ALLURA POV
It's been twenty days since the threat and that utterly annoying press conference. For twenty days, I've had to fend off every invasive question about my personal life and my relationship with Xavier. I wouldn't tell the press anything, not then and certainly not now.
Tasha is already settled in the visitor's area of my office, draped in a silk blue gown, crossing her legs as if this luxurious space were her private sitting room. Our bond has become solid, sticky like glue over time. We are closer than ever, but my initial plan—my true objective—hasn't wavered, not for a second.
I instructed Mr. Wang to leave, and he quickly obeyed, the heavy mahogany door clicking shut behind him.
I pushed off my seat, making my way to the mini-kitchen nook and flipping on the coffee maker. I could see Tasha's eyes tracing the decor.
"Honestly, Samantha," Tasha gushed, leaning forward. "This office is simply divine. The lighting, the art—it all looks stunning."
I gave her a practiced smile. "They're all the latest models, dear. If you like it, I'll have a similar set sent to your house."
She giggled, calling me generous. "Oh, you are! I've been dying to change my own house's interior, but Magnus and his family always veto my designs. They're so traditional."
I simply nodded, my heart silently scoffing: That's the typical Dawson family. Every creative impulse from the wife is stifled and suppressed. On the outside, my lips formed a sympathetic line. "I'm sorry, Tasha. That must be so frustrating."
When I was finished, I poured the steaming almond coffee milk mix into a clean, white ceramic cup. A ribbon of hot vapor streamed off it.
I handed it to Tasha. She fanned the steam toward her nose, inhaling the sweet, heady scent that exploded in her face. She looked up and smiled at me, but while my teeth flashed a friendly grin, my eyes maintained a sharp, clinical edge. I hummed, took a sip of my own coffee, and set the cup gently on its saucer.
"Samantha," Tasha sighed dramatically, clearly savoring the flavor. "Oh, my god. This is the best coffee."
"Drink up," I said softly, watching her closely.
LATER IN THE EVENING
I could feel my feet get wobbly, the ground seeming to tilt beneath me. Tasha and I had been locked in a dizzying cycle of cheap shots and off-key karaoke just an hour ago, but my focus never wavered—the mission was always the undercurrent. Thank God for Xavier. Years of his training on how to handle serious alcohol meant that, while my body was responding, my mind was locked down. No secrets were spilling tonight.
We stumbled out of the bar. Tasha was draped over me like a sodden shawl. Tank and Mr. Wang flanked us, human shields ensuring no one, especially not a mere guard, laid a finger on the Giovanni patriarch's 'bride.' That was the rule, and for now, I was Xavier's wife.
"Mrs. Giovanni, you must be careful! You're going to miss your step!" Tank's voice was tight with fear and formality, but I dismissed him with a careless wave.
I smiled, my hand still hooked around Tasha's neck. "Relax, Tank. I'm perfectly fine. See?" I took a deliberate, wobbly step.
Only God knew the restraint it took not to squeeze my hand just a little tighter around her carotid artery.
"Hmph, Tasha," I slurred, a triumphant little hiccup escaping. "We should call your puppet husband. He'll come pick you up, and I'll go home to my handsome husband."
Tasha erupted into high-pitched laughter, joining in the mockery of Magnus. She fumbled for her phone, dialing his number. She muttered a few words I couldn't quite decipher, then suddenly, the ground seemed to rush up to meet me. Tank shrieked a warning, but before I could completely lose my balance on the treacherous heels, I backed into a wall.
Except, this wall smelled of expensive cologne, old leather, and something uniquely, fiercely possessive: Xavier.
I felt the heavy, steady thud of his heartbeat against my head, a sound that instantly sobered the frantic edge of my mind. A slow, seductive smirk curved my lips. I looked up.
He was not happy. Not even remotely.
"Hey, handsome," I called out, giving him a ridiculous, lazy wave.
He didn't spare me a glance. His hand, heavy and commanding, wrapped around my waist, pulling me against him with a possessiveness that dared anyone to look.
"Tank, get Miss Tasha a taxi. Then meet us at home," he instructed, his voice low and devoid of negotiation.
The next second, I was airborne. He scooped me up, bridal style, carrying me toward the waiting car.
I was dropped unceremoniously onto the plush comfort of our bed. Ah, heaven. My eyes were too heavy to lift, and a sudden, intense heat was radiating from my skin. I heard a soft thud as something fell lightly on my face.
