The CEO office of Avery Oil was a kingdom of glass and steel overlooking the city. Sunlight streamed in, glinting off the polished mahogany desk where Scarlett sat. She wasn't the girl from the Ethan mansion anymore. The timid gaze was gone, replaced by the cool, appraising look of an empress surveying her domain.
Across from her sat a man whose presence was its own form of royalty. Prince Alistair of Eldoria, a man whose name was whispered in the same circles as oil sheiks and tech billionaires, leaned forward, a genuine smile on his handsome face.
"The terms are more than generous, Ms. Avery," he said, his voice a smooth baritone. "A partnership between Eldoria and Avery Oil will redefine the global energy market."
"I expect nothing less, Your Highness," Scarlett replied, her voice calm and level. She offered him a small, professional smile. There was an easy respect between them, a recognition of power meeting power.
The doors to her office suddenly burst open, slamming against the wall with a deafening crack.
Christian Ethan stood in the doorway, a human storm of fury and desperation. He was on his feet, no longer feigning paralysis, his tall frame radiating a raw, alpha dominance that suffocated the air in the room. His eyes, dark and turbulent, were locked on Scarlett, ignoring the prince entirely.
"Scarlett," he growled, the single word a command, a plea, and an accusation all at once. "We need to talk. Now."
Prince Alistair rose slowly, every movement fluid and deliberate. He placed himself subtly between Christian and Scarlett's desk. "I believe you are interrupting a private meeting, Mr. Ethan," he stated, his tone dangerously polite. "The CEO is occupied."
Christian’s jaw clenched. He finally registered the other man in the room, another predator encroaching on his territory. His eyes narrowed. "This has nothing to do with you. This is between me and my wife."
"Wife?" Alistair let out a soft, incredulous laugh. He turned his head slightly to look at Scarlett, a questioning arch to his brow. "Is this true, Scarlett? You never mentioned a husband."
The air crackled with unspoken challenges. It was a primal clash of two billionaire titans, two alphas fighting for the attention of their queen. But the queen was not a prize to be won.
Scarlett rose from her chair. The movement was silent, graceful, yet it commanded the attention of the entire room. She didn't look flustered. She didn't look afraid. Her face was a mask of icy composure. The meek girl who used to flinch at Christian's shadow was dead and buried.
She looked directly at Christian, her eyes so cold he felt a physical chill. It was the same look she'd given Marcus Thorne before she destroyed him. The look of karma personified.
"My marital status has no bearing on my business," she said, her voice cutting through the tension like a shard of glass. "And you, Mr. Ethan, are trespassing in my place of business."
Mr. Ethan. The name hit him like a physical blow. The formality was a slap in the face, a deliberate wall of ice she had built between them. The regret was a bitter acid in his throat. He had done this. He had pushed her away with his suspicion, his coldness, his betrayal.
"Don't do this, Scarlett," he said, his voice dropping, laced with a raw desperation he couldn't hide. "I came here to… I know about Marcus. I know what you did. I helped you."
"Did you?" she asked, her head tilting slightly. "Or did you simply clean up a mess that was threatening your own company's reputation? A business decision. Nothing more."
Every word was a perfectly aimed dart, puncturing his pride, exposing his motives. He had thought the gesture would be an olive branch, a signal. She saw it as a transaction.
Alistair watched the exchange, a flicker of admiration in his eyes. He had seen powerful people, but he had never seen anyone dismantle a man like Christian Ethan with such surgical precision.
"You are my wife!" Christian finally roared, losing the last of his control. He took a step forward, his hands clenched into fists. "You will come home with me!"
"No," Scarlett said. The word was quiet, but it had the finality of a judge's gavel. "I will not. Our arrangement was a contract, Christian. A contract you broke with your accusations and your cruelty. You wanted a spy, a scapegoat. You never wanted a wife."
She turned her gaze from him, dismissing him as if he were nothing more than a fly buzzing in her ear. Her eyes met Alistair's.
"Your Highness, my apologies for the interruption. My assistant, Maya, will escort you to the conference room. The final papers are ready for your signature."
Then, she looked past Christian to her assistant, who hovered nervously by the door. "Maya, please show Mr. Ethan the way out. And inform security that he is not to be allowed on this floor again without an appointment."
Stunned silence. Christian froze, his face a maelstrom of shock, fury, and a dawning, horrifying understanding. She hadn't just rejected him. She had erased him. She had treated him, the great Christian Ethan, like a common nuisance to be disposed of by security.
He watched, powerless, as Alistair gave Scarlett a small, respectful nod and followed Maya out one door. He felt Maya's timid touch on his arm, guiding him towards the other.
He had come here to reclaim his wife, to demand answers, to pull her back into his orbit through sheer force of will. Instead, he was being escorted out of her building like a beggar. The seduction he'd planned had turned into his own humiliation. He saw the truth then. He hadn't just lost a meek, convenient wife. He had lost an empress. And he knew, with a certainty that chilled him to the bone, that he would burn the world to the ground to get her back.
Back in her office, the silence was a heavy blanket. Scarlett walked to the floor-to-ceiling window, her posture ramrod straight. But inside, her heart was hammering. The confrontation had cost her more than she let on.
Maya re-entered the office quietly. "Ma'am? He's gone." She hesitated. "Also… a package arrived for you while you were in the meeting. It was delivered by a private courier. There's no return address."
On her desk sat a simple, elegant black box. Scarlett's blood ran cold. She knew that shade of black. It was the color of secrets and death. With trembling fingers, she lifted the lid.
Inside, nestled on a bed of black satin, was a single, perfect black rose. Its petals were like velvet, but it felt like a harbinger of doom. Tucked beneath it was a small, cream-colored card, folded in half.
She opened it. The handwriting was sharp, elegant, and utterly menacing.
*An empress cannot serve two masters. Choose your king wisely, or your husband pays the price.*