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 sharp. He stood up. He was taller than she expected, broad-shouldered, blocking out the light from the sconces behind him. His shadow fell over her, swallowing her whole.

He stepped closer. Too close. He smelled of rain and tobacco. He reached out, his hand large and rough, and gripped her chin. He tilted her face up, forcing her to look at him. His thumb brushed over her bottom lip, a gesture that was possessive, not affectionate.

Araminta's breath hitched. Every instinct screamed at her to slap his hand away, to run. But the image of her brother, Griffin, hooked up to machines in a state facility, flashed in her mind. Javen paid the bills. She had to endure this.

"Tell me," Alfonse whispered, leaning down so his lips brushed her ear. "If I sign this, do you stay? Are you part of the entertainment package for the evening?"

Araminta flinched. She jerked back, her heel catching on the edge of a rug. She stumbled, her hip colliding with a tower of champagne flutes on a side table.

Crash.

The sound of shattering glass was deafening. Shards exploded across the floor. Champagne foamed over the teak. The music stopped. The room went dead silent.

Araminta stood frozen, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

Alfonse didn't look at the mess. He looked at her. A slow, cruel smile curved his lips. It was the look of a wolf watching a rabbit break its own leg.

"Clumsy," he murmured.

He picked up the folder from where she had dropped it. He uncapped a fountain pen and scribbled his signature on the cover, not even bothering to open it to the signature line.

He tossed the folder at her feet, right into the pile of broken glass and spilled alcohol.

"Take it and get out," Alfonse said, turning his back on her. "Tell Javen I have no interest in his 'gift.' She's too stiff."

Araminta crouched down. Her hands shook uncontrollably. She reached for the folder. A jagged shard of crystal sliced into the pad of her index finger.

She gasped, pulling her hand back. A drop of bright red blood fell onto the white cover of the document, blooming like a rose.

She grabbed the folder, clutching it to her chest, and fled. She didn't look back at the models, or the guards, or the man who had just stripped her of her dignity without unbuttoning a single button.

She ran back into the storm.

Twenty minutes later, soaked to the bone, she sat in the back of a taxi. Her finger throbbed. She dialed Javen.

"I got it," she said when the line connected. Her voice was thick with unshed tears. "He signed it."

"You got it?" Javen's voice was distracted, distant. There was music in the background. "Good. Great. Listen, Blossom Vega is right here, don't talk. I'm hanging up."

The line went dead.

Araminta stared at the phone. The screen went black, reflecting her own haggard face. A cold knot of dread tightened in her chest. Blossom Vega?

The taxi pulled up to the iron gates of the Doyle Estate. The security guard peered into the car, hesitated for a long second, and then opened the gates.

The driveway was lined with cars. Expensive cars. Bentleys, Ferraris, Rolls Royces.

Araminta paid the driver and stepped out. The rain had stopped, leaving the air heavy and humid. The windows of the manor were blazing with light. Music thumped through the walls, a stark contrast to the quiet dread in her heart.

She pushed open the heavy oak front doors.

The grand foyer was packed. A tower of champagne-intact, unlike the one on the yacht-glittered under the chandelier. Laughter bubbled up to the high ceiling.

In the center of the room, on the makeshift dance floor, Javen was spinning a woman. She wore a red dress that cost more than Araminta's entire life savings. Her head was thrown back in laughter. Blossom Vega.

Javen's hand was low on her waist. He looked happy. Happier than Araminta had seen him in years.

Araminta stood in the doorway, water dripping from her hair onto the marble floor, clutching the blood-stained contract. She looked like a ghost that had dragged itself out of a shipwreck.

Victoria Doyle, Javen's mother, was holding a glass of wine near the stairs. Her eyes landed on Araminta. Her lip curled in immediate, visceral disgust.

Javen stopped dancing. He turned. He saw her.

There was no guilt in his eyes. There was no relief that she was safe. There was only annoyance, sharp and clear. He looked at her the way one looks at a stain on a favorite shirt.

The music cut out abruptly. The DJ, sensing the shift in the room's atmosphere, killed the track. The silence that followed was heavier than the storm outside. Hundreds of eyes turned toward the entrance.

Araminta stood shivering, a puddle forming around her worn heels.

Blossom Vega stopped laughing. She brought a manicured hand to her mouth, her eyes widening in theatrical shock. "Oh my god," she said, her voice carrying clearly across the room. "Is that... is that the help? Did the plumbing burst in the servants' quarters?"

A ripple of laughter moved through the crowd. It was a low, ugly sound.

Araminta felt the blood drain from her face. She looked at Javen, pleading silently. Say something. Tell them I'm your fiancée.

Javen released Blossom's waist and walked toward her. For a split second, Araminta thought he was coming to shield her. Her shoulders relaxed an inch.

