LOGINShare
Chapter Three
publish date:
2026-02-23 04:47:27The 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."
Latest chapter
Reclaiming Mrs. Wolfe Chapter Fifty One
The transition from the subterranean steel tunnel to the surface wasn't a gradual incline; it was a violent eruption.The armored transport tore through the northern ridge’s exit gate with a deafening *shriek* of tearing metal, launching the multi-ton vehicle directly into the teeth of a blinding northern blizzard. The red tactical high-beams slammed into a wall of solid white, scattering the light into a chaotic, bloody fog that made it impossible to tell where the sky ended and the cliffside began.Inside the cedar-lined cabin, the sudden change in velocity threw us off balance. Julian was tossed against the rough planks, his iron pry-bar clattering across the corrugated steel floor. Ethan caught himself on the edge of the empty wooden cradle, his teeth bared as his ruined leg buckled under the G-force. I slammed my shoulder against the reinforced glass partition, my arms locking like a vice around Florence to absorb the impact."The navigation overlay is blind!" Julian shouted, dra
Reclaiming Mrs. Wolfe Chapter Fifty
The darkness of the pine-scented tunnel didn't just feel cold; it felt industrialized. The raw, damp earth beneath our boots rapidly gave way to corrugated steel plating—the structural flooring of a hidden Vesper arterial line.Eighty yards ahead, the mechanical hum of the armored transport grew from a distant vibration into a throat-rattling roar. Red tactical high-beams cut through the thick haze of dust and mercury vapor, blinding us, pinning us against the narrow metal walls like insects on a display board."Grace, drop behind me," Ethan rasped.He didn't have the Unit precision anymore, but the visceral, human instinct to protect was violently loud. He braced his good leg against a steel structural rib, his hands gripping the jagged, melted edge of the tungsten scepter like a weapon. Faint sparks of dying electrical current still spat from the raw flesh behind his ear, his biological systems screaming as they tried to process the feedback of the broken loom."I’m not dropping ba
Reclaiming Mrs. Wolfe Chapter Forty Nine
The first second didn't drop; it struck.On the screen of the manual device, the numbers flipped from *00:00:90* to *00:00:89*, and with that single tick, the gravity inside the liquid-mirror sphere shifted. The mercury coating the walls didn't slide down the granite; it began to thicken, its surface tightening into a polished, seamless chrome that reflected our faces in grotesque, infinite repetitions."Ethan, the clock!" I screamed, my voice bouncing off the metallic curves until it sounded like a choir of panicked Graces. I squeezed Florence closer, her tiny fingers digging into the wool of my lapel, her breath a warm, frantic puff against my throat.Ethan didn't look at the device. He was already moving. He slammed the point of the broken tungsten scepter against the mercury wall, but the metal didn't crack. It parted like cold grease, swallowing the tip of the rod before sealing around it with a heavy, pressurized *schluck*. The feedback hit his arm instantly—a violent, purple cu
Reclaiming Mrs. Wolfe Chapter Forty Eight
The fall didn't taste like wind; it tasted like metal.The cold, heavy stench of liquid mercury rushed up to meet us as the salt flats caved in, a silver throat swallowing the sky. I held Florence crushed against my ribs, my arm locked around her tiny spine so tightly I could feel the frantic, rabbit-kick of her heartbeat against my chest. Above us, the starlight was choked out by collapsing red dirt; below us, a mirror of fluid metal rushed up with terrifying velocity.We didn't hit a hard floor. We hit a viscous, shifting current. The mercury didn't splash; it parted with a thick, heavy groan, a dense velvet fluid that rejected our buoyancy while dragging our limbs down into the dark.A hand grabbed the collar of my soot-stained coat. It was Ethan. His grip was frantic, his fingers digging into the fabric with a raw, desperate strength that owed nothing to Vesper subroutines. The blue pilot light at his temple was dead, replaced by a jagged, bloody smear where his interface had burn
