My Unwanted Husband Is A Lethal Boss

At 2:00 AM, the penthouse was dead silent. Holden rolled off the narrow bed without making a sound, moving with the fluid, predatory grace of a black panther as he slipped into the guest bathroom.

Turning the shower on full blast, he let the heavy drumming of water against the tiles create the perfect white noise to mask any auditory leaks.

Standing in the thick steam, he pulled the military-grade communicator from a waterproof lining in his bag, his thumbs flying across the screen, punching in a thirty-two-character decryption sequence.

The screen glowed a sickly green. After a three-second delay, he bypassed the CIA's highest firewall and entered a restricted dark web frequency.

Bringing the mic to his lips, he spoke in a dead, flat tone. "Abyss. It's me. Initiate Protocol Long Night."

A sharp intake of breath hissed through the speaker, followed by the loud crash of shattering glass, as if the man on the other end had dropped a tumbler in pure shock.

Kade Garrison, the undisputed king of New York's underground, spoke, his voice shaking violently, thick with a terrifying mix of fanaticism and absolute awe. Kade babbled, swearing his undying loyalty, reporting that they had been searching for Holden for five agonizing years and were ready to burn the city down on his command.

Cutting through the worship with a voice like cracked ice, Holden demanded the status of the corrupted security footage from the night the Benson family was slaughtered.

Snapping instantly into tactical mode, Kade reported that his hackers had just reconstructed the final corrupted data block. What they found was chilling.

Lowering his voice to a whisper, Kade revealed the footage proved the mercenaries who took Holden's mother weren't standard guns for hire. They bore the insignia of "The Triumvirate"—they were bio-enhanced operatives.

Holden's pupils shrank to pinpricks, his fingers gripping the communicator so hard the reinforced casing groaned.

Taking a slow, ragged breath, he forced down the boiling, violent surge of his Progenitor blood, then ordered Kade to encrypt and transmit the data file immediately.

Before cutting the feed, Holden warned Kade to stay completely submerged. No moves until he gave the order.

Turning off the shower, Holden dragged the rough towel over his chest and shoulders, his movements stiff and careful to avoid aggravating the fresh lacerations on his back. The freezing water droplets slid down the hard ridges of his abs.

The next morning, bright sunlight flooded the kitchen. Wearing the same cheap t-shirt, Holden stood at the stove, expertly flipping an egg in a frying pan, his posture slightly rigid—a subtle concession to the persistent ache across his shoulders.

The smell of sizzling bacon wafted into the master suite, drawing Cordelia out. Standing in the doorway in her silk robe, she stared at him in utter bewilderment.

Crossing her arms, she warned him with venom dripping from her voice that cooking breakfast wouldn't buy him any actual affection. This was a cash transaction.

Sliding the egg onto a ceramic plate without even looking at her, Holden took a bite of the bacon and flatly informed her that he only cooked for one.

Cordelia's mouth opened, but no sound came out. Flushing dark red, she spun around to aggressively pour herself a cup of black coffee.

Suddenly, the heavy, reinforced doorbell of the penthouse buzzed with an obnoxious, sustained shriek.

Frowning, Cordelia walked to the foyer and checked the video intercom. Standing outside was a woman in a tailored, pitch-black military uniform with no rank insignia, flanked by two heavily armed adjutants.

Confused, Cordelia unlocked the door. Before she could speak, the woman shoved past her, combat boots clicking sharply against the hardwood as she marched into the living room.

Pulling off her aviator sunglasses, the woman revealed a face strikingly beautiful but carved from pure ice, her eyes sweeping the room like a targeting laser.

This was Sloane Winter, the youngest Special Operations Commander in JSOC, holding an S-class security clearance.

Sloane's eyes locked onto Holden standing in the kitchen holding a spatula, a look of profound, nauseating disgust twisting her perfect features.

One of her adjutants stepped forward, slapping a thick manila folder sealed with classified military wax onto the dining table.

Staring down her nose at Holden, Sloane let her voice echo through the high ceilings, sharp and cruel.

"Holden Benson," she sneered. "I'm here to break our engagement."