His Unwanted Wife Is A Genius

Chloe tightened her grip on the silk sheets, trying to hold onto the fading warmth of his body. It was a useless gesture. Griffin was already swinging his legs over the side of the bed, his back a landscape of hard muscle and cold indifference. The air in the room, once heavy with their breathing, was now thin and sharp.

The silence was broken by the vibration of a phone on the nightstand.

Griffin snatched it up. The screen cast a pale, unforgiving light on his face, illuminating the sudden tension in his jaw. Chloe didn't need to see the name to know who it was. It was always her. Jaida.

He answered, his voice a low murmur that held none of the harshness he reserved for the rest of the world. Chloe watched the line of his shoulders, the way his head tilted slightly as he listened. From the other end of the line, a faint, delicate cough was just audible. It was enough.

His entire posture shifted, hardening into that of a protector, a guardian.

Chloe reached out, her fingers barely brushing the skin of his arm. It was a small, hesitant touch, a silent plea.

He flinched away as if her hand were fire. The rejection was so swift, so instinctive, it stole the breath from her lungs. A cold fist clenched in her stomach.

Griffin ended the call and turned to face her. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, held no trace of the man who had been inside her moments ago. They were flat, empty. Commanding.

"Get dressed," he said. The words were clipped, devoid of emotion. "We're going to the clinic on the Upper East Side."

A tremor started in Chloe's hands. The clinic. The sterile smell, the cold leather chair, the needle. Her throat went dry.

"Griffin, please," she whispered, the words catching. "Not tonight. It's... it's my birthday."

A cruel, humorless smile touched his lips. It didn't reach his eyes. "Don't forget your obligations, Chloe. The agreement wasn't just for show."

The word "agreement" landed like a physical blow. It was the foundation of their marriage, the invisible wall that stood between them always. She was an obligation. A walking, breathing contract.

The last flicker of hope in her chest died, leaving behind a cold, heavy ash. She bit her lip, the sharp pain a welcome distraction from the hollowing ache in her chest. She would not cry. Not in front of him.

Wordlessly, she threw back the covers and stood up. The cold air hit her bare skin, and she shivered.

They dressed in silence, a suffocating quiet that filled every corner of the massive bedroom. He moved with efficient, angry grace, pulling on a dark sweater and slacks. She fumbled with the buttons on her blouse, her fingers feeling numb and clumsy.

He was already at the door before she had even found her shoes. He didn't wait. He never waited.

She followed him out of the room, her bare feet silent on the plush runner of the hallway. The grand staircase, carved from imported marble, felt like a glacier beneath her feet. Each step sent a jolt of cold up her legs, which felt weak and unsteady. Halfway down, her knee buckled, and she had to grab the banister to keep from falling.

Griffin didn't even turn around. He was already pulling open the massive front door, a slice of the cold night air rushing in to greet them. He strode towards the garage without a backward glance.

The roar of the Maybach's engine was an assault on the quiet night. Chloe pulled open the heavy passenger door and slid inside. The seatbelt buckle was cold against her fingers, and the strap dug into her collarbone as she clicked it into place.

The air conditioning blasted on high, chilling the enclosed space to an unnatural cold. She wrapped her arms around herself, but the chill was coming from the inside out. Her teeth began to chatter.

Griffin stared straight ahead, his hands gripping the steering wheel, his knuckles white. He slammed his foot on the accelerator, and the car shot forward, leaving the grand, lonely estate behind as it merged into the river of lights that was Manhattan at night.

The drive was a blur of traffic lights and neon signs reflecting off the wet pavement. Chloe stared out the window, watching the city rush by, feeling as detached from it as she was from the man sitting beside her.

He screeched to a halt in front of the private clinic, the tires protesting against the asphalt. Before the car had even fully stopped, Griffin had his door open and was striding towards the entrance.

Chloe scrambled to follow, her legs still feeling like jelly. She had to half-jog to keep up with his long, impatient strides, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

The clinic's lobby was unnaturally bright, the white walls and polished floors reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights. The smell of antiseptic hit her, and her stomach churned violently. It was the smell of her own personal hell.

