After My Groom Returned with His Secret Family

The Seattle rain doesn't just fall; it presses against the glass of my temporary office like a living thing trying to get in. I watch the rivulets distort the skyline, turning the gray city into an impressionist painting of steel and sorrow. My phone buzzes on the mahogany desk, vibrating against a stack of unread merger contracts.

*Felix.*

The name flashes on the screen, a ghost haunting a device made of glass and lithium. I let it buzz three times before answering.

"Royalty." His voice is tight, pitched high with panic. "Thank God. I've been trying the main line for an hour. The encryption keys for the Zurich accounts—they aren't in the shared drive."

I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking softly. "Hello, Felix."

"The board meeting is in twenty minutes. I need the keys. Now."

"Those keys were part of my personal security protocol," I say, my voice steady, betraying nothing of the tremor in my hands. "I designed the architecture. I maintained the firewall."

"Exactly. So give them to me."

"You're the COO now, Felix. The heir. The man who expanded the empire." I pick up a silver pen, balancing it on my index finger. "Surely you understand the systems you're claiming credit for."

"Royalty, don't do this. My father is asking for the quarterly projections."

"*Our* father," I correct him. "And he gave you the job. Figure it out."

I end the call. The silence that follows is heavy, suffocating.

"Ruthless."

I spin the chair around. Anders is leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed over his chest. He's not wearing a tie today, and the top button of his shirt is undone, revealing the hollow of his throat. He's been listening.

"Competence isn't ruthless," I say. "It's a requirement."

He walks into the room, his movements fluid, cat-like. He stops at the edge of my desk. "He's drowning, isn't he?"

"He's learning to swim."

Anders studies me, his gray eyes stripping away the layers of indifference I've carefully applied. "My brother, Jonathan, has been skimming from the logistics budget for three years. He thinks no one notices because the profit margins are high enough to hide the bleed."

I raise an eyebrow. "And you have proof?"

"I have suspicions. I need someone who understands forensic accounting to find the proof."

"And what do I get?"

"Independence," he says softly. "If we expose Jonathan, the merger terms shift. You stop being a pawn my family acquired to secure East Coast capital. You become a partner. Independent of your father. Independent of Felix."

I look at the rain again. Independence. It sounds better than revenge.

"Deal."

***

The video conference room smells of ozone and stale coffee. On the massive screen, the Hart boardroom in New York looks warm and golden, a stark contrast to our gray reality. My father sits at the head of the table, Felix to his right. Cleo is absent, thank God.

"Regarding the European supply chain integration," Jonathan Griffin says from beside me, his voice booming with unearned confidence. "We need assurances on the Munich distribution hubs."

Felix clears his throat. On screen, he looks pale. He shuffles papers that I know are meaningless. "The... the Munich hubs are fully operational. We've seen a ten percent increase in efficiency."

"Actually," Jonathan presses, sensing blood in the water, "the question is about the tariff mitigation strategy post-regulation changes. What is the current exposure?"

Felix freezes. His eyes dart to the side, looking for me, but I am two thousand miles away, sitting next to the wolf he's trying to negotiate with.

"The exposure is... significant," Felix stammers. "But we are handling it."

"'Handling it' isn't a number, Mr. Cunningham," Jonathan sneers.

My father frowns, a deep crease forming between his brows. The silence stretches, painful and sharp.

I slide a folded piece of notepaper across the polished table to Anders. He doesn't look down. He just covers it with his hand, reads the number through his fingers, and speaks.

"The exposure is capped at 4.2 percent due to the hedging strategy implemented in Q3," Anders says, his voice calm, cutting through Jonathan's aggression. "It's in the addendum Mr. Cunningham sent over last night. Perhaps you missed it, Jonathan?"

Jonathan's jaw tightens. On screen, Felix looks like he might vomit with relief. My father nods, impressed, but his eyes linger on Anders, not his son.

Under the table, Anders' hand finds mine. His thumb brushes against my knuckles—a brief, electric contact that feels more intimate than a kiss. He saved the deal, but he made sure everyone knew who actually held the information.

***

Two days later, the Hart jet lands in Seattle. The dinner is held at the Griffin estate, a sprawling glass mansion perched on a cliff overlooking the Sound. The air is thick with the scent of pine and rain.

Cleo wears red. It's a violent shade, too bright for the somber elegance of the Griffin home. She clings to Felix's arm, her eyes darting around the room, assessing the wealth, calculating the value of the art on the walls.

"It's so gloomy here," she announces loudly, lifting her wine glass. "I don't know how you stand it, Royalty. New York is so much more... vibrant."

She lifts her wrist to check the time, making a show of pulling back her sleeve. The Patek Philippe glints under the chandelier light. "Oh, is it only eight? It feels like midnight."

I stare at the watch. The leather strap is worn where I used to fasten it. The crystal face reflects the room, distorting us all.

Anders appears at my shoulder. He's holding two glasses of champagne. He hands me one, his body angling to shield me from the rest of the room.

He follows my gaze to Cleo's wrist.

"It doesn't suit her," he murmurs, his voice low, meant only for me.

I take a sip of champagne, the bubbles bursting sharp against my tongue. "It's a classic piece."

"It looks heavy," Anders says, his eyes cold as they watch Cleo laugh too loudly at a joke Jonathan made. "Like it's weighing her down. It looks heavy on a wrist that hasn't worked a day in its life."

The knot in my chest, the one that's been there since the gala, loosens just a fraction. I look up at him, really look at him, and for the first time in months, the corners of my mouth turn up. It's a small smile, fragile and tentative, but it's real.

"You might be right," I whisper.

"I usually am," he replies, and clinks his glass against mine.