The Timid Wife Is A Ruthless Boss

The heavy soundproof door of the VIP room didn't just open. It was violently shoved.

The thick solid wood slammed against the wall with a deafening thud. The sound cracked through the room like a gunshot, instantly killing the music and the conversation.

Curtiss stepped over the threshold. He brought a freezing, suffocating wave of air into the room.

His dark suit looked black in the dim lighting. His eyes, sharp as surgical blades, bypassed everyone in the room and locked dead onto Isla.

Isla sat at the head of the table. Her fingers gripped the stem of her martini glass so hard her knuckles turned pure white.

Her heart violently contracted in her chest. The blood drained from her face, leaving her skin pale against the blood-red velvet of her suit. But she forced her spine to stay locked against the back of the chair. She did not move.

The lead Parisian buyer stood up, his face red with indignation instantly draining into pure terror. "M-Monsieur Coffey?" the buyer stammered in French. "W-what are you doing here? This is a private-"

He didn't get to finish.

Four massive bodyguards in black suits flooded into the room behind Curtiss. One of them shoved a heavy hand onto the buyer's shoulder, forcing him violently back into his seat.

Curtiss walked slowly toward the glass table. He placed both of his large hands flat on the surface. He leaned forward, his massive frame dominating the space.

"You have ten seconds to get out of this room," Curtiss commanded. His voice was a low, terrifying rumble that vibrated in the floorboards. "Before I have you thrown into the street."

The Parisian buyer looked up. He finally recognized the face of the Wall Street tyrant. Pure terror washed over the man's features.

He grabbed his briefcase. He didn't say another word. He and his team scrambled over each other, practically running out of the room.

Kristy gave Isla one last, terrified look before she slipped out the door.

K. Jennings was the last to exit. He pulled the heavy door shut until it clicked.

The massive VIP room was suddenly dead silent. It was just Isla and Curtiss.

Curtiss walked around the edge of the glass table. The slow, deliberate click of his expensive leather shoes against the floor sounded like a countdown to an execution.

He stopped right beside her chair.

Isla's chest heaved. She couldn't pull enough oxygen into her burning lungs.

Curtiss reached down. His large, cold hand clamped around her jaw. His fingers dug into her skin, forcing her face up to meet his gaze.

"So," Curtiss whispered, his voice dripping with lethal venom. "How many more surprises do you have for me, my sweet, fragile wife?"

Isla stared into his pitch-black eyes. She saw the raw fury there. She knew the tears wouldn't work anymore. The pathetic wallflower act was dead.

A sudden, strange calm washed over her.

Isla reached up. She grabbed his wrist and forcefully shoved his hand away from her face.

She stood up, her red velvet suit commanding the space. She didn't shrink back. She met his aggressive stare with a gaze that was just as cold, just as sharp.

"I work for Verve," Isla stated. Her voice was steady, completely stripped of the stutter she had used for months.

Curtiss's jaw clenched. A muscle feathered in his cheek.

"And the pathetic orphan act?" he demanded.

"Survival," Isla shot back, her eyes flashing with defiance. "If Collette and Jaylene knew I had money, they would have drained me dry. If Jimmie knew I had power, he would have destroyed my company. I played weak so they would leave me alone."

She took a step closer to him, refusing to be intimidated.

"Our marriage is a business contract, Curtiss," she said, her tone completely clinical. "You needed a wife to satisfy your board. I needed your last name as a shield. Me having the ability to protect myself is an asset to you, not a liability."

Curtiss stared at her. He looked at the sharp angle of her chin, the fire in her eyes, the absolute lack of fear.

He expected to feel rage. But instead, a dark, heavy pulse of adrenaline hit his bloodstream.

The pathetic, crying girl he had been dragging around was gone. Standing in front of him was a queen. A woman who could actually match his ruthlessness.

A twisted, dangerous spark of excitement ignited in his gut. His primal need to conquer flared to life.

Curtiss suddenly reached out. He wrapped his arm around her waist and jerked her hard against his chest.

Isla gasped. Her hands flew up, pressing against his solid chest to keep her balance.

He leaned down. His nose brushed against hers. She could feel the heat of his breath on her lips.

"You are my wife," Curtiss murmured, his voice thick with a new, dark possessiveness. "From this second forward, every single one of your secrets belongs to me."

The air between them crackled. The heavy scent of his cedar cologne mixed with her citrus perfume. The tension in the room morphed from violent anger into a suffocating, heavy sexual pull.

Isla's stomach flipped. Her skin burned where his hand gripped her waist.

Curtiss stared at her lips for one long, agonizing second. Then, he abruptly let her go.

He stepped back and adjusted his cuffs, his face returning to a mask of ice.

"Grab your things," he ordered. "We are going home."

Isla's hands shook slightly as she grabbed her clutch from the table. She also snatched a small, black velvet box from her tote bag, shoving it deep inside the clutch. It was an old, embarrassing relic from a bachelorette party she'd been forced to attend months ago, a silly gag gift she'd forgotten was even there.

She followed Curtiss out of the club. Her back was completely drenched in cold sweat.

The ride in the Maybach was agonizing.

The privacy partition was raised, sealing them in a suffocating bubble of silence. The space in the backseat felt incredibly small.

Curtiss leaned back against the leather seat. He didn't look out the window. He turned his head and openly, shamelessly stared at her. His eyes dragged over the sharp cut of her red velvet suit, re-evaluating every inch of her body.

Isla felt his gaze like a physical touch. Her skin prickled. She kept her knees pressed tightly together, her hands gripping her clutch in her lap.

Suddenly, a stray dog darted across the dark Manhattan street.

The driver slammed on the brakes.

The Maybach jerked violently. Isla was thrown forward against her seatbelt.

Her clutch slipped from her sweaty fingers. It flew open as it hit the floor, spilling its contents. A lipstick rolled into the shadows. The small velvet box skittered across the plush carpet and slid deep into the darkness under Curtiss's seat.

Isla gasped. She immediately unbuckled her seatbelt and leaned down, reaching her hand into the dark space to grab it.

Curtiss's large hand suddenly clamped down on her shoulder.

"Sit up," he commanded harshly. "Don't move while the car is in motion."

Isla froze. His grip was heavy and warm. She thought he was angry about the sudden stop. She slowly sat back up, leaving the box on the floor. She didn't want to provoke him again tonight.

The car finally pulled into the underground garage of their penthouse building.

The second the car stopped, Isla pushed her door open. She didn't wait for him. She practically ran toward the private elevator, the sound of her heels echoing loudly against the concrete.

Curtiss didn't get out immediately.

He shifted his leg and felt something hard against the side of his expensive shoe.

He reached down into the shadows. His fingers brushed against soft velvet. He picked up the small black box.

He stared at it for a moment. Then, he slowly flipped the lid open.

The dim, yellow light of the garage spilled into the box.

Lying on the black satin cushion was a delicate, incredibly thin body chain. It was made of silver and studded with tiny, glittering diamonds. It was designed to wrap around a woman's waist and trail down her stomach. It was pure, unadulterated lingerie jewelry.

Curtiss's breath hitched. His lungs seized.

An instant, vivid image of Isla wearing nothing but this diamond chain flashed violently in his mind. The pale skin of her stomach. The red velvet suit discarded on the floor.

His throat went completely dry. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.

He snapped the box shut. The loud click echoed in the quiet car.

A slow, dark smirk spread across his face. He slid the velvet box into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, right over his heart.

He stepped out of the car and walked toward the elevator. He had just found the perfect weapon.