Dr. Sullivan met them at the reception desk, a patient file in his hand. He was a kind-faced man in his late forties, and his brow furrowed in concern as he took in Chloe's pale, drawn face.

"Right away," Griffin commanded, his voice echoing in the sterile space. "Arrange the blood draw. Now."

A nurse appeared, pushing a stainless-steel cart that rattled with the instruments of Chloe's dread. Her eyes locked on the syringe, the long, thin needle glinting under the lights. Her vision narrowed. The sounds of the clinic faded to a dull roar in her ears. Her whole body went rigid.

"Mrs. Donovan?" Dr. Sullivan's voice seemed to come from a great distance. He saw the terror in her eyes, the way she was swaying on her feet. He reached out, his hand warm and steady on her shoulder, trying to guide her to a chair. "Are you alright?"

Griffin's head snapped around. His eyes narrowed as he saw the doctor's hand on his wife's arm. For a split second, a dark, possessive glint flashed in their depths. He saw the doctor's touch not as a medical gesture, but as a challenge to his authority, an intrusion on his resources.

He closed the distance between them in two long strides.

"Don't touch her," he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

He roughly shoved Dr. Sullivan's hand away and grabbed Chloe's arm. His grip was like iron. He dragged her towards the collection chair and forced her down onto the cold leather.

A strangled cry of protest escaped her lips. She tried to pull away, to get up, but he was too strong. He leaned over her, using his body to pin her against the back of the chair, his weight a crushing, inescapable force.

"Hold her still," he ordered the nurse.

The nurse, a young woman with wide, frightened eyes, hesitated.

"Now!" he roared.

Chloe's frantic struggles were useless against his strength. She turned her head away, squeezing her eyes shut as the nurse swabbed her arm with alcohol. The cold sting was the prelude to the pain.

Then came the sharp, brutal pierce of the needle breaking her skin.

A scream tore from her throat, raw and ragged. A cold sweat erupted across her entire body, soaking the back of her blouse. She could feel the blood leaving her body, a warm, sickening pull.

She risked a glance at Griffin. His face was a mask of stone, but as he watched the dark red blood flow through the clear plastic tube, his gaze flickered away for a fraction of a second. It was a barely perceptible movement, a momentary inability to watch what he had ordered.

The nurse withdrew the needle. The moment the pressure was gone, Chloe's body went limp. She slumped in the chair, gasping for air, her vision swimming with black spots.

Griffin's phone buzzed again. He answered it instantly, his back to her.

"I'm on my way," he said, and the cold fury in his voice had been replaced by a gentleness that was more painful than any blow. "I'll be there in ten minutes. Just hold on."

He turned and walked towards the door without a single word to her.

With the last of her strength, Chloe reached out. Her hand, slick with sweat, trembled in the air, her fingers grasping for his sleeve, for anything.

She caught nothing but the cold, empty air he left behind.

---

Griffin slammed the glass door shut behind him, the sound echoing with the pent-up anger within him. He slid into the Maybach's driver's seat, the cold leather pressing against his skin.

The car pulled smoothly away from the curb, melting back into the city's bloodstream.

Inside the clinic, Dr. Sullivan pressed a cup of warm water into Chloe's icy, trembling hands. The water sloshed over the rim, spilling onto her fingers, but she didn't seem to notice. Her gaze was fixed on the tiny pinprick on the inside of her elbow, where a single bead of blood was welling up. Her vision blurred, the bright lights of the room fracturing into a thousand tiny stars.

A nurse quietly entered and handed a report to the doctor. Chloe saw Dr. Sullivan's expression shift as he scanned the page - from concern to disbelief, then to something dark and cold. She watched him slam the file down on the counter with a crack that made her flinch. He muttered something under his breath, his voice shaking with fury, then stalked to the window and pulled out his phone. She could hear the sharp taps of his fingers on the screen, but not the words that followed - only the low, urgent pitch of his voice as he spoke into the receiver.

