Chapter 5 The Illusion of Control

(Chase)

When I hang up the phone, a faint echo of satisfaction settles over the office.

Good. That's done. Surprisingly easy.

Tossing the phone onto the table, I shift my attention back to the man sitting across from me.

Nathaniel Morton. My new business partner—and more importantly, the capital injection that will push Warren Global ahead in the upcoming acquisition.

“She’ll be there,” I say easily.

The assurance comes out smooth. The way statements of fact should sound.

Nathaniel leans back in his chair, steepling his fingers. His eyes move around the room like he’s mapping invisible angles.

“Natasha has always been a formidable force in this sector,” he says slowly. “If she speaks on behalf of your acquisition tonight, Jeffrey Bauer might finally stop dragging his feet. He respects her.”

A pause.

“But her recent absence is making people nervous.”

“She’s been prioritizing her health.” The lie comes out automatically.

Nathaniel’s eyes narrow.

“She also recently discovered you’re having an affair, Chase.”

He tilts his head slightly. “Are you sure she’ll support you tonight?”

I frown. Natasha isn’t the woman she used to be. And more importantly, she’s never been difficult to control. “She’ll do what she’s told.”

Nathaniel doesn’t look convinced.

“Mason Stein is circling the same deal,” he says. “Are you completely certain she won’t side with him? They have history.”

A beat.

“And you’re probably at the top of her shit list.”

I almost laugh. “Impossible.” 

That idea requires no effort to dismiss. Mason already tried to poach her once. Back when she was still useful.

She didn’t bite then. She’s certainly not going to betray the father of her child now.

“Natasha is harmless.” 

The Natasha who used to terrify boardrooms disappeared the moment that pregnancy test showed two pink lines.

The ruthless CFO traded her tailored suits for nursery paint swatches without so much as a protest. 

A woman who strategically used pregnancy to secure a lifelong meal ticket doesn’t suddenly develop the spine for corporate revenge.

Compliance is her default setting now.

Nathaniel studies me for another moment before his expression hardens. This time it’s less business and more personal. “See that she stays that way.”

His tone sharpens. “And finalize the divorce. My sister won’t carry the label of mistress forever. Sonia deserves a ring. The Morton family does not tolerate public humiliation.”

“Everything will happen exactly as planned.” The promise comes easily.

“The moment the baby is born, the papers get filed,” I say. “Sonia gets what she wants, and our families are officially united.”

***

For the past few days, whenever I return to the estate, it feels… off.

The house is running exactly as it always does. Staff move through the halls in quiet, efficient patterns. Marble floors gleam. Dinner preparations are already underway.

But the details aren’t right.

Upstairs in the master suite, the bedside table is empty. No chilled lemon water.

In the study, the quarterly reports aren’t stacked neatly on the corner of my desk with color-coded tabs and annotations.

Irritation started creeping in. She handled all of this. All the invisible maintenance that kept my daily life running without friction.

Natasha smoothed the edges of my world so quietly that at some point I stopped noticing she was even doing it.

“She’s finally gone, then.” My mother’s voice cuts cleanly through the study.

She stands in the doorway holding a crystal glass of bourbon, looking entirely too pleased with herself.

She’s been traveling for several days, so this is the first time we’ve discussed Natasha’s departure.

“I made sure she took nothing,” my mother says with a satisfied sneer as she settles onto the leather sofa. “Left her clothes. Left her dignity.”

She takes a sip. “Good riddance to bad rubbish.”

I pour myself a drink. The bourbon burns pleasantly on the way down.

“Sonia is a massive improvement,” my mother continues, practically purring. “Well-bred. Beautiful. Slim. She comes from a family that actually understands our world.”

A pause.

“Far more suitable than a glorified accountant who trapped you with a bastard.”

I nod. 

Sonia is a Morton. An alliance between our families ties Nathaniel’s capital directly to the Warren legacy. 

Strategically, the move is flawless.

Natasha was simply a miscalculation. A tactical error that’s finally being corrected.

***

The Blackwood Gala is exactly what these events always are. Fancy, polished but with a dash of quiet hostility.

Under the crystal chandeliers’ scatter fractured light across the ballroom, every conversation is a negotiation disguised as polite small talk. Every smile hides a blade.

Standing near the bar, irritation simmers beneath my skin.

I check my watch. Seven fifty-eight. Yet Natasha still hasn’t arrived.

Patience has never been my strongest quality.

The instructions were clear. For her to ignore a direct order like this is… new.

Nathaniel is already working the room across the floor. I need my prop before we approach Jeffrey Bauer. And she is late.

I swirl the scotch in my glass. For a fleeting moment, the urge to track Natasha down and drag her here by her hair becomes a vivid thought.

Then the atmosphere in the ballroom changes. It starts near the entrance. A ripple of quiet spreads through the crowd. Conversations falter. Heads turn. One by one.

I look up. And the irritation inside my chest freezes into something hard and jagged.

She’s here. Natasha. 

But she doesn’t look anything like the woman I left in my office a few days ago.

The soft maternity dresses are gone. So is the defeated slump in her posture.

Instead, Natasha is wearing a midnight-blue gown that turns the heavy curve of her pregnancy into a weapon.

The woman who walks into the room looks powerful, untouchable. And the spine that has been bent for months is straight again.

Her chin is lifted. Her eyes sweep across the room with the cold precision of a predator returning to its territory.

And she isn’t alone.

My wife walks into the gala commanding the attention of every powerful person in the room.

Her posture is flawless, expression distant.

And her hand rests comfortably on Mason Stein’s arm.