His Unwanted Wife Is Madame Lan

The Maybach glided smoothly down the Long Island Expressway, the morning sun glaring off the tinted windows. Inside the spacious backseat, the air was thick and suffocating.

Low, smooth jazz played from the speakers, a stark contrast to the tension vibrating between the two passengers.

Gregory sat on the right side, one ankle resting casually on his knee. He was dressed in a crisp white linen shirt, the top two buttons undone, reading the Wall Street Journal. He looked like a man without a single care in the world.

Andrea sat as far away from him as the leather seat allowed. Her knees were pressed together, a tablet resting on her lap. She was aggressively scrolling through the morning's fabric supply chain reports, tracking the secret shipments for Dreamscape Atelier. Her neck muscles were so tight they burned.

Gregory lowered the newspaper. His dark eyes slid over to her, taking in her rigid posture, the severe bun at the nape of her neck, and the sharp line of her jaw.

"You look like a soldier bracing for an ambush," Gregory drawled, his voice cutting through the jazz music.

Andrea didn't look up from her screen. "If you could manage to show a shred of basic humanity, Gregory, I wouldn't have almost died in that house."

Gregory let out a low, raspy laugh. He wasn't insulted. He actually sounded amused. "You survived, didn't you? Genevra would have fought them off herself without calling me crying." He folded the newspaper and tossed it aside, leaning his weight toward her. The scent of his cedarwood cologne invaded her space, making her breath catch in her throat.

Just as he shifted closer, Andrea's phone buzzed loudly against the leather armrest.

The screen lit up. A text message from Tessa Bloom.

That new silk supplier is waiting for you at the club. His terms are definitely harder than Gregory's conscience.

Andrea's blood ran cold. Her stomach dropped.

Before she could snatch the phone, Gregory's eyes darted to the glowing screen. He read the words. The silence in the car suddenly became heavy, dangerous.

A slow, wicked smirk spread across Gregory's lips. He reached out, his large hand moving toward the phone. His knuckles deliberately brushed against the sensitive skin of Andrea's hand. A jolt of electricity shot up her arm.

Andrea reacted instantly. She snatched the phone, her thumb slamming the lock button, plunging the screen into darkness. She shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

Gregory slowly pulled his hand back, resting it on his thigh. He leaned back into the plush leather, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Well," Gregory said, his voice dropping an octave. "It seems your little side hobbies are distracting you from your duties as my wife."

Andrea's heart hammered against her ribs, but she forced her face to remain a blank slate. She adjusted the cuffs of her silk blouse. "Don't forget our arrangement, Gregory. My personal time is my own."

Gregory's eyes darkened. The amusement vanished instantly. He lunged forward, moving faster than she could anticipate. His hand shot out, his long fingers wrapping around her jaw. His grip was firm, unyielding, forcing her to look directly into his eyes.

"Listen to me," Gregory whispered, his face so close she could feel the heat radiating off his skin. His gaze was a bottomless abyss of control. "In this family, you are a placeholder. And a placeholder does not get to have secrets."

Andrea's breath hitched. Her lungs felt squeezed. She reached up and slapped his hand away. The smack echoed loudly in the quiet car.

She straightened her collar, her fingers trembling slightly, though she prayed he didn't notice. "Keep your hands to yourself."

Gregory didn't respond. He just watched her, a predator studying its prey.

The Maybach slowed down, turning off the main road and crunching onto the private gravel driveway of the Morse family's Hamptons estate. Perfectly manicured hedges lined the path, leading up to a massive, imposing stone mansion that looked more like a fortress than a summer home.

The car stopped. The driver opened the door.

Maria, the head housekeeper, stood rigidly at the top of the stone steps. Her uniform was immaculate, her face pinched tight.

Gregory stepped out first. He turned and offered his hand to Andrea. It was a performance for the staff. Andrea ignored his hand entirely. She stepped out of the car on her own, her heels clicking sharply against the pavement.

Maria bowed deeply as Gregory approached. "Welcome home, Mr. Morse."

When Andrea walked past, Maria didn't bow. She barely offered a stiff nod, her eyes filled with thinly veiled disdain. Andrea felt the disrespect like a physical slap, but she kept her spine perfectly straight. She was used to this. To them, she was just the cheap imitation who somehow manipulated her way into the family.

Andrea walked into the grand foyer. The air inside was freezing, smelling of lemon polish and old money.

In the center of the massive living room, Genevra's younger sister, Kia Hunt, was standing in front of an antique mirror. She was adjusting a heavy diamond and emerald Van Cleef necklace against her collarbone.

Kia caught Andrea's reflection in the mirror. She let out a loud, exaggerated sigh and turned around.

"Oh, the cheap knockoff is here," Kia sneered, her eyes raking over Andrea's simple outfit. "I thought you only came around to dust my sister's portraits."

Gregory stepped into the room behind Andrea. He opened his mouth, but Andrea beat him to it.

She offered Kia a razor-sharp, perfectly polite smile. "I do handle the dust, Kia. Including the outdated, tacky jewelry you inherited."

Kia's face flushed a violent red. Her hand flew to her necklace. "Excuse me? You little-"

A low, dark chuckle interrupted her.

Gregory walked up beside Andrea. To her absolute shock, he didn't even look at her. He stepped past her, his shoulder brushing hers coldly.

"Don't provoke her, Andrea," Gregory said. His voice was casual, but the underlying threat was unmistakable. "Kia is a guest. You are just here because I allow it. Remember your manners."

Kia smirked triumphantly, shooting Andrea a look of pure venom, and walked up the grand staircase like she owned the place.

Andrea's chest tightened, a sharp pain shooting through her ribs. "You always take her side," she hissed under her breath.

Gregory stopped and looked over his shoulder. "Take her side? You're the substitute I tolerate. I expect you to act like Genevra, not a petulant child."

Before Andrea could formulate a response, a booming, furious voice echoed from the heavy oak doors of the study down the hall.

"Gregory!" Theodore Morse roared. "Bring your wife and get in here. Now."

Andrea's stomach plummeted. The real war was about to begin.