Miles away, Griffin was walking down the plushly carpeted hallway of Jaida's Upper West Side apartment building. The doctor's words stopped him dead in his tracks. His hand, reaching for the doorknob, froze in mid-air.

"It's an act," Griffin retorted, the denial automatic. "A new way to get attention. She's fine."

A harsh, bitter laugh came through the phone. "Fine? She's on the verge of a vasovagal syncope episode, you arrogant bastard. Consider my medical advisory contract with your family terminated. Effective immediately. Find someone else to enable your abuse."

The line went dead.

Griffin stared at his phone, the dial tone a shrill, accusing sound in the silent hallway. A strange, unfamiliar prickle of irritation, sharp and unsettling, worked its way under his skin. He shoved the feeling down, attributing it to the doctor's unprofessionalism. He straightened his collar, smoothed the front of his sweater, and pushed open the door to Jaida's apartment.

Inside the clinic, Chloe watched Dr. Sullivan end his call, his face grim. She couldn't make out the words from this distance, but she saw his jaw tighten as he slipped the phone back into his pocket. The validation, the simple act of a stranger seeing her pain when her own husband refused to, was the final crack in her dam of composure. A single tear escaped, then another, until silent, shuddering sobs racked her body. The tears she had refused to shed for him, she shed for a stranger's kindness.

Dr. Sullivan placed a box of tissues on the table beside her. He sighed, a heavy, weary sound.

"Mrs. Donovan," he said gently, his anger softening into pity. "For your own health, for your own safety... you need to leave him."

Chloe's hand clenched around a tissue, her knuckles turning white. She looked up, her tear-filled eyes meeting his in the reflection of the dark window. Outside, the lights of Manhattan glittered, a city of dreams that had become her cage. The hope that had once fueled her, that had allowed her to endure three years of this cold, hollow marriage, was finally, completely extinguished.

She used the armrest to push herself to her feet. Her legs were shaky, protesting the movement, and she had to brace herself against the wall as she walked towards the door. Each step was a deliberate, painful effort.

The automatic doors of the clinic slid open, and the raw, damp cold of the late-night air hit her like a slap. It was a shock to her system, but it was real. It was something to feel other than the crushing weight of despair.

She didn't call the driver Griffin kept on staff for her. She didn't want to be ferried around in another one of his gilded cages. Instead, she stumbled, her steps uncertain and unsteady, towards the distant, rumbling sound of the subway.

At the station, the air was thick with the smell of damp concrete and electricity. Her hands shook so badly that when she tried to pull her MetroCard from her wallet, it slipped from her grasp and clattered onto the grimy floor. A cold sweat broke out on her forehead; it took her several tries to bend down and pick it up.

A woman with a kind, tired face, probably on her way home from a late shift, saw her fumbling. She bent down and picked it up for her, her brow furrowed with concern.

"You okay, honey?" the woman asked, her voice laced with a genuine, uncomplicated concern that made Chloe's throat tighten. "You look like you've seen a ghost. Need me to call someone? You're shaking like a leaf - I don't think you can make it home on your own."

Chloe managed a weak smile. It felt brittle, like a piece of glass about to shatter. "No, thank you. I'm just... very tired."

The woman didn't look convinced, but she nodded slowly. "Well... you take care of yourself, honey. You sure you don't want me to call you a cab or something? A girl like you, out here alone this late - you're gonna get yourself killed."

Chloe shook her head. "I'll be fine."

The woman sighed, a reluctant, worried sound. "Lord, I hope so. But if you collapse in a tunnel, no one's gonna find you till morning."

She watched Chloe for a long moment, as if waiting for her to change her mind, then turned and walked away, muttering something under her breath about "rich folks' problems."

Chloe sat on a cold metal bench, the screech of an approaching train a physical assault on her frayed nerves. The wind from the tunnel whipped her hair across her face.

The train car was nearly empty. She sank onto a hard plastic seat and leaned her head against the cool glass of the window. Her reflection stared back at her: a pale, hollow-eyed stranger with smudged mascara and a haunted expression.