He stopped in front of her and snatched the folder from her hands. He looked at the smear of red blood on the white cover. His nose wrinkled.

"You got blood on it?" he hissed, his voice low and venomous. "You ruin everything you touch, don't you? Disgusting."

Araminta stared at him, her mouth opening and closing. "I... I got cut. On the yacht. Alfonse..."

"Stop talking," Victoria Doyle commanded. She stepped up beside her son, her posture rigid. She turned to the crowd, her face transforming into a mask of gracious hospitality. She raised a microphone.

"Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience," Victoria announced, her voice booming. "We have a wonderful surprise. Tonight, we celebrate the union of two great families. I am thrilled to announce the engagement of my son, Javen Doyle, to the beautiful Blossom Vega!"

The room erupted in applause.

Araminta felt the floor tilt beneath her feet. The sound of clapping was like physical blows. "Engagement?" she whispered, the word scraping her throat. "But... what am I?"

Javen looked down at her. His eyes were cold, dead things. "Araminta, look at yourself. Look at the reality. Doyle Industries needs the Vega capital. You? You are a financial black hole."

Blossom glided over, linking her arm through Javen's. She rested her head on his shoulder, beaming at Araminta with predatory triumph.

"We have a contract," Araminta choked out. "I am the Donaldson heir..."

"Donaldson?" Richard Doyle, Javen's father, laughed from the sidelines. It was a bark of a laugh. "That bankrupt name? You have nothing. You are a parasite we've been feeding for ten years."

Flashes popped. The media had been let in. They swarmed forward, cameras clicking rapidly, blinding Araminta.

Javen turned to the nearest camera, his face settling into a look of practiced concern. "I apologize for the scene," he said smoothly. "Miss Donaldson has been struggling with her mental health for some time. My family has tried to help her, out of charity, but she has these... delusions. She believes she is part of the family."

"Liar!" Araminta screamed. She lunged for the microphone, desperation giving her a burst of strength.

Two security guards were on her instantly. Heavy hands clamped onto her arms, twisting them behind her back. Pain shot through her shoulders.

"Get off me!" she shrieked, kicking out.

Javen leaned in close, pretending to calm her down for the cameras. His lips brushed her ear, his breath hot.

"If you make another sound," he whispered, "I will call the facility. Griffin's life depends on a steady supply of some very expensive, very specific medication, doesn't it? It would be a shame if the sanatorium's pharmacy had a... clerical error tonight."

Araminta went rigid. The fight drained out of her body instantly. Griffin. Her little brother. He was the only thing that mattered.

Javen pulled back, smiling sadly for the press. "See? She's calming down. Please, take Miss Donaldson to rest. She's having an episode."

The guards began to drag her backward. Her heels scraped against the marble.

"Watch the carpet!" Blossom called out, her voice shrill. "That's a Persian import! Don't let her mud ruin it!"

Araminta was hauled past the faces of people she had known since childhood. People she had dined with. They looked away, or worse, they smirked. She was being erased in real-time.

The guards didn't take her to her bedroom. They dragged her down the hall to the servants' wing and shoved her into a small, dusty storage room filled with old chairs and boxes.

Araminta fell to her knees as they released her.

The door slammed shut. The lock clicked with a finality that echoed in her bones.

She was alone.

She scrambled to the door, pounding on it once. "Let me out!"

Silence.

She sank to the floor, the adrenaline crashing. She pulled her knees to her chest, shivering violently in her wet dress. She reached for her phone.

No signal. The bars were greyed out. The estate had signal jammers for high-security events.

She opened the news app, which had cached the latest headlines.

SCANDAL AT DOYLE ESTATE: DESTITUTE SOCIALITE ATTACKS NEWLY ENGAGED COUPLE.

The comments were already pouring in.

Gold digger.

Psycho.

She looks like a drowned rat.

Araminta stared at the screen until her vision blurred with tears. She wiped them away aggressively, smearing mascara across her cheek. Crying wouldn't save Griffin.

Javen had crossed the line. He had threatened her brother.

She reached into the hidden pocket of her dress, near her ribcage. Her fingers closed around a small, cold object. It was an old, tarnished lapel pin-the crest of the Donaldson family.

She squeezed it until the metal edges dug into her palm.

"You want a villain?" she whispered to the empty room. "I'll give you a villain."

Araminta woke to the sound of the lock turning. She had curled up on a pile of moth-eaten curtains, her body stiff and aching.

The door opened, and a maid threw a bundle of clothes onto the floor. It was a grey tracksuit, stained and worn.

"Master Javen says put these on," the maid sneered. "He doesn't want you walking around in that ruined dress. It's embarrassing."

