Chapter 612: Victor’s Wife- Emily
I woke up before everyone else—stillness filled the house. After a quick shower, I headed to the kitchen to prepare breakfast for the family. By the ti the food was ready, they began trickling out of their rooms, freshly showered and half-awake.
We ate together, and as the al unfolded, so did their stories. Isabella’s life seed effortless, but beneath the surface, Victor had been waging a silent war—kidnapping and killing her n.
Worse still, Victor had pieced together the truth about Tony’s death—and the horrifying realization that Isabella had not only avenged it but had also stripped him of his empire. Now, he wasn’t just plotting revenge; he was mobilizing for war.
Marina’s voice cut through my thoughts, gentle but insistent. "You promised." She wanted to return to xico to see her grandmother, and I couldn’t refuse her—not again.
anwhile, Stella and Margaret delivered their report on the companies: so divisions thrived, others teetered on the edge of collapse. But none of that mattered as much as the storm brewing between Victor and Isabella.
Only one problem demanded my imdiate focus: Victor—and Emily.
I didn’t waste another second. With a command to SERA, I set the hunt in motion.
After a quick goodbye, I made my first move: Emily. She was at a shopping center, unaware of the net tightening around her. The idea of confronting her there amused —public, unpredictable, personal. Before leaving, I swapped my usual attire for sothing more fitting: a tailored black British suit, sharp as a blade.
The Rolls-Royce purred to a stop in the shopping center’s underground parking, the engine’s deep throb fading into silence as I killed the ignition. The air slled of polished concrete and expensive perfu—hers, maybe, lingering from the last ti she’d been here.
I stepped out, the soles of my handmade Oxfords clicking against the pavent, my black British suit tailored so precisely it felt like a second skin.
The fabric hugged my shoulders, the crisis-cut waistcoat emphasizing the lethal grace of my movents. I wasn’t just dressed to impress. I was dressed to dominate.
The shopping center humd with the dull roar of distant conversations, the clatter of heels on marble, the occasional chi of a boutique’s door. But the café was different—a pocket of stillness, a place where the world slowed just enough to let secrets breathe. And there she was.
Emily.
Seated in the far corner, half-hidden by a potted fern, she was a study in controlled elegance. Her dress—a deep erald wrap gown—clung to her like a lover’s promise, the silk charuse shimring under the café’s soft lighting.
The neckline plunged just enough to tease, the delicate gold chain of a necklace resting between her collarbones before disappearing into the valley of her breasts. The fabric hugged her waist, flaring just slightly over her hips, the high slit on her left thigh flashing a glimpse of toned skin every ti she crossed her legs.
She sipped her coffee, her full, painted lips pressing against the rim, leaving the faintest sar of crimson lipstick behind. Her fingers—long, manicured, the nails tipped in black lacquer—traced idle patterns on the tabletop. She was bored. Or pretending to be. But the way her gaze flicked toward the entrance every few seconds betrayed her.
And then there were them—the four shadows in black suits, scattered like chess pieces. Two by the entrance, one near the pastry display, the last leaning against the wall beside the restrooms, his jacket just bulging enough to hint at the weapon beneath.
I ordered my hazelnut coffee—thick, sweet, with just a hint of bitterness—and chose a table three paces from hers, close enough to catch the faint floral musk of her perfu, the subtle hitch in her breath when she thought no one was looking.
The café was nearly empty, just a few scattered patrons—an elderly couple sharing a slice of cake, a student typing furiously on a laptop, a mother soothing a fussy toddler. Their presence was background noise, white static against the electric charge crackling between Emily and .
I took a slow sip, letting the warmth pool on my tongue, my eyes locked on her through lowered lashes. She shifted in her seat, her thighs pressing together just slightly, as if she could squeeze out the tension building inside her.
I activated my Hand of Arousal to be ready.
Her fingers twitched against her coffee cup. A soft, involuntary gasp escaped her parted lips. Her nipples—already tight beneath the silk—hardened further, pressing against the fabric in two perfect, aching points.
I set my cup down. She stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the tile.
Ti to move.
I rose in the sa instant, timing my steps so our bodies collided just as she turned. My coffee exploded across her chest, the dark liquid soaking through the erald silk, the heat of it searing against her skin—not enough to burn, but enough to make her hiss, her back arching as the wet fabric clung obscenely to her breasts.
"Aaaah—!"
Her hands flew up, fingers splaying over the damp, transparent silk, her nipples stiff and visible beneath my stare.
The café’s ambient noise faded into nothing—just her ragged breathing, the drip-drip of coffee from the hem of her dress, the low growl of the bodyguards shifting toward us.
I didn’t hesitate.
My hand slamd against her waist, yanking her against , my other palm crushing her breast through the soaked fabric. The silk was slick, her skin burning beneath it, her nipple rolling between my fingers like a pebble of pure sin.
"I’m so sorry," I murmured, my voice a velvet blade against her ear. "Let
help you clean that up."
She whimpered—"Aahh—nngh—"—her head tipping back as my thumb circled, then pinched, the wet silk abrading her sensitive peak. Her breath ca in short, sharp gasps, her hips jerking involuntarily, pressing against my thigh.
"You—! Don’t you have—ahh!—any fucking eyes—?"
Her words were broken, her voice thick with sothing darker than anger. She tried to shove
back, but her hands trembled, her strength undermined by the waves of pleasure I was forcing through her body.
I squeezed harder, my fingers digging into the soft, heavy weight of her breast, feeling the heat of her, the pulse of her heartbeat against my palm. The silk stuck to her skin, the dark coffee stains mapping the shape of her, the tight bud of her nipple, the swell of her cleavage.
"Hmmm—" A soft, needy sound tore from her throat, her lips parting, her tongue darting out to wet them. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes glazed, her thighs pressing together as if she could stifle the ache building between them.
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