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.