She pulled out her phone and opened her message history with Griffin. It was a pathetic, one-sided conversation. Her messages - "Are you coming home for dinner?", "Hope the meeting went well.", "Thinking of you." - were met with hours, sometimes days, of silence, occasionally punctuated by a one-word reply. "No." "Fine." "Seen."

Her thumb hovered over the screen, over the history of her own foolish, relentless hope. With a final, shuddering breath, she pressed 'Delete Chat History'.

As the train plunged into the darkness of the tunnel connecting Manhattan to Long Island, the last remnants of her love for Griffin Donovan were swallowed by the blackness.

She walked the final half-mile from the station to the Donovan estate, each step a deliberate effort against her trembling legs. The massive iron gates loomed in the darkness like the entrance to a mausoleum. The house itself was a hulking shadow against the night sky, dark and silent. He hadn't even left a light on for her.

She pushed open the heavy, carved wooden door. The foyer was cavernous and cold. She slipped off her heels, the thick wool of the Persian rug a small comfort to her aching feet. She didn't turn on the lights. She preferred the darkness.

Silently, she climbed the grand staircase, her hand trailing along the cold, polished wood of the banister. She didn't go to their bedroom. She went to his study.

She sat down in his large leather chair, the one that still held the faint scent of his cologne. She opened the bottom drawer of his mahogany desk and pulled out a stack of blank legal paper.

With a steady hand, she took one of his expensive fountain pens from its holder. At the top of the crisp, white page, she wrote two words.

Divorce Agreement.

---

The sharp, coppery smell of blood woke Chloe.

She had fallen asleep slumped over the desk, her cheek pressed against the cool wood. For a moment, she was disoriented, the unfamiliar weight of sleep in the wrong room confusing her. Then the smell hit her again, stronger this time, a raw, metallic stench that turned her stomach.

It was coming from downstairs.

She pushed herself up, her neck stiff and aching. A wave of nausea rolled through her. She clapped a hand over her mouth and ran, her bare feet slapping against the hardwood floor as she sprinted to the nearest bathroom. She barely made it to the toilet before she was retching, her body convulsing with dry, heaving spasms. Nothing came up but bitter bile that burned her throat.

When the nausea subsided, she splashed cold water on her face, staring at her pale reflection in the mirror. The woman looking back at her was a stranger, her eyes shadowed with a new, hard resolve.

She walked slowly down the main staircase, her hand gripping the banister for support. The smell grew stronger, leading her to the dining room. There, on the long, polished table, sat a silver serving platter, placed with deliberate force by the housekeeper, Mrs. Peters.

Mrs. Peters, a woman whose loyalty was bought and paid for by Griffin, stood stiffly by the table, her face a mask of disapproval. She didn't meet Chloe's eyes.

"Mr. Donovan ordered this for you," the housekeeper said, her voice flat and mechanical. "He said you are to eat all of it. To replenish your iron."

She lifted the silver cloche with a flourish. On the plate sat a large, thick slab of beef liver, seared on the outside but still glistening with blood. It was barely cooked. The iron-rich, gamey smell filled the air, and Chloe felt another wave of sickness wash over her.

She took a step back, shaking her head. "I can't eat that. You know I can't."

She had told Griffin years ago, told everyone in this house. She had a violent aversion, an allergy, to organ meats. The very sight of it made her ill.

"Mr. Donovan insisted," Mrs. Peters repeated, unmoved.

Just then, the front door opened, and a gust of cold morning air swept into the foyer. Jaida Brennan entered, leaning heavily on the arm of her younger sister, Melody. Jaida was dressed in a soft, white cashmere coat, looking pale and fragile, a perfect porcelain doll.

Melody, on the other hand, was a burst of loud color and cheap perfume. Her eyes, sharp and malicious, immediately landed on the plate of liver. A smirk twisted her brightly painted lips.

"Well, well," Melody said, her voice dripping with condescension. "Look what the cat dragged in. I guess that's all you country girls know how to eat. Offal."

