His Unwanted Wife Is Madame Lan

The sudden, violent shatter of glass from the downstairs foyer sounded like a bomb detonating in the dead of night.

Andrea Villarreal's eyes snapped open. Her heart hammered against her ribs, a violent, erratic rhythm that sent a rush of cold adrenaline straight to her fingertips. Two a.m. She lay frozen in the pitch-black master bedroom of the sprawling Morse estate, listening to the heavy, unfamiliar boots echoing on the hardwood floor below.

She didn't groan. She didn't rub her eyes. She simply reached out, her fingers stiff, and grabbed her phone off the nightstand. She dialed the only number she was supposed to rely on.

"What?" Gregory Morse's voice came through the speaker, the icy irritation in his voice thick enough to choke on. "I am in the middle of a summit in London. Make it fast."

Andrea's stomach twisted into a tight, hard knot. The acid burned the back of her throat. Him. Gregory Morse. The man who looked at her only as a ghost. Her tormentor. Her husband.

"Gregory, someone broke into the house," Andrea whispered, her tone turning to absolute ice out of pure terror. "I hear them on the stairs. Please, call the estate security. I can't reach them."

"Stop playing these pathetic games, Andrea," Gregory sighed, the sound dripping with disgust. "Genevra never resorted to such cheap, attention-seeking stunts. If you want my attention, this is the worst way to get it."

"Gregory, I swear-"

The line went dead. He hung up.

Andrea threw off the heavy duvet. The cold air of the bedroom hit her bare skin, but she barely felt it. She walked to the walk-in closet, bypassing the rows of designer clothes he had forced her to wear to mimic his dead fiancée, and knelt before the hidden wall safe. She punched in the code. The heavy metal door clicked open.

She didn't reach for a weapon. She reached for something far more vital for her survival: a heavy encrypted hard drive and a stack of confidential sketchbooks.

Ten minutes later, Andrea slipped out of the second-story window, scaling down the trellis. She wore a tailored black trench coat over a high-necked sweater, buttoned to the top. It was her armor. She kept her head down, bypassing the shadows of the intruders ransacking the ground floor, and slipped into the dense woods lining the property.

The run through the freezing night was silent. The sharp branches tore at her clothes, each one adding a layer of frost to her demeanor.

When she finally reached the safety of a 24-hour diner miles away, the smell of stale coffee and grease hit her like a physical blow. The linoleum floor was littered with napkins. A bottle of ketchup lay on its side, red liquid soaking into the table.

Andrea sat on the edge of the vinyl booth, wrapped in a coat that barely covered her shivering frame. She was holding her phone up, adjusting her messy dark hair, talking to the local police dispatcher.

"They broke in through the patio," Andrea whispered into the receiver, her eyes glassy. "Yes, I'm safe now. My husband? No. He... he couldn't be reached."

She slowly lowered the phone, her hand trembling. A cold, hollow realization settled in her chest. Gregory didn't care if she lived or died. To him, she was just a cheap substitute, a body occupying space in his grand, tragic narrative of losing Genevra.

Andrea didn't blink. She tapped the screen, ended the call, and dropped the phone onto the sticky table with a sharp clack.

She reached into her trench coat, pulled out the encrypted hard drive, and stared at it. This was her true life. Her secret.

"You think I'm just a useless shadow, Gregory?" Andrea said, her voice dangerously quiet. "You have no idea who you married."

The arrogant flush of fear vanished from her face, replaced by a sickly, chalky white resolve. Her arms dropped to her sides.

She opened her laptop. The screen illuminated her tired face. It wasn't displaying PR analytics or stock trends. It was a heavily encrypted portal for Dreamscape Atelier.

Andrea typed in a string of complex passwords. She needed to track the launch schedule for her new fashion line. The exact project that would resurrect her from this living death.

The screen loaded for three agonizing seconds. Her pulse pounded in her ears.

A red box flashed on the screen. WELCOME BACK, MADAME LAN.

Andrea closed her eyes, letting out a shaky breath. She looked down at the Cartier ring on her finger. The diamond caught the passing streetlights, flashing like a warning.

Tomorrow, she had to face the entire Morse family at the Hamptons estate. The real battlefield was just opening.

The Maybach glided smoothly down the Long Island Expressway, the morning sun glaring off the tinted windows. Inside the spacious backseat, the air was thick and suffocating.

Low, smooth jazz played from the speakers, a stark contrast to the tension vibrating between the two passengers.

Gregory sat on the right side, one ankle resting casually on his knee. He was dressed in a crisp white linen shirt, the top two buttons undone, reading the Wall Street Journal. He looked like a man without a single care in the world.

Andrea sat as far away from him as the leather seat allowed. Her knees were pressed together, a tablet resting on her lap. She was aggressively scrolling through the morning's fabric supply chain reports, tracking the secret shipments for Dreamscape Atelier. Her neck muscles were so tight they burned.

