Married To The Wolf: My Ruthless Revenge

Javen Doyle, with another woman in his arms, watched her. His gaze was cold, a silent promise of the devastating words to come as he stared at Araminta, who stood drenched and broken in the doorway. It felt like a lifetime ago, but the storm that had shipwrecked her life had only begun an hour before.

Rain lashed against the dark wood of the dock, stinging Araminta's face like icy needles. She stood shivering, her knuckles white as she gripped her phone. The screen illuminated her pale face, displaying the text message from Javen one last time.

Get the contract back. For the future of the Doyle family. Don't come home without it.

She shoved the phone into her clutch, her fingers trembling not from the cold, but from a nausea that had settled deep in her stomach. Ahead of her, the massive black hull of the superyacht Leviathan bobbed rhythmically on the dark water. It looked less like a boat and more like a floating fortress, isolating its owner from the laws of the mainland.

Araminta stepped onto the gangplank. Two security guards in black suits blocked her path immediately. They didn't speak. One simply held out a hand.

"I'm here to see Mr. Wolfe," she said, her voice fighting against the wind. "I have the merger documents from Doyle Industries."

The guard snatched her clutch, rifling through it with insulting thoroughness. He pulled out the thick envelope, checked the seal, and then nodded toward the main cabin.

"He's expecting you."

Araminta walked into the main salon, and the silence was instant. The roar of the storm vanished, replaced by the soft hum of climate control and smooth jazz. The air smelled of expensive leather, sea salt, and aged scotch.

Alfonse Wolfe sat in a high-backed armchair in the shadows of the room. He didn't stand. He held a crystal tumbler of amber liquid, his index finger tracing the rim. He was watching her. It wasn't a polite glance; it was a dissection.

Araminta felt water dripping from the hem of her dress onto the pristine teak floor. She felt small, dirty, and out of place among the women lounging on the velvet sofas-models with perfect skin and dry hair, sipping champagne.

She approached Alfonse, her heels clicking too loudly in the quiet room. She extended the folder.

"Mr. Wolfe," she said. She forced her spine to straighten. "The revised terms. Javen-Mr. Doyle-has agreed to everything."

Alfonse didn't take the folder. He took a slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Javen," he said, his voice a low rumble that seemed to vibrate in the floorboards. "Is this what he sold you for?"

A ripple of laughter went through the room. One of the models whispered something to her companion. Heat flushed up Araminta's neck, burning her ears.

"This is a business transaction," Araminta said, though her voice wavered. "It shows our sincerity."

Alfonse set the glass down. The sound of crystal hitting the coaster was