flinched. She jerked back, her heel catching on the edge of a rug. She stumbled, her hip colliding with a tower of champagne flutes on a side table. Crash. The sound of shattering glass was deafening. Shards exploded across the floor. Champagne foamed over the teak. The music stopped. The room went dead silent. Araminta stood frozen, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Alfonse didn't look at the mess. He looked at her. A slow, cruel smile curved his lips. It was the look of a wolf watching a rabbit break its own leg. "Clumsy," he murmured. He picked up the folder from where she had dropped it. He uncapped a fountain pen and scribbled his signature on the cover, not even bothering to open it to the signature line. He tossed the folder at her feet, right into the pile of broken glass and spilled alcohol. "Take it and get out," Alfonse said, turning his back on her. "Tell Javen I have no interest in his 'gift.' She's too stiff." Araminta crouched down. Her hands shook uncontrollably. She reached for the folder. A jagged shard of crystal sliced into the pad of her index finger. She gasped, pulling her hand back. A drop of bright red blood fell onto the white cover of the document, blooming like a rose. She grabbed the folder, clutching it to her chest, and fled. She didn't look back at the models, or the guards, or the man who had just stripped her of her dignity without unbuttoning a single button. She ran back into the storm. Twenty minutes later, soaked to the bone, she sat in the back of a taxi. Her finger throbbed. She dialed Javen. "I got it," she said when the line connected. Her voice was thick with unshed tears. "He signed it." "You got it?" Javen's voice was distracted, distant. There was music in the background. "Good. Great. Listen, Blossom Vega is right here, don't talk. I'm hanging up." The line went dead. Araminta stared at the phone. The screen went black, reflecting her own haggard face. A cold knot of dread tightened in her chest. Blossom Vega? The taxi pulled up to the iron gates of the Doyle Estate. The security guard peered into the car, hesitated for a long second, and then opened the gates. The driveway was lined with cars. Expensive cars. Bentleys, Ferraris, Rolls Royces. Araminta paid the driver and stepped out. The rain had stopped, leaving the air heavy and humid. The windows of the manor were blazing with light. Music thumped through the walls, a stark contrast to the quiet dread in her heart. She pushed open the heavy oak front doors. The grand foyer was packed. A tower of champagne-intact, unlike the one on the yacht-glittered under the chandelier. Laughter bubbled up to the high ceiling. In the center of the room, on the makeshift dance floor, Javen was spinning a woman. She wore a red dress that cost more than Araminta's entire life savings. Her head was thrown back in laughter. Blossom Vega. Javen's hand was low on her waist. He looked happy. Happier than Araminta had seen him in years. Araminta stood in the doorway, water dripping from her hair onto the marble floor, clutching the blood-stained contract. She looked like a ghost that had dragged itself out of a shipwreck. Victoria Doyle, Javen's mother, was holding a glass of wine near the stairs. Her eyes landed on Araminta. Her lip curled in immediate, visceral disgust. Javen stopped dancing. He turned. He saw her. There was no guilt in his eyes. There was no relief that she was safe. There was only annoyance, sharp and clear. He looked at her the way one looks at a stain on a favorite shirt.