The Timid Wife Is A Ruthless Boss

The silence inside the Maybach on the ride home was thick enough to choke on.

Isla stayed huddled against the passenger door, wrapped in Curtiss's jacket. She kept her eyes closed, pretending to sleep. She could feel Curtiss's heavy, burning gaze dragging across her skin every few seconds.

Curtiss stared at the tear tracks on her cheeks. He remembered the raw desperation in Karson's eyes. A dark, ugly jealousy clawed at his throat.

He pulled out his phone and texted K. Jennings: Tear into Karson Cantrell's past. I want to know exactly where he was five years ago.

The car pulled into the underground garage. Isla instantly opened her eyes. She took off the jacket and held it out to him, keeping her distance.

Curtiss ignored the jacket. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her out of the car, dragging her toward the elevator.

When they walked into the penthouse, Isla turned toward the guest hallway.

"Stop," Curtiss commanded.

Isla froze.

"You're moving into the master bedroom tonight," Curtiss said, loosening his tie. "My wife doesn't sleep in a separate wing."

Isla's eyes went wide. "But... my sleep schedule..."

Curtiss stepped into her space, his height overwhelming her. "I need to know you aren't having panic attacks over some pathetic bully. You sleep where I can see you."

Isla had no choice. She bit her lip and nodded, her chest tight with panic.

At 2:00 AM, the master bedroom was pitch black. They lay on opposite sides of the massive King Size bed.

Isla listened to Curtiss's deep, even breathing. When she was sure he was asleep, she slipped out from under the covers. She grabbed her phone and crept into the master bathroom, turning on the sink faucet to mask any noise.

She sat on the cold tile floor and logged into the dark web. She messaged 'Ghost', a top-tier hacker.

Alter the relationship descriptions in my school records regarding Karson Cantrell. Delete any mutual photos, event logs, or shared project files to create the absolute illusion that we never crossed paths.

She transferred a massive sum of cryptocurrency. Ghost replied: Give me two hours. It'll look like you two didn't even breathe the same air.

Suddenly, the bathroom doorknob rattled.

Isla's blood ran cold. She shoved the phone deep into her bathrobe pocket.

"Are you crying again?" Curtiss's rough voice came through the wood.

Isla splashed cold water on her face, making her skin look pale and clammy. She opened the door. "I had a nightmare," she whispered.

Curtiss looked at her wet face. He let out a heavy sigh. He reached out, grabbed her waist, and pulled her hard against his bare chest.

Isla gasped. She was pressed against his hot skin, listening to his strong, steady heartbeat. The sheer physical dominance of his embrace made her head spin.

The next morning, while Curtiss was in the gym, Isla checked her phone. Ghost had confirmed the wipe.

At the Coffey Group headquarters, K. Jennings stood in front of Curtiss's desk. He looked nervous.

"Sir, Cantrell's file from five years ago... it's completely empty," K. Jennings said. "Someone professionally scrubbed it last night."

Curtiss stared at the blank paper. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face.

"A clean file means a dirty secret," Curtiss whispered. "Call the ex-military contractors. Dig up the graves if you have to."

Across town, Isla walked into the hidden Verve headquarters. Kristy handed her a black envelope.

"The European buyers want a secret meeting tonight," Kristy said. "At the underground VIP club in SOHO."

Isla took the envelope. Her eyes burned with ambition. She had to secure the European market before Curtiss tore her past wide open.