Reclaiming Mrs. Wolfe Chapter Forty Seven
The mechanical click-click of twelve locking needles cut through the desert static with the chilling precision of a mass execution. The Vesper board of directors stood like obsidian monoliths on the clean-cut elevator platform, their identical charcoal-gray suits swallowing the pale moonlight.In the center of them stood Beatrice Vance, her posture rigid, her silver-rimmed glasses reflecting the cold, mathematical white of the salt flats. And in her arms, resting inside a small silver basket, was the real Florence.The baby’s cry was ragged, thin, and undeniably, beautifully human. It was a sharp contrast to the digital screech still echoing from the dying, bleeding simulation of her twenty-year-old self currently twitching in the sand a few paces away."Beatrice, don't do this," I whispered, the words freezing in the midnight air. I took a step forward, but the twelve directors mirrored each other’s movements, their raised palms pulsing with a faint, localized frequency that made the
Reclaiming Mrs. Wolfe Chapter Forty Six
The wind on the salt flats grew teeth, biting through the coarse fabric of my grease-stained coat. The live video feed on the manual device's screen remained frozen in a terrifying, high-fidelity loop: the Burnt Ethan, a ghost of ash and exposed circuitry, methodically carving a violent groove into his own knee on the porch of our ruined mill.The fourth weaver is already inside the house.I stared from the glowing screen to the figure walking north across the desert. The silhouette of the twenty-year-old woman—the one who carried our daughter’s face, our daughter’s name, and the integrated tungsten ring in her palm—didn't hesitate. Her bare feet left glowing, rhythmic trails of silver and mahogany light in the cracked earth, a perfect, mathematical calculation of a human gait."Ethan," I choked out, my voice dropping into that raw, unpolished rasp that the Weaver's logic had spent hours trying to smooth away. "Look at her cadence. Look at the way her shoulders don't shift when her we
Reclaiming Mrs. Wolfe Chapter Fourty One
The dust of the collapsed canyon did not settle so much as it congealed, hanging in the air like a veil of rusted lace. The silhouette of the man limping toward us was a jagged tear in that veil. Every step he took seemed to drag the weight of the mountain behind him. I stood frozen on the ridge, m
Reclaiming Mrs. Wolfe Chapter Fourty
The appearance of Arthur Hart was not a resurrection; it was a haunting. He stood in the red dust of the wash, wearing the same salt-and-pepper tweed blazer he’d worn the night of the "accident" at the Sterling lab. He looked older, his face a cartography of grief and genius, and he leaned on a can
Reclaiming Mrs. Wolfe Chapter Thirty Nine
The silence that followed the explosion of memories was not empty; it was heavy, a physical weight that pressed the oxygen from my lungs. The red dust of the canyon didn't settle; it hovered, suspended in an unnatural stasis, as if the world itself were holding its breath.I was on my knees, my pal
Reclaiming Mrs. Wolfe Chapter Thirty Eight
The red dust didn't just chase us; it seemed to breathe, a colossal, shifting lung of grit and heat that devoured the horizon. Behind the wheel, Julian was a statue of white-knuckled panic, the station wagon’s engine screaming as we pushed eighty over a road that was more suggestion than stone. In
You may also like
Pop My Cherry Daddy!
Xee write657.3K viewsMarried by Mistake: Mr. Whitman's Sinner Wife
Sixteenth Child13.0M viewsMy Bestfriend's Brother Shouldn't Know How I Taste
Demiah13583.3K viewsMr. Ford Is Jealous
Boat of Peaches775.0K viewsOne Year of Sin: A Forbidden Desire (Erotica)
Sommy Writes70 viewsEx Wife Strikes Back
Midnight Flames80 viewsHis Safe Heaven
Ellienor Gray130 viewsPREGNANT FOR MY BOYFRIEND'S UNCLE,MY HOT PROFESSOR
Evans Anaele12 views
