The Timid Wife Is A Ruthless Boss

Isla pushed open the heavy double doors of the Morales family's Manhattan penthouse. The harsh glare of the crystal chandelier immediately stabbed at her eyes, forcing her to blink.

Before her vision could even clear, she collided with Collette's cold, calculating stare.

Collette set her bone-china teacup down on the saucer with a sharp clink.

"You were supposed to be here thirty minutes ago," Collette said. Her voice was smooth, but the underlying tone was designed to crush. She wanted absolute control before the dinner even began.

Isla immediately dropped her gaze to the marble floor. Her fingers found the hem of her cheap, shapeless wool coat, twisting the fabric into tight knots.

"I'm sorry, Aunt Collette. The subway was delayed," Isla mumbled, her voice barely louder than a whisper.

Footsteps clicked down the grand staircase. Jaylene appeared, wearing a custom-fitted evening gown that clung to her curves.

Jaylene let out a high-pitched scoff. "Look at her. She looks like a discount nanny who got lost on her way to the service elevator."

Isla's shoulders shrank inward. Her eyes darted to the side, perfectly executing the role of the broken, spineless orphan they all believed her to be.

Jimmie stepped out of his study. He wore his usual fake, placating smile.

"Now, now, let's not overwhelm the girl," Jimmie said. He walked over and handed Isla a glass of orange juice, playing the part of the benevolent uncle.

Isla took the glass. She made sure her fingertips trembled just enough to spill a drop.

"Thank you, Uncle Jimmie," she whispered. Inside, her stomach churned with disgust. She knew exactly how many offshore accounts he was using to drain the family trust.

"Mr. Curtiss Coffey's car has arrived downstairs," the butler announced from the doorway.

The air in the penthouse instantly shifted. The arrogant sneers vanished, replaced by a suffocating, nervous tension.

Jaylene shot Isla a venomous glare.

"Dumb luck," Jaylene hissed under her breath. "That's the only reason a piece of trash like you gets to wear the Coffey name."

Isla swallowed the insult in silence. She backed away, retreating into the darkest corner of the living room, pressing her spine against the wall as if trying to disappear.

The private elevator chimed. The doors slid open.

Curtiss stepped into the foyer. He brought the freezing autumn air in with him. His presence was a physical weight that pressed down on everyone in the room.

Jimmie rushed forward, his smile stretching so wide it looked painful. He extended a hand. "Curtiss, wonderful to see you."

Curtiss ignored the hand completely. His cold, sweeping gaze bypassed Jimmie and scanned the massive living room. He was looking for his wife.

Isla took a slow breath and stepped out of the shadows. She stopped exactly half a meter away from him, looking like a bird about to take flight in terror.

Curtiss's jaw tightened. A flash of irritation crossed his eyes at her pathetic posture. Yet, pure instinct took over, and he extended his right arm toward her.

Isla carefully placed her hand on his forearm. The moment her palm touched his suit jacket, both of their bodies went rigid at the unfamiliar heat.

"Dinner is served," Collette announced, gesturing toward the dining room. She pointedly directed Isla to a chair at the far end of the table, miles away from the head seat, a clear display of the Morales hierarchy.

Curtiss didn't even look at Collette. He pulled out the chair directly to his right.

"Sit here," Curtiss commanded Isla. His tone left zero room for argument. He shattered Collette's power play in two words.

Collette's face turned an ugly shade of purple. But facing the CEO of Coffey Group, she forced a tight, agonizing smile and sat down.

The dinner was a battlefield. Halfway through the main course, Jaylene leaned forward.

"So, Isla," Jaylene said loudly. "Still doing coffee runs at your friend Kristy's little PR firm? It must be exhausting having zero ambition."

Isla nodded quickly, letting her fork clatter against her plate.

"Y-yes," Isla stuttered. "I just copy files. I'm not good at much else."

Curtiss stopped cutting his steak. The silver knife went perfectly still against the porcelain. He slowly turned his head and locked eyes with Jaylene.

"My wife is not someone for you to evaluate," Curtiss said. His voice was dangerously low, a dark rumble that commanded the entire room. "Speak to her in that tone again, and I will teach you how to keep your mouth shut."

Jaylene gasped. Her knife and fork slipped from her hands, clattering loudly onto her plate. The silence that followed was deafening.

Under the table, Isla reached out and gave the cuff of Curtiss's shirt a tiny, desperate tug. She looked up at him with wide, pleading eyes, begging him not to start a war over her.

Curtiss hated that weakness. He flipped his hand over and grabbed her wrist. His grip was bruising, sending a punishing wave of possessiveness straight into her pulse.