Araminta didn't argue. She stripped off the damp, ruined evening gown and pulled on the tracksuit. It smelled of bleach and old sweat.

She didn't wait for permission. She pushed past the maid and stormed into the hallway.

"Hey! You can't-"

Araminta ignored her. She marched toward the main wing of the house. She knew where they would be. Richard Doyle's study.

She stopped outside the heavy mahogany doors. Voices drifted out.

"Alfonse is a lunatic," Javen was saying. "He signed the deal, but look at page forty. The penalty clauses are insane. If we miss a single quarterly projection, Wolfe Corp gets controlling interest."

Araminta pushed the doors open. They banged against the walls.

Richard Doyle sat behind his massive desk, a cigar clamped between his teeth. Javen was pacing by the fireplace. They both looked up.

"I want access to my trust," Araminta said, her voice steady and cold. "The education fund my parents left for me."

Richard took the cigar out of his mouth. He looked at her with genuine amusement. "What fund? We liquidated that ten years ago to pay your father's debts."

"Liar," Araminta said. She pulled her phone out. She had a photo of an old document she had found years ago, hidden in her mother's bible. "I have a copy of the original charter. It was supposed to be protected."

She held the screen up.

Javen moved fast. He crossed the room in two strides and snatched the phone from her hand.

"Javen!"

He didn't look at the screen. He turned and threw the phone directly into the roaring fireplace.

Araminta screamed. She lunged toward the fire, reaching for the device.

Javen grabbed a handful of her hair and yanked her back. "Don't be stupid."

She watched as the plastic casing bubbled and melted. The screen blackened, then cracked. The battery exploded with a small pop.

"There," Javen said, releasing her hair. He shoved her away. "No evidence. That fund belongs to the Doyle family now. Possession is nine-tenths of the law, Araminta."

"And as your legal guardians," Richard added smoothly, tapping ash into a crystal tray, "we have full authority to manage your... negative assets."

Araminta stood panting, staring at the fire. The law. They owned the judges, the lawyers, the police. She couldn't win this way.

She took a deep breath. She had to pivot.

"Fine," she said. "Keep the money. I don't care. Just let me take Griffin. I want to take him out of the state facility."

Javen laughed. It was a cruel, incredulous sound. "Take the cripple? With what money? You have nothing. Without us paying the bill, he's on the street in twenty-four hours. He'll be dead in three days."

The door opened behind her. Victoria walked in, holding a single sheet of paper.

"Sign this," Victoria said, sliding the paper onto the desk. "A voluntary renunciation of all claims to the Donaldson estate and any future inheritance. You sign, and we agree to pay for Griffin's care for another month."

Araminta looked at the paper. It was slavery. It was signing away her freedom, her past, and her future.

"One month?" she asked.

"Take it or leave it," Javen said, leaning against the desk, crossing his arms. He looked so smug. So untouchable.

Araminta picked up the heavy fountain pen from the desk. Her hand trembled. She looked at Javen. He was grinning.

Rage, white-hot and blinding, exploded in her chest.

She didn't sign.

She swung her hand and drove the nib of the pen into the back of Javen's hand, right where it rested on the mahogany.

Javen howled.

Blood spurted over the papers. He flailed back, clutching his hand, the pen still sticking out of his skin. "You bitch! You crazy bitch!"

"Get her!" Richard roared, standing up.

Araminta grabbed the edge of a heavy bookshelf near the door and pulled with all her weight. It tipped. Books cascaded down, creating a chaotic barrier between her and the men.

She turned and ran.

She sprinted down the hall, hearing Javen's shouts behind her. "Seal the exits! Don't let her leave!"

She ducked into a guest bedroom and slammed the door, twisting the lock. It wouldn't hold them for long.

Thud.

Something heavy hit the door from the outside. The wood splintered.

"Open this door, Araminta! I'm going to kill you!" Javen screamed.

Araminta looked around wildly. Second floor. The window looked out over the back gardens. It was a twenty-foot drop.

Her eyes landed on the heavy, damask curtains. They were old, but the fabric was thick, woven for a bygone era of quality. She tore them from the rod, the sound of ripping fabric a counterpoint to the splintering of the door.

She worked with frantic speed, knotting the thick velvet panels together, her knuckles raw. She tied one end around the heavy, cast-iron radiator, pulling on it with all her weight. It held.

The door frame cracked. A fist punched through the wood.

Araminta climbed onto the sill. The night air was cold. Below her, the dark bushes looked like jagged teeth.

She had one chance. One person in the world who had enough power to crush the Doyles.

She closed her eyes, reciting the number she had memorized from the contract cover on the yacht.

Alfonse Wolfe.

She gripped the knotted curtains and jumped.