The Timid Wife Is A Ruthless Boss

Curtiss threw the broken halves of the pen into the trash can. He stood up and walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, staring down at the Manhattan skyline. His chest rose and fell with heavy, furious breaths.

"Repeat exactly what Collette said," Curtiss demanded.

K. Jennings swallowed hard. The air pressure in the office felt suffocating. "She threatened her parents' graves, sir."

Curtiss's eyes turned pitch black. "Cut off the credit lines to both of the Morales family's subsidiary banks. Now."

"Yes, sir."

"And," Curtiss turned around, his voice dangerously calm. "Contact Verve's PR department. Buy that unreleased dress. I don't care what it costs."

K. Jennings hesitated. "Sir, Verve's rules are absolute. They don't sell unreleased items to anyone outside their core VIP list."

Curtiss stepped forward. The sheer dominance radiating from him made K. Jennings take a step back.

"Use every resource Coffey Group has," Curtiss ordered. "Bury them in money if you have to. But that dress will be in my wife's hands by tonight."

That evening, Isla dragged her feet as she walked into the penthouse. She was exhausted, but she had to keep up the act.

She pushed the door open and froze.

Curtiss was sitting on the living room sofa. He held a glass of amber whiskey. He never came home this early.

Isla instantly dropped her gaze. She walked toward him, her steps small and hesitant.

Curtiss didn't say a word. His piercing eyes locked onto her face, studying the faint redness still lingering around her eyes.

"Did the Morales family touch you today?" Curtiss asked. His voice was blunt, leaving no room for lies.

Isla flinched. She shook her head quickly, but her eyes darted away.

She played her part perfectly. She stuttered out Collette's demand about the London executives, ending with a pathetic, "Please, Curtiss. Just this once. Help me."

Curtiss slammed his whiskey glass down on the glass coffee table. The loud crack made Isla jump backward.

He stood up. He closed the distance between them in two massive strides, stopping just inches away from her. His sheer height and the dark, overwhelming aura of his presence formed an invisible wall, suffocating her. He didn't raise his voice, nor did he pin her to the wall in a fit of unrestrained rage. Instead, he reached out, his cold, calloused fingers gripping her chin with a firm, inescapable pressure. He forced her to look up into his pitch-black eyes.

"My wife does not bow to anyone," Curtiss stated, his voice a chilling, absolute command that left no room for debate. "And you will never beg for those parasites again."

Isla looked up at him. For a second, her shock was genuine. She hadn't expected his anger to be this physical, this intense.

They were so close she could feel the heat radiating off his chest. Curtiss stared down at her lips. He smelled the faint scent of citrus on her skin. His anger suddenly warped into a strange, heavy pulse of desire in his gut.

The doorbell rang, shattering the dangerous tension.

Curtiss stepped back, clearing his throat. He adjusted his suit jacket.

The butler walked in, pushing a massive black velvet garment box. "Sir, the delivery for Mrs. Coffey."

"Open it," Curtiss ordered her.

Isla walked over. Her hands shook as she untied the silk ribbon. She lifted the lid.

Lying inside was the true, flawless, authentic Verve starry-night gown.

Isla's brain short-circuited. She knew exactly how much Curtiss had paid for this-Kristy had called her screaming about the insane wire transfer two hours ago.

She had to bite the inside of her cheek to stop herself from laughing.

Instead, Isla covered her mouth with both hands. She let a massive tear roll down her cheek. She looked at Curtiss with wide, disbelieving eyes.

"I... I can't believe it," she whispered, her voice breaking perfectly. "Thank you."

Curtiss looked at her tear-stained face. The tight knot of rage in his chest instantly dissolved, replaced by a deep, primal satisfaction.

"You will wear this tomorrow night," Curtiss commanded. "And you will stand next to Jaylene."

Isla nodded meekly. She took a step forward and rested her forehead against his chest, acting like a grateful, terrified sheep seeking shelter.

Curtiss went completely rigid. He wasn't used to being touched. But slowly, almost against his own will, he lifted his hand and stroked her hair.

Hidden against his chest, Isla's eyes were cold and sharp. The trap was set.