The dinner ended in suffocating silence. Curtiss stood up, citing an early international conference call, and pulled Isla toward the door.

The second they stepped into the underground parking garage, away from the Morales family's eyes, Isla smoothly twisted her wrist out of his grip.

They got into the backseat of the Maybach. They sat on opposite ends of the leather bench. The air between them froze back into their standard, icy contract marriage.

Curtiss closed his eyes, leaning his head back against the seat.

He didn't notice Isla reaching into her cheap clutch. She pulled out a sleek, black smartphone equipped with a biometric fingerprint lock.

Isla stared down at the screen. The timid, frightened girl vanished. Her eyes turned as sharp as broken glass.

A heavily encrypted message from Kristy flashed on the screen: Freya. Verve's autumn flagship design just got leaked by a mole.

The Maybach rolled to a smooth stop in the underground garage of the Coffey family's downtown Manhattan penthouse. The driver opened the door, and a blast of late autumn wind rushed into the cabin.

Isla pulled her thin coat tighter around her chest. She kept her head down, falling into her usual rhythm of walking exactly half a step behind Curtiss as they headed for the private elevator.

The elevator car was small. Curtiss's scent-sharp cedar and cold power-filled the enclosed space. Isla's lungs tightened. She had to force herself to breathe shallowly.

The doors opened to the top floor. Curtiss stepped out with long strides. Suddenly, he stopped dead in the middle of the foyer.

Isla barely managed to halt before slamming into his broad back.

Curtiss turned around. He looked down at her, his eyes hard.

"Let me remind you of our arrangement," Curtiss said, his voice cutting through the quiet apartment. "Do not expect Coffey Group to pay for your family's endless greed."

Isla nodded immediately.

"I understand," she whispered. "I won't cause you any trouble."

Curtiss stared at her submissive face. A muscle feathered in his jaw. He ripped his tie off, threw it onto the nearest sofa, and walked straight into his study.

The heavy oak door of the study clicked shut. The lock engaged.

The second Isla heard that sound, her hunched shoulders snapped back. Her spine straightened. The fear bled out of her eyes, leaving behind pure, calculated ice.

She walked quickly down the hallway to the guest bedroom. She had demanded this separate room on their wedding night, claiming she was a light sleeper.

Isla shut the door and locked it. She walked over to the closet and pulled out what looked like a standard, albeit expensive, designer makeup train case. She set it on the desk, her fingers tracing the hidden seams of the false bottom. With a subtle, practiced sequence of presses on the decorative studs, the top layer popped off, revealing a heavy, black biometric workstation running through multiple VPNs.

She pressed her thumb to the scanner and leaned in for the iris check. The case clicked open, revealing a high-end workstation.

She logged into the encrypted server. Instantly, Kristy's frantic video call request popped up.

Isla accepted it. Kristy was pacing around her office on the screen, looking terrified.

"They're going to register the leaked blueprints by morning!" Kristy panicked.

"Stop."

Isla's voice was steady, commanding, and absolute. It was the voice of a queen, completely unrecognizable from the stuttering girl at dinner.

She pulled up the leaked files on her screen. Her eyes scanned the intricate lines of the dress design.

A cold smirk touched Isla's lips.

"Let them register it," Isla said. "That's the decoy draft I threw in the trash three months ago."

Kristy froze. Her mouth fell open. "Wait. Are you serious? What do we do now?"

Isla's fingers flew across the keyboard in a blur.

"I'm sending you the real flagship designs," Isla ordered. "Contact the London production line immediately. We launch early."

Heavy footsteps suddenly echoed in the hallway outside the guest room. Then, a sharp knock hit the door.

Isla's heart slammed against her ribs. She hit the mute button and slammed the workstation shut, shoving it under the bed.

She frantically ran her hands through her hair, messing it up. She ripped off her coat, threw it on the chair, and forced her eyes to look heavy and sleepy. She dragged her feet to the door.

Isla opened the door just a crack. Curtiss stood there holding a glass of ice water. His eyes narrowed, studying the flush on her cheeks.

"I heard voices," Curtiss said. His gaze tried to push past her into the room.

"I... I was watching an old movie," Isla stammered, wrapping her arms around herself. "I get scared sleeping alone, so I turn the volume up."

Curtiss looked over her shoulder. The room was dark except for the flickering light of the muted television screen. Nothing looked out of place.

He let out a low, mocking scoff at her cowardice. He pulled a thick manila folder from under his arm and held it out.

"Take this to Jimmie tomorrow," Curtiss ordered. "It's the new terms for the Morales family trust fund. Consider it my final warning to them."

Isla reached out with both hands to take the folder. Her warm fingertips accidentally brushed against his freezing knuckles.

They both flinched.

