Chapter Three

The heavy mahogany doors of Silas Vance’s law office didn't just open; they practically splintered under the force of Ethan’s rage.

"You have exactly ten seconds to tell me why I am still legally shackled to a woman I divorced twenty-four months ago," Ethan roared. He didn't sit. He slammed his palms onto the antique desk, sending a stack of depositions flying.

Silas, a man who had served the Wolfe family for forty years and feared nothing but God and Ethan’s grandmother, didn't even flinch. He slowly removed his spectacles and polished them with a silk cloth.

"Correct terminology is important, Ethan," Silas said calmly. "You didn't divorce her. You signed a pile of papers in a crowded restaurant while looking at another woman’s cleavage. That is not a legal proceeding. That is a mistake."

"I signed the decree!" Ethan hissed, his face inches from Silas’s. "I saw her sign it!"

"You signed a separation intent and a contribution acknowledgment," Silas countered, sliding a leather-bound folder across the desk. "The actual Petition for Dissolution of Marriage? Page forty-two? It was never submitted to the court."

Ethan ripped the folder open. His eyes scanned the legalese, his breath hitching. "Why? I paid you to handle this."

"I don't work for you, Ethan. I work for the Wolfe Estate." Silas leaned back, his gaze hardening. "And your grandmother, Eleanor, left a very specific contingency. She stipulated that any divorce filing involving a Wolfe heir must be personally reviewed by the Estate Trustee for a period of two years to 'ensure the protection of the lineage.' She found your conduct... distasteful."

"She’s dead, Silas!"

"And yet, her hand is still around your throat."

The conflict didn't stop at the office. By the time Ethan returned to the Wolfe Media Tower, the digital world was on fire. The headline on every major news outlet was the same:

WOLFE VS. WOLFE: Is the CEO of Sterling Fashion the Secret Wife of Ethan Wolfe—or the Future Bride of His Brother?

Ethan paced his glass office, the city of New York twinkling below him like a mocking audience. He felt a phantom weight on his ring finger. For two years, he had felt free. Now, he felt hunted.

The door swiped open. Julian walked in, looking like he’d been through a war. His usual "Golden Boy" charm was replaced by a hollow, haunted stare.

"Is it true?" Julian’s voice was a jagged edge. "I met her in Paris. She was 'Grace Sterling,' the self-made genius. She told me she had a painful past, but she never said... she never said it was you."

Ethan turned, his eyes bloodshot. "She played you, Julian. She used you to get close to the company, to get her revenge."

"No." Julian shook his head violently. "I loved her. I love her. She gave me the confidence to start my own gallery, Ethan. She listened to me. Things you never did."

"She is my wife!" Ethan bellowed, the words feeling like ash in his mouth.

"You didn't want her!" Julian shouted back, stepping into Ethan’s space. "I saw how you treated her for five years. You treated her like a shadow. You brought Melanie to your anniversary! You threw her away, and now that she’s a queen, you want to claim the crown? You don't deserve her name, let alone her life."

"I am the CEO of this family," Ethan said, his voice dropping to a lethal, trembling whisper. "And you will break that engagement, or I will strip your funding before the sun rises."

Julian laughed, a bitter, broken sound. "You’re too late, big brother. Check the Will again. The one Silas just showed you."

Ethan’s heart hammered against his ribs as he turned back to the folder Silas had given him. He had missed a sub-clause in the "Marital Preservation" section.

His eyes blurred as he read the fine print.

"...In the event of a marital dispute where the parties are not cohabiting, the Wolfe inheritance, including all voting shares of Wolfe Media, shall be suspended and transferred to the spouse of the heir, provided said spouse proves to be of 'superior business merit' as determined by the year-on-year growth of their independent ventures."

Ethan felt the floor drop out from under him.

Grace’s company, Sterling International, had grown by 400% in two years. Wolfe Media had grown by 12%.

By the letter of his grandmother's law, he wasn't just still married to Grace.

He was about to become her subordinate.

His phone buzzed on the desk. An unknown number. He swiped it with a trembling hand.

"Ethan," Grace’s voice came through, cool and refreshing as a winter breeze. "I'm standing in the lobby of your building. My lawyers are with me. We’re here to discuss the 'restructuring' of your office."

"Grace, listen to me—"

"No," she interrupted. "I’m not the woman who waits for you at dinner anymore. I’m the woman who owns your chair. Oh, and Ethan? One more thing."

There was a pause, a chilling silence that made the hair on his arms stand up.

"My grandmother—my real grandmother—wasn't just a seamstress. She was Eleanor’s best friend. The woman who actually started the Wolfe brand before your grandfather stole it. I'm not just here for a divorce, Ethan. I'm here for my birthright."

The line went dead.

A second later, the elevator dinned. The doors slid open. Grace stepped out, flanked by four men in black suits. She looked at the "Wolfe Media" logo on the wall, then looked at Ethan.

"Take it down," she said to her assistants. "I don't like the font."