My Unwanted Husband Is A Lethal Boss

Holden parked the sputtering Ford in the designated visitor area. He pushed the door open and was instantly assaulted by the overwhelming, synthetic perfection of a manicured French garden and the cloying scent of blooming roses.

Instead of walking up the main paved driveway, his tactical instincts took over. He veered off the path, stepping onto a secluded gravel walkway hidden by towering, dense hedges.

He reached into his pocket and pulled out a matte-black Zippo lighter-a disguised micro-tactical camera. His thumb pressed the hidden shutter, silently recording the placement of the infrared sentries hidden in the foliage.

A sharp, suppressed voice cut through the rustling leaves ahead. Holden stopped instantly. His body moved on autopilot, melting seamlessly into the dark, heavy shadow of a century-old oak tree.

Through a gap in the leaves, he saw Cordelia. She was wearing a custom haute couture gown, her back to him, her knuckles white as she gripped her phone and hissed angrily into the receiver.

She spat venom about her grandfather's absurd arranged marriage, her high heel kicking out in frustration at a smooth river stone on the path.

The stone ricocheted off a marble cherub statue with a sharp crack, perfectly masking the sound of Holden's shallow breathing.

A sudden, violent gust of ocean wind ripped through the garden. The hedges thrashed, and the wind caught the high side-slit of Cordelia's silk gown, whipping the fabric high into the air.

As the silk flew up, Holden's eyes locked onto her bare upper thigh. Strapped tightly against her pale skin was a tactical drop-leg holster, holding a custom-milled Glock.

Pure threat-assessment protocol overrode his brain. Holden's thumb flicked the lighter cap open, and the micro-lens focused directly on the firearm.

But at that exact millisecond, Holden shifted his weight slightly. The sole of his boot pressed down on a brittle, fallen oak branch. The sharp crack of the dry wood echoed loudly in the quiet garden. Cordelia's hyper-vigilant instincts flared. She spun around, her sharp eyes locking onto the shadow behind the oak tree.

She dropped the phone call instantly. Her right hand slid smoothly down her thigh, her fingers wrapping around the textured grip of the Glock.

Holden cursed internally. To maintain his cover as a normal civilian, he stepped out of the shadows, raising both hands slowly to show he was unarmed.

Cordelia's eyes swept over his cheap, oil-stained jacket and the lighter in his hand. The wariness in her eyes instantly morphed into pure, visceral disgust.

She lunged forward. Her stilettos stabbed into the gravel with aggressive, rhythmic violence. She grabbed a fistful of his collar.

A wave of expensive Chanel perfume hit Holden's face as she slammed his back hard against the rough bark of the oak tree. The jagged wood dug into his spine.

With her free hand, Cordelia snatched the lighter from his grip. Her thumb found the hidden playback button on the side and pressed it.

A micro-projection beamed onto the tree trunk right beside Holden's head. The image was a high-definition close-up of her exposed thigh and the gun holster.

Blood rushed to Cordelia's face, turning her cheeks a furious, humiliated red. She drove her knee upward, aiming a brutal strike directly at his stomach.

In the split second before her knee connected, Holden's battlefield reflexes took over. He subtly twisted his hips, shifting his stance to deflect the brunt of the impact away from his vital organs. He let the remaining force push him, letting out a loud, exaggerated grunt of pain as he stumbled backward, perfectly playing the part of a clumsy, overwhelmed civilian.

Cordelia gasped. It felt like she had just slammed her knee into a concrete pillar. A sharp ache shot up her leg, fueling her rage.

She threw the lighter onto the gravel and crushed it beneath her stiletto heel. She pointed a trembling finger at his face, screaming that he was a disgusting, perverted stalker.

Holden dusted off his jacket. He looked down at her with dead, emotionless eyes, completely unbothered by being caught.

His arrogant, towering calmness pushed Cordelia over the edge. She ripped the Glock from her holster and jammed the cold steel barrel directly under his chin.

The physical threat of death pressed against his throat, but Holden's heart rate didn't spike. It held steady at a flat sixty beats per minute.

He tilted his head down slightly, looking past the barrel, and spoke in a voice devoid of any warmth.

"The safety is still on."

Cordelia blinked. Her eyes darted down to the gun for a fraction of a second.

In that microscopic window, Holden's fingers snapped up, locking around her wrist like a steel vice.

He could snap her radius bone with a millimeter of pressure. But the heavy thud of combat boots and the shouts of two approaching patrol guards echoed from the main path.

Holden instantly released her wrist. He threw his hands back up in the air, widening his eyes in mock terror. Cordelia sneered, ordering the guards to drag the pervert into the main house.