Curtiss pulled his hand back quickly. He turned on his heel and walked away, his broad shoulders tense with an irritation he couldn't explain.

Isla closed the door and locked it again. She leaned her back against the solid wood, clutching the folder to her chest. She took a deep, shaky breath. A dangerous light flickered in her eyes. The real game was just beginning.

At eight o'clock the next morning, Isla stepped off the crowded subway train. She wore a dull gray knit sweater and carried a cheap canvas tote bag.

She pushed through the glass doors of Apex, a painfully average midtown PR firm. The receptionist barely glanced up, offering a lazy wave.

Isla kept her head down. She walked through the open bullpen like a ghost.

"Hey, Isla, grab me a vanilla latte," a junior account manager yelled out without looking at her.

Isla nodded submissively. She walked toward the breakroom with an empty mug. But the second she stepped into the camera's blind spot, she slipped through the fire exit door at the back of the hallway. She hurried down the concrete stairs and out into a narrow, unassuming alleyway behind the building. Walking briskly for half a block, making sure she wasn't followed, she approached a nondescript brick building that looked like an abandoned warehouse. She pressed her palm against a hidden scanner disguised as a rusted intercom box. The heavy steel door clicked open, granting her entry. The door closed behind her, sealing off the noise of the city and revealing the sprawling, minimalist headquarters of Verve.

Isla pulled the gray sweater over her head and tossed it aside. Underneath, she wore a razor-sharp, black silk blouse. Her posture shifted. The air around her turned electric.

Kristy, the public face of Verve, rushed forward with a stack of financial reports.

"Good morning, Freya," Kristy said respectfully. "London is on standby."

Isla walked straight into the central glass conference room. She sat at the head of the massive table. She flipped open the reports, her eyes scanning the numbers.

"Three errors on page four," Isla said coldly, tossing the file back. "Fix it."

Kristy broke into a cold sweat. She grabbed the file, nodding frantically.

The head of the design team stepped forward, his hands shaking. He placed a fabric sample for the autumn line on the table. Isla pulled on a pair of white cotton gloves. She ran her fingers over the weave.

She picked up the sample and dropped it into the trash can.

"The stitching ruins the drape," Isla said. Her voice was merciless. "Burn the entire batch. Start over."

The room fell dead silent. Everyone stared at the floor, terrified of the invisible empire's true ruler.

After the meeting, Kristy pulled Isla into her private office. She slid a thick document across the desk.

"It's an acquisition offer," Kristy said nervously. "From Coffey Group."

Isla looked down. Curtiss's bold signature was at the bottom of the page. Her stomach dropped. Her pulse hammered in her throat.

"Their due diligence team is aggressive," Kristy warned. "If they dig deep enough, they'll find out who Freya really is."

Isla grabbed the document and shoved it into the paper shredder. The machine whirred loudly.

"Reject all outside capital," Isla ordered. "Especially Coffey."

Suddenly, Isla's burner phone buzzed. It was Jimmie.

"Where are those documents, Isla?" Jimmie barked through the speaker.

Isla's spine curved. Her voice instantly pitched higher, shaking with fake anxiety. "I'm so sorry, Uncle Jimmie! I'm on my way right now!"

Kristy stood there, her jaw practically hitting the floor at the flawless performance.

Isla hung up. She pulled the Morales trust fund folder from her tote bag. She grabbed a micro-scanner from Kristy's desk and meticulously backed up every single page.

She pulled the ugly gray sweater back on. She messed up her hair, transforming back into the pathetic wallflower.

Isla took the secret elevator back up. She walked out of the PR firm, clutching her canvas bag to her chest.

As she stepped onto the sidewalk, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up. She felt eyes on her.

She didn't turn around. Instead, she pretended to trip. She dropped her tote bag, letting her cheap pens scatter across the concrete. As she crouched down to pick them up, she glanced at the reflection in a storefront window.

A black SUV was parked at the corner. The license plate belonged to Coffey Group.

Isla smiled inwardly. Curtiss was running a background check on his new wife. She needed to give him a show.

She walked over to a dirty street cart and bought a two-dollar hotdog. She ate it while walking toward the subway, looking completely broke and utterly defenseless.

Inside the SUV, a bodyguard snapped a photo and hit send.

In the top-floor boardroom of Coffey Group, Curtiss looked at the photo on his phone. He saw his wife eating garbage on the street. A knot of intense, irrational anger tightened in his chest.

He hated seeing her look so pathetic.

Curtiss looked up at his executive assistant, K. Jennings. "Pull the surveillance off my wife. It's a waste of time."

Down in the subway station, Isla watched the black SUV drive away in the reflection of the train window. A cold, victorious smile touched her lips.