Chapter 281
[ 1,040 words ]
Katia’s POV
Tessa’s lips parted in a silent, choked gasp of pure shock. The high school card had been completely incinerated, leaving her standing there with no leverage, no defense, and absolutely no dignity left.
She turned on her heel, her heels clicking rapidly as she prepared to storm out the door.
But as she reached the threshold, she didn’t clear the exit.
Tessa bumped directly into someone stepping into the office. The collision was sharp, her shoulder hitting his chest with a force that had her stumbling back a step.
I looked up.
Standing in the doorway, dressed in an immaculate, dark three-piece suit that cost more than my first server array, was Jude Wolfe.
His face was still tightly held together by wire mesh and titanium screws, his nose packed with small gauze, his left eye swollen into a plum-colored slit. He held a sleek, silver cane in his hand, his posture perfectly straight, his dark hair styled with the pristine, unhurried elegance of a British aristocrat who owned every room he walked into regardless of his physical decimation.
Tessa’s head snapped up. She looked at his face, then at his suit, and a sudden, wide, and highly social smile broke across her lips. She ignored the marks on her cheek, her hands rising slightly in a gesture of false charm.
“Oh my, Jude,” Tessa said, her voice rising into that smooth, elite register. “We met in London. We raced together p>
Jude didn’t look at her.
He didn’t acknowledge her hands, he didn’t return the smile, and he didn’t give her a fraction of his attention. His single good eye bypassed her entirely, locking onto me where I stood behind the desk with a cold, absolute, and unblinking focus.
“Okay, please,” Jude said, his British accent low, flat, and entirely unhurried as he gestured with his cane toward the door. “I’d like to speak to my wife p>
The silence that followed Jude’s words was not just heavy; it was a physical pressure that made the air in my office turn to ice.
Tessa stood frozen in the open threshold of the double doors, her hand still raised from the collision, her social smile dying a sudden, ghastly death on her lips. Her dark eyes darted from the tall, battered frame of the British racing heir to me, her mind frantically trying to process the sheer, staggering weight of the word he had just used.
Wife.
Inside my chest, the cold adrenaline of my corporate defense instantly turned into a hot, violent spike of pure rage. I didn’t care about his titanium screws, his wire-mesh jaw, or the looming forty-eight-hour clock running in Julian’s chest. I didn’t care about the press outside or the stock prices of IG Technologies. I only cared about the fact that this broken, abusive predator had just walked into my fortress and tried to write his name on my life.
I didn’t laugh. I didn’t flinch. I slowly stepped out from behind my glass desk, my corporate armor locking into place with a terrifying, absolute finality.
“Get the fuck out of my office, Wolfe, or I will have security throw you out,” I barked.
The words were not a warning; they were a direct, razor-sharp promise.
Jude didn’t move. He stood in the doorway, his silk-coated shoulders straight, his single good eye tracking my approach with a slow, highly clinical amusement. He let out a short, rattling whistle through his wired teeth—a sound that carried the full, condescending weight of his aristocratic entitlement.
“Is this how you welcome your husband back?” Jude asked, his accent low, flat, and dripping with an artificial sweetness that made my stomach turn.
“Husband my ass,” I spat, my voice dropping to a dangerous, icy register as I stopped three feet from him. “You can take your husband ass out of my office right now p>
Beside him, Tessa’s eyes widened further. She took a half-step back toward the corridor, the realization hitting her that she had just walked into a domestic slaughterhouse that she wanted absolutely no part of. The elite composure she had paraded all morning was completely incinerated, replaced by the raw, panicked instinct of a woman who knew when the asphalt was about to turn lethal.
Jude’s amusement vanished in a fraction of a second. The muscles around his swollen, plum-colored left eye tightened, his jaw clenching so hard the wires beneath his skin groaned.
“You wouldn’t want to anger me, little wife,” Jude warned.
The drop in his voice was a cold, abusive threat—the same low, suffocating pressure he had used against the wall of my kitchen before Julian shattered his face.
I met his gaze without a single blink. “Oh, I am. And you can take your little accent out of my fucking office p>
I didn’t wait for his response. I spun on my heel, my strides long and dominant as I walked back to my desk, my fingers reaching down to press the button on the intercom.
“Sam, I believe Mr. Wolfe is done here,” I said, my voice smooth, steady, and entirely empty of warmth.
Before the static of the intercom could even fade, Jude moved.
He didn’t walk; he lunged. Despite the physical decimation of his body, the raw, controlling instinct of an abuser who refused to be dismissed made him fast. He crossed the twenty feet of my office in two long, frantic strides.
Before I could even release the intercom button, Jude’s hand reached out, his thick, heavy fingers wrapping tightly around my upper arm. He yanked me back with a sudden, violent torque that had my heels skidding against the hardwood floor.
He pulled me flat against his chest, the scent of his expensive, metallic-tinged cologne and the heat of his breathing hitting my face like a physical blow.
“I will make sure you lose everything,” Jude growled, his face inches from mine, his wired teeth bared in a vicious, animal snarl. “Including that pretty little ass of yours p>
His other hand came down hard. The sharp, echoing smack of his open palm connecting violently with my ass bounced off the high concrete ceilings of my office—a physical, degrading claim of ownership that went straight to my bones.
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