The Timid Wife Is A Ruthless Boss

The Maybach rolled to a smooth stop in the underground garage of the Coffey family's downtown Manhattan penthouse. The driver opened the door, and a blast of late autumn wind rushed into the cabin.

Isla pulled her thin coat tighter around her chest. She kept her head down, falling into her usual rhythm of walking exactly half a step behind Curtiss as they headed for the private elevator.

The elevator car was small. Curtiss's scent-sharp cedar and cold power-filled the enclosed space. Isla's lungs tightened. She had to force herself to breathe shallowly.

The doors opened to the top floor. Curtiss stepped out with long strides. Suddenly, he stopped dead in the middle of the foyer.

Isla barely managed to halt before slamming into his broad back.

Curtiss turned around. He looked down at her, his eyes hard.

"Let me remind you of our arrangement," Curtiss said, his voice cutting through the quiet apartment. "Do not expect Coffey Group to pay for your family's endless greed."

Isla nodded immediately.

"I understand," she whispered. "I won't cause you any trouble."

Curtiss stared at her submissive face. A muscle feathered in his jaw. He ripped his tie off, threw it onto the nearest sofa, and walked straight into his study.

The heavy oak door of the study clicked shut. The lock engaged.

The second Isla heard that sound, her hunched shoulders snapped back. Her spine straightened. The fear bled out of her eyes, leaving behind pure, calculated ice.

She walked quickly down the hallway to the guest bedroom. She had demanded this separate room on their wedding night, claiming she was a light sleeper.

Isla shut the door and locked it. She walked over to the closet and pulled out what looked like a standard, albeit expensive, designer makeup train case. She set it on the desk, her fingers tracing the hidden seams of the false bottom. With a subtle, practiced sequence of presses on the decorative studs, the top layer popped off, revealing a heavy, black biometric workstation running through multiple VPNs.

She pressed her thumb to the scanner and leaned in for the iris check. The case clicked open, revealing a high-end workstation.

She logged into the encrypted server. Instantly, Kristy's frantic video call request popped up.

Isla accepted it. Kristy was pacing around her office on the screen, looking terrified.

"They're going to register the leaked blueprints by morning!" Kristy panicked.

"Stop."

Isla's voice was steady, commanding, and absolute. It was the voice of a queen, completely unrecognizable from the stuttering girl at dinner.

She pulled up the leaked files on her screen. Her eyes scanned the intricate lines of the dress design.

A cold smirk touched Isla's lips.

"Let them register it," Isla said. "That's the decoy draft I threw in the trash three months ago."

Kristy froze. Her mouth fell open. "Wait. Are you serious? What do we do now?"

Isla's fingers flew across the keyboard in a blur.

"I'm sending you the real flagship designs," Isla ordered. "Contact the London production line immediately. We launch early."

Heavy footsteps suddenly echoed in the hallway outside the guest room. Then, a sharp knock hit the door.

Isla's heart slammed against her ribs. She hit the mute button and slammed the workstation shut, shoving it under the bed.

She frantically ran her hands through her hair, messing it up. She ripped off her coat, threw it on the chair, and forced her eyes to look heavy and sleepy. She dragged her feet to the door.

Isla opened the door just a crack. Curtiss stood there holding a glass of ice water. His eyes narrowed, studying the flush on her cheeks.

"I heard voices," Curtiss said. His gaze tried to push past her into the room.

"I... I was watching an old movie," Isla stammered, wrapping her arms around herself. "I get scared sleeping alone, so I turn the volume up."

Curtiss looked over her shoulder. The room was dark except for the flickering light of the muted television screen. Nothing looked out of place.

He let out a low, mocking scoff at her cowardice. He pulled a thick manila folder from under his arm and held it out.

"Take this to Jimmie tomorrow," Curtiss ordered. "It's the new terms for the Morales family trust fund. Consider it my final warning to them."

Isla reached out with both hands to take the folder. Her warm fingertips accidentally brushed against his freezing knuckles.

They both flinched.

Curtiss pulled his hand back quickly. He turned on his heel and walked away, his broad shoulders tense with an irritation he couldn't explain.

Isla closed the door and locked it again. She leaned her back against the solid wood, clutching the folder to her chest. She took a deep, shaky breath. A dangerous light flickered in her eyes. The real game was just beginning.