His Unwanted Wife Is Madame Lan

The afternoon sun beat down on the sprawling gardens of the Hamptons estate, but Andrea felt nothing but a cold, heavy exhaustion in her bones. She walked alone along the gravel path, trying to force oxygen into her tight lungs. The encounter in the study had left her nerves completely frayed.

She turned a corner near the rose bushes and stopped.

Kia Hunt was standing in the middle of the path, flanked by three of her wealthy, perfectly manicured socialite friends. They formed a human wall, blocking Andrea's way.

Kia looked Andrea up and down, her lips curling into a vicious sneer. "Look at this," Kia said loudly to her friends. "Did you buy that skirt at a discount outlet? It looks like something my maid would wear on her day off."

The socialites erupted into high-pitched, grating laughter.

Andrea's jaw tightened. She didn't have the energy for this high-school bullying. She kept her face completely blank and stepped to the side, attempting to walk around them on the grass.

As she passed, Kia suddenly thrust her arm out and shoved Andrea hard in the shoulder.

Andrea lost her balance. She stumbled sideways, her high heel sinking deep into a patch of muddy soil near the sprinklers. Mud splattered across her expensive leather shoes and the hem of her skirt.

"Oh, my apologies," Kia gasped with fake innocence. "I forgot fakes don't have good balance. You're so used to crawling on your knees, aren't you?"

The laughter grew louder, piercing Andrea's eardrums. Andrea slowly pulled her ruined shoe out of the mud. She looked up, her eyes locking onto Kia's. Her gaze was so cold, so dead, that one of the socialites actually stopped laughing and took a step back.

Kia crossed her arms, trying to maintain her bravado. "Since you're already dirty, go to the kitchen. Tell Maria to bring our afternoon tea to the patio. And make it quick. I hate waiting."

A surge of hot, violent anger flared in Andrea's chest. She wanted to slap the smug look off Kia's face. But Gregory's threat from the hallway echoed in her mind. I can throw you out right now. She needed to stay in the house. She needed access to the network.

Andrea swallowed the bile in her throat. She turned her back on them, keeping her spine rigid, and walked toward the service entrance.

The kitchen was a massive, chaotic space of stainless steel and white marble. Maria, the head housekeeper, was barking orders at two maids. When she saw Andrea walk in, Maria rolled her eyes and let out a loud huff.

"Miss Hunt wants her tea on the patio," Andrea said evenly.

Maria smirked. She walked over to the counter and aggressively pushed a massive, ornate silver tray toward Andrea. It was loaded with heavy bone china teapots, cups, and tiered pastry stands.

"Since you're not doing anything useful," Maria said, her tone dripping with disrespect, "you can carry it out. We are very busy."

Andrea stared at the heavy tray. This was a deliberate humiliation. A test to see how far they could push the unwanted wife.

Without a word, Andrea gripped the handles of the silver tray. She lifted it. The weight was immense. The veins on the back of her hands popped against her pale skin, but she stabilized it. She turned and began to walk toward the patio doors.

Just as she reached the threshold, Maria suddenly stepped directly into her path, her shoulder slamming hard into Andrea's arm.

The heavy tray tilted violently.

Andrea gasped, her muscles straining as she fought to keep the tray from crashing to the floor. She managed to level it, but a wave of boiling hot tea sloshed out of the spout of the teapot.

The scalding liquid poured directly over Andrea's left hand.

A sharp, agonizing burn seared through her skin. Andrea bit the inside of her cheek so hard she tasted copper, refusing to scream. Her knuckles turned bright red instantly.

"Oh, watch your step," Maria said, not a single ounce of apology in her voice. "That bone china is a family heirloom. It's worth more than you."

Andrea's breathing turned shallow from the pain. She didn't look at Maria. She carried the heavy tray out to the patio and set it down heavily on the wrought-iron table in front of Kia.

Kia looked at the spilled tea on the tray and wrinkled her nose. "What took you so long? Did you crawl here?"

"Andrea."

The voice cracked through the air like a bullwhip.

Everyone froze. Andrea looked up.

Gregory was standing on the second-floor balcony overlooking the patio. He held a crystal glass of whiskey in one hand. His face was a mask of terrifying, cold annoyance. His dark eyes were locked onto Andrea.

"Are you incapable of walking in a straight line, Andrea?" Gregory's voice was dangerously quiet, yet it carried across the entire garden. "Or are you just determined to embarrass me?"

Kia smiled smugly. "Gregory, I just... she tripped over her own feet."

Gregory walked down the stairs and stepped onto the patio. He ignored the spilled tea. He ignored the terrified socialites. He walked straight to Andrea. He looked at her blistering red hand, his jaw clenching, but his eyes remained devoid of any warmth.

"Clean this up," Gregory said, looking at Maria. Then he turned back to Andrea. "Go upstairs and change. You look pathetic. Genevra would never have allowed herself to be covered in mud like a stray dog."

Maria smirked, nodding quickly. Kia let out a high-pitched laugh. Gregory turned his back on Andrea and walked back into the house, leaving her standing alone with a scalding burn and a shattered pride.

Andrea stood in the center of the patio. Her hand was throbbing with a fiery pain. She looked at the red skin, then up at Gregory's retreating back. Her chest tightened with a confusing, suffocating pressure. He hadn't defended her. He had humiliated her. Was she truly nothing more than a punching bag for his grief?