Chloe's jaw tightened. She ignored the younger sister and turned to go back upstairs, wanting nothing more than to be away from them, away from this house.

"Chloe, wait," Jaida's voice was soft and breathy.

She let go of Melody's arm and took a few unsteady steps toward Chloe, her hand outstretched as if in a gesture of peace.

Chloe instinctively sidestepped her, unwilling to be touched.

It was all the opening Jaida needed. With a theatrical gasp, she stumbled, her ankle twisting unnaturally. She let out a sharp, pained cry and crumpled to the floor, her white coat pooling around her like a fallen angel's wings.

"Jaida!" Melody shrieked, rushing to her sister's side. She glared up at Chloe, her face contorted with rage. "What did you do? You pushed her! You vicious bitch!"

As if on cue, the front door opened again.

Griffin strode in, bringing with him the chill of the outside world. He took in the scene in a single, sweeping glance: Jaida on the floor, weeping softly into her hands; Melody kneeling beside her, pointing an accusing finger; and Chloe, standing frozen by the staircase, her face a mask of disbelief.

His expression, already cold, turned to ice.

He didn't ask what happened. He didn't wait for an explanation. He crossed the room in three long strides, his movements filled with a controlled fury. He shoved Chloe aside, a brutal, dismissive push that sent her stumbling backward.

Her back hit the hard, carved newel post at the bottom of the stairs. Pain, sharp and immediate, exploded in her spine, and she gasped, sucking in a breath through her teeth.

Griffin didn't even notice. He was already crouching beside Jaida, his voice low and laced with a concern he had never once shown Chloe. "Are you hurt? What did she do?"

"It's not her fault, Griffin," Jaida whispered, her voice trembling artfully. She looked up at him through a veil of tears. "I just... I lost my balance. I'm so clumsy."

Her defense was more damning than any accusation. It painted Chloe as a cruel aggressor and Jaida as a forgiving saint. It worked perfectly.

Griffin's eyes, when he looked back at Chloe, were black with rage. He gently lifted Jaida into his arms as if she weighed nothing and carried her to the sofa. After settling her against the cushions, he turned and walked slowly, deliberately, toward Chloe.

The air grew thick, heavy with his menace. Chloe straightened up, forcing herself to stand tall despite the throbbing pain in her back. She would not cower. Not anymore.

He stopped directly in front of her, so close she could feel the heat radiating from his body. He reached out and grabbed her chin, his fingers digging into her jaw, forcing her to meet his gaze. The pressure was immense, a clear and brutal display of his power.

"I don't know what game you're playing," he snarled, his voice a low, dangerous whisper. "But it ends now. You will not touch her. You will not look at her. If you so much as breathe in her direction again, I will make you regret the day you were born. Do you understand me?"

Chloe stared into his eyes, the eyes of the man she had loved for three years, the man she had given up everything for. And she saw nothing. No love, no compassion, just a cold, empty void filled with a stranger's fury. A bitter, ironic laugh bubbled up in her throat.

The sound, so unexpected, so full of derision, seemed to startle him. His grip on her jaw loosened for a fraction of a second, a flicker of confusion crossing his face.

He recovered quickly, his anger returning twofold. To reassert his control, he let go of her and pointed a rigid finger at the dining table.

"You will sit down," he commanded, "and you will eat every last piece of that liver. Now."

Melody, seeing her chance, pulled out her phone, a gleeful, vindictive light in her eyes. She was ready to record Chloe's humiliation.

Griffin shot her a look so venomous it made her flinch and quickly put the phone away. But his order to Chloe stood.

The smell of the bloody meat was making her stomach heave. The thought of putting it in her mouth was a physical torture. But the look on Griffin's face told her this was a battle she could not win. Not yet.

Slowly, deliberately, Chloe walked to the table and sat down. Her hands trembled as she picked up the heavy silver knife and fork. With a deep, steadying breath, she cut into the rubbery flesh. A trickle of red juice pooled on the white plate.

She lifted the fork to her lips, the metallic scent filling her nostrils, a wave of revulsion rising in her throat.

---