Gregory lowered the newspaper. His dark eyes slid over to her, taking in her rigid posture, the severe bun at the nape of her neck, and the sharp line of her jaw.

"You look like a soldier bracing for an ambush," Gregory drawled, his voice cutting through the jazz music.

Andrea didn't look up from her screen. "If you could manage to show a shred of basic humanity, Gregory, I wouldn't have almost died in that house."

Gregory let out a low, raspy laugh. He wasn't insulted. He actually sounded amused. "You survived, didn't you? Genevra would have fought them off herself without calling me crying." He folded the newspaper and tossed it aside, leaning his weight toward her. The scent of his cedarwood cologne invaded her space, making her breath catch in her throat.

Just as he shifted closer, Andrea's phone buzzed loudly against the leather armrest.

The screen lit up. A text message from Tessa Bloom.

That new silk supplier is waiting for you at the club. His terms are definitely harder than Gregory's conscience.

Andrea's blood ran cold. Her stomach dropped.

Before she could snatch the phone, Gregory's eyes darted to the glowing screen. He read the words. The silence in the car suddenly became heavy, dangerous.

A slow, wicked smirk spread across Gregory's lips. He reached out, his large hand moving toward the phone. His knuckles deliberately brushed against the sensitive skin of Andrea's hand. A jolt of electricity shot up her arm.

Andrea reacted instantly. She snatched the phone, her thumb slamming the lock button, plunging the screen into darkness. She shot him a glare sharp enough to cut glass.

Gregory slowly pulled his hand back, resting it on his thigh. He leaned back into the plush leather, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Well," Gregory said, his voice dropping an octave. "It seems your little side hobbies are distracting you from your duties as my wife."

Andrea's heart hammered against her ribs, but she forced her face to remain a blank slate. She adjusted the cuffs of her silk blouse. "Don't forget our arrangement, Gregory. My personal time is my own."

Gregory's eyes darkened. The amusement vanished instantly. He lunged forward, moving faster than she could anticipate. His hand shot out, his long fingers wrapping around her jaw. His grip was firm, unyielding, forcing her to look directly into his eyes.

"Listen to me," Gregory whispered, his face so close she could feel the heat radiating off his skin. His gaze was a bottomless abyss of control. "In this family, you are a placeholder. And a placeholder does not get to have secrets."

Andrea's breath hitched. Her lungs felt squeezed. She reached up and slapped his hand away. The smack echoed loudly in the quiet car.

She straightened her collar, her fingers trembling slightly, though she prayed he didn't notice. "Keep your hands to yourself."

Gregory didn't respond. He just watched her, a predator studying its prey.

The Maybach slowed down, turning off the main road and crunching onto the private gravel driveway of the Morse family's Hamptons estate. Perfectly manicured hedges lined the path, leading up to a massive, imposing stone mansion that looked more like a fortress than a summer home.

The car stopped. The driver opened the door.

Maria, the head housekeeper, stood rigidly at the top of the stone steps. Her uniform was immaculate, her face pinched tight.

Gregory stepped out first. He turned and offered his hand to Andrea. It was a performance for the staff. Andrea ignored his hand entirely. She stepped out of the car on her own, her heels clicking sharply against the pavement.

Maria bowed deeply as Gregory approached. "Welcome home, Mr. Morse."

When Andrea walked past, Maria didn't bow. She barely offered a stiff nod, her eyes filled with thinly veiled disdain. Andrea felt the disrespect like a physical slap, but she kept her spine perfectly straight. She was used to this. To them, she was just the cheap imitation who somehow manipulated her way into the family.

Andrea walked into the grand foyer. The air inside was freezing, smelling of lemon polish and old money.

In the center of the massive living room, Genevra's younger sister, Kia Hunt, was standing in front of an antique mirror. She was adjusting a heavy diamond and emerald Van Cleef necklace against her collarbone.

Kia caught Andrea's reflection in the mirror. She let out a loud, exaggerated sigh and turned around.

"Oh, the cheap knockoff is here," Kia sneered, her eyes raking over Andrea's simple outfit. "I thought you only came around to dust my sister's portraits."

Gregory stepped into the room behind Andrea. He opened his mouth, but Andrea beat him to it.

She offered Kia a razor-sharp, perfectly polite smile. "I do handle the dust, Kia. Including the outdated, tacky jewelry you inherited."

Kia's face flushed a violent red. Her hand flew to her necklace. "Excuse me? You little-"

A low, dark chuckle interrupted her.

Gregory walked up beside Andrea. To her absolute shock, he didn't even look at her. He stepped past her, his shoulder brushing hers coldly.

"Don't provoke her, Andrea," Gregory said. His voice was casual, but the underlying threat was unmistakable. "Kia is a guest. You are just here because I allow it. Remember your manners."

Kia smirked triumphantly, shooting Andrea a look of pure venom, and walked up the grand staircase like she owned the place.

Andrea's chest tightened, a sharp pain shooting through her ribs. "You always take her side," she hissed under her breath.

