Chapter 3: Want to play a game? I'd wait...

Mason

I didn't even bother opening the folder. The moment the plastic edge hit my palm, I flung it across the bedroom. It skidded across the hardwood floor, spitting out a few stray sheets of paper near the closet.

"Five million dollars?"

A sharp, breathless laugh escaped my throat. She was completely out of her mind.

I looked at Catherine, waiting for the punchline, but she just stood there with that eerie, vacant expression she’d been wearing since last night.

Six years.

For six years, she had played the part of the quiet, submissive office worker who accidentally stumbled into my bed. I knew she’d eventually crack. I knew the calculated patience would break and she’d finally show her true colors. Leeches like her simply couldn't resist the temptation forever; they always came looking for the payout.

"Is this your grand finale, Catherine?" I asked, looking for a reaction. "Six years of playing the victim just to pull a number like that out of thin air?"

She didn't answer. She just turned around and walked out of the room, leaving the door wide open.

"Unbelievable," I muttered to the empty room.

I stepped up to the mirror to adjust my tie, but my hands froze. My shirt was covered in a network of stubborn, overlapping wrinkles. I reached for the blazer on the hanger and threw it on hastily, tugging at the lapels to obscure the unironed fabric underneath.

Descending the stairs, the silence of the house hit me first. Usually, the kitchen was a loud, chaotic mess of boiling water, sizzling pans, and the smell of freshly brewed espresso. Today, the counter was empty. No breakfast. No travel mug waiting by the keys. Just the lingering mess from yesterday afternoon that she had stubbornly refused to touch.

I remembered the ridiculous sign she’d taped to her bedroom door last night: "I'M NOT ON DUTY TODAY".

I let out a harsh scoff as I grabbed my briefcase from the entryway. She thought she was being clever. She thought that by withholding her basic wifely duties and throwing a temper tantrum, she could manipulate me into caving in. She wanted me to beg, to negotiate, to hand over a massive check just to get my morning coffee back.

Too bad for her, I wasn't that stupid. I hadn't built L&T Group into a multi-billion-dollar empire by letting people extort me under my own roof.

By 1:00 p.m., the irritation hadn't faded; it had curdled into a sharp headache.

My stomach let out a loud, hollow rumble that echoed through the glass-walled confines of my executive office. I instinctively reached into the lower drawer of my desk where my black insulated lunch box usually sat.

Nothing. Empty space.

Right. No packed lunch today either.

The intercom buzzed, cutting through my thoughts.

"Mr. Blake?" my assistant, Miller, called out cautiously. "The quarterly logistics reports from the Euro-Zone division just came in. Would you like me to bring them in now, or after your lunch break?"

"Bring them in now, Miller," I snapped, rubbing my temples. "And I don't have a lunch break today."

A moment later, the heavy oak door pushed open. Miller stepped in, clutching a thick stack of folders against his chest. He looked at me, then looked down at the documents, his posture noticeably rigid.

"Set them on the desk," I commanded.

He placed them down carefully, aligning the edges with the corner of the mahogany wood. "Is there anything else I can get you, sir? A coffee from the lounge?"

I glared at the reports, my eyes catching a formatting error on the very first cover sheet. The font was misaligned by a fraction of an inch.

"What is this, Miller?" I demanded, tapping my finger heavily against the paper.

"Sir?"

"Look at these margins."

Miller blinked, swallowing hard. "I..."

"Redo it."

"Yes, Mr. Blake." Miller grabbed the folders so quickly he nearly dropped one, scrambling backward out of the office before the heavy door clicked shut behind him.

I sat back down, my chest heaving slightly. I was throwing tantrums over margins.

Margins.

I pinched the bridge of my nose, furious that Catherine’s childish little stunt at home was actively bleeding into my professional headspace.

The drive home was plagued by rush-hour traffic, which did little to improve my mood.

I unlocked the front door, expecting the usual chaos—the twins arguing over a toy, the television blaring cartoons, Catherine calling from the kitchen that dinner would be ready in five minutes.

Instead...

Silence.

I flicked on the lights.

The house looked exactly as I'd left it that morning.

Clothes still littered the living room.

The dishes were still in the sink.

"Catherine?"

No answer.

"Ethan? Mara?"

Nothing.

My jaw tightened.

Taking the children somewhere without so much as a message was one thing.

Leaving the house like this was another.

I pulled out my phone and dialed her number.

“The number you have dialed is currently switched off or outside the coverage area. Please try again later.”

I slammed the phone down onto the marble island. "Unbelievable. Truly unbelievable."

The mess was starting to grate on my nerves.

Fine.

If Catherine wanted to play this ridiculous game, I would clean the mess myself.

I grabbed a trash bag from under the sink and headed toward the living room. As I bent to pick up one of the sweaters she'd left on the floor, my polished shoe landed on something hard.

The plastic toy truck shot forward beneath my foot.

My balance lurched.

"Damn it."

I caught myself against the arm of the sofa before I could fall, but the sharp twist in my ankle sent a jolt of pain up my leg.

I looked down.

Ethan's toy truck.

It sat innocently in the middle of the rug.

For a brief second, I simply stared at it.

Was this why Catherine was always telling the twins to put their toys away?

No...

That wasn't the point.

The point was that none of this should have been my problem.

Irritated, I nudged the truck aside with the tip of my shoe and continued toward the kitchen.

I tossed one sweater into the trash bag.

Then another.

My gaze shifted to the overflowing sink, the toys under the coffee table, the laundry basket sitting by the stairs.

My grip tightened around the trash bag.

No.

I wasn't doing this.

I wasn't playing her game.

Navigating through my contacts with trembling, irritated fingers, I bypassed Catherine's mobile number entirely. If she wanted to turn off her phone and act like a child, I would deal with her as her employer.

I dialed the direct line to the L&T Group Human Resources and Administrative department.

It rang three times before a polite, professional voice answered. "Good evening, Administrative Services, this is Sarah speaking."

"Sarah, this is Mason Blake," I said, keeping my voice tightly controlled despite the throbbing in my leg.

"Oh! Mr. Blake, good evening. How can I help you tonight?"

"I need you to patch me through to the supervisor of the logistics and records department. I'm trying to locate an employee—Catherine Blake. She isn't answering her line."

"Ah, one moment, Mr. Blake. Let me pull up the department log on my terminal... Oh, actually, I don't need to transfer you. I have the master attendance sheet right here in front of me."

"Great. Put her on the line or give me her desk extension."

"I can't do that, sir," Sarah said, her tone shifting to one of mild confusion. "According to the log, Catherine called in sick yesterday morning, and then filed a formal request for personal leave. She’s taken the rest of the week off. Her supervisor approved it yesterday afternoon."

I froze, the phone pressed hard against my ear.

"The rest of the week?" I repeated, my voice dropping to a low, dangerous register.

"Yes, sir. She won't be back in the office until next Monday."

The call ended.

I lowered the phone slowly.

She'd planned this.

Not a tantrum.

Not an impulsive outburst.

She'd filed for leave.

Arranged childcare.

Packed her things.

She'd planned every step.

I opened our chat.

Mason: Where are you?

No reply.

Mason: Answer your phone.

No reply.

Mason: This has gone far enough.

Still nothing.

I stared at the silent screen.

Fine.

If she wanted to play this game...

I'd wait.