Gregory stopped and looked over his shoulder. "Take her side? You're the substitute I tolerate. I expect you to act like Genevra, not a petulant child."

Before Andrea could formulate a response, a booming, furious voice echoed from the heavy oak doors of the study down the hall.

"Gregory!" Theodore Morse roared. "Bring your wife and get in here. Now."

Andrea's stomach plummeted. The real war was about to begin.

The heavy oak doors of the study slammed shut behind them, sealing them inside. The room smelled of aged leather, expensive cigars, and suffocating authority.

Theodore Morse stood behind his massive mahogany desk. His face was purple with rage. He picked up a crumpled tabloid newspaper and hurled it across the room. It hit the edge of the desk and scattered onto the Persian rug.

The front page featured a grainy photo of Andrea looking disheveled outside the police station after the robbery, the headline screaming in bold black ink: MORSE HEIR'S WIFE IN MIDNIGHT SCANDAL.

"You are a reckless, squandering fool!" Theodore barked, slamming his fist onto the desk. The crystal whiskey decanter rattled. "You are dragging the Morse name through the mud by keeping this... this street rat around!"

Gregory didn't flinch. He walked over to a leather wingback chair and sat down. He crossed his legs, resting his elbows on the armrests, looking entirely bored. He looked like a man waiting for a delayed flight, not a son facing his father's wrath.

Andrea stood near the door, keeping her distance. She blended into the shadows, a silent observer. Her eyes tracked the micro-expressions on Theodore's face. She knew the power dynamics in this room were lethal.

"This little incident caused a two percent dip in the stock," Gregory said, his voice a low, lethal whisper. "But she serves her purpose. She keeps the board from questioning my stability after Genevra's passing."

"Reputation is the foundation of this family!" Theodore yelled. "She looks nothing like Genevra anymore!"

Gregory stared at him for a long moment. Then, he slowly turned his head. His dark eyes locked onto Andrea standing in the corner.

A cold shiver violently ripped down Andrea's spine. She recognized that look. It was the look of a curator inspecting a flawed piece of art. Her breath hitched. The air in the room felt thick, suffocating her lungs as his gaze dragged over her features, dissecting her worth.

"She will learn to dress better," Gregory announced to his father. "Or I will replace her."

Andrea's heart stopped. The air vanished from her lungs. Her pupils dilated in pure shock as she stared at the side of Gregory's face. Replace her? A wave of nausea hit her so hard she almost stumbled. He spoke of her like a broken piece of furniture.

Theodore's eyes darted to Andrea's pale face. The rage in his face melted away, replaced by a calculating, greedy hunger. He looked at her not as a human being, but as a defective tool.

"See that you do," Theodore demanded.

"We are working on it," Gregory lied effortlessly, his grip tightening on the armrest of his chair.

Theodore let out a heavy breath. He sat down heavily in his leather chair. "If she can't maintain the image... the restrictions on your board voting rights will be permanently reinstated."

"Then I suggest you show some good faith, Father," Gregory said, a victorious smirk playing on his lips.

Theodore waved his hand dismissively. "Get out. Both of you."

Gregory turned and dragged Andrea out of the study. The moment the heavy doors clicked shut behind them in the empty hallway, Andrea violently shoved Gregory away.

She backed up against the wall, her chest heaving. "Are you insane?" she hissed, her voice shaking with suppressed fury. "How dare you make that decision for me?"

Gregory adjusted his cuffs, completely unfazed. "You think you have a choice? This is your only value in this family."

"It wasn't in the contract!" Andrea spat, her nails digging into her own palms so hard the skin almost broke.

Gregory took a step toward her, trapping her against the wall. He leaned in, his face inches from hers. "I wrote the contract, Andrea. I can rewrite it whenever I want."

He reached up, his knuckles slowly, deliberately tracing the line of her neck. The touch sent a violent shudder of revulsion and fear through her body.

"Or," Gregory whispered, his breath warm against her skin, "do you want me to throw you out right now? Let the media tear you apart? Let you lose everything you've built?"

A freezing cold washed over Andrea's internal organs. She stared into his dark, empty eyes and realized just how dangerous the man she married truly was. He wasn't just a playboy; he was a monster in a custom suit.

Gregory dropped his hand and turned toward the grand staircase. "Prepare yourself to be a better shadow, Mrs. Morse," he threw over his shoulder.

Andrea stood alone in the cold hallway. Her hands were curled into tight fists, her body trembling with a rage so deep it physically hurt.

She looked back at the closed doors of the study. Theodore's concession was temporary. Gregory's control was suffocating. If she didn't act, she would be swallowed whole by these monsters.

She reached into her pocket with shaking fingers and pulled out her phone. She opened a secure, encrypted messaging app and typed rapidly.

Accelerate the timeline. I need the new Dreamscape Atelier collection ready for launch by next week. Whatever the cost.

She hit send. She wasn't a canary in a gilded cage. She was the poison they had willingly swallowed.