"Get dressed. Now." His voice was a flat, lethal command.
I batted the pajamas away, struggling to sit up. "I can't dress myself, Xave. My fingers aren't working right. You do it for me." I managed a pout.
A deep sigh scraped the silence. "Have some self-preservation, Allura."
"What in God's name is that supposed to mean?" I snapped, suddenly wide awake with irritation.
"It means: Why would you go to a nightclub with Tasha? The girl who betrayed you, the girl we're investigating! What makes you think she won't do the same again?"
"She won't, because I won't let her! And besides," I threw my arms out dramatically, "you came to pick me up, didn't you? Doesn't that prove I was fine?"
His expression hardened. "What if I was in Philadelphia for a brand product release? What then?"
"Then I'll care for myself!" I shouted, the alcohol making me loud and defensive.
He moved, suddenly close, towering over me. His shadow swallowed me whole. "Stop putting yourself in a risky situation."
I smiled dizzily, meeting his dark gaze. "Good riddance, Xavier. I'm trying to get things done."
He frowned again, then, surprisingly, began helping me undress, his movements sharp but gentle. I was in pajamas in no time. "Get downstairs. You can't sleep without dinner," he muttered.
I didn't answer. I fell face-flat onto the bed with a theatrical groan.
The mattress dipped beside me. His breath was warm against my ear. "You look so beautiful tonight, I might gouge the eyes of those who dared to look at you."
I smiled faintly into the pillow. "You can do that. But no killing."
My eyes fluttered open, welcoming the sharp ray of sun. I stretched, sitting up, my hair a disastrous, sticky mess plastered across my face. Then, the headache hit—a thousand tiny hammers shattering the morning peace. I groaned, clutching my skull.
I am parched.
I spotted salvation on the nightstand: a glass of water and a pack of painkillers. I reached, fumbled, swallowed.
"You're awake."
The deep, low morning voice startled me. I looked to my side—the bed was empty. My eyes searched the room, finally locking onto a figure sitting in the dark, curtained corner. Xavier.
"Yeah, I guess so. And good morning to you too," I replied, staring at him. He stood up, making his way toward me in that practiced, slow, predatory glide.
"When did you get in here?"
He didn't answer my question. He launched straight into his own. "Why were you in the club yesterday with Tasha? Did you consider what could have happened to you? Or the fact that you're married, and that men were watching you on the dance floor?" His voice was deep, laced with a familiar, barely concealed anger—an anger I recognized as jealousy. It was, honestly, quite cute.
"Oh, so if you mean contractually married, that's factual and correct," I countered, staring into his ocean-green eyes, which immediately darkened at my words. "But aside from that? I am not married. Meaning I still get the chance to look for a husband after our contract expires in eight months' time."
He growled, a low, rumbling sound. "You'll do no such thing, Allura. Contracted or not, you are still my wife. And you are forbidden from going to that club, or wearing such an exposing dress again." His tone was gentle, despite the fury in his words.
"I won't," I yawned, pushing him off lightly. "I'm starving."
I walked out of the room, heading straight to the dining room. The breakfast spread was magnificent. I pounced on a plate, slicing and eating with all the elegance of a starved wolf. Midway through a bite, I stopped, realizing my sloppiness.
I looked up. Xavier was staring at me, his hand resting on his fork.
"What is wrong? Does the food not suit your taste?" I asked, sitting up straighter.
His answer was a cold splash of reality. "Try not to damage the reputation and image of Samantha's kitchen, Allura."
Samantha? Was he serious? Over a piece of toast, I was damaging the reputation of a woman I'd never met?
Annoyed, I stood up. "Thank you for breakfast, Mr. Giovanni," I said stiffly, turning and heading back to my room. I slammed the door, rolling my eyes, and went straight into the bathroom to soak away the remaining resentment.
The cafe downstairs was unusually busy today, but Mr. Wang and Tank had secured an almost-private area. I spotted Mr. Ogbonna Patrick, a highly regarded detective—a Black Nigerian operating within a UK secretive police department. I'd been hiring him quietly for months to investigate the death of my parents.
"Tank, Mr. Wang, excuse us," I commanded.
Tank started to protest. "Mrs. Giovanni, I must insist on staying within—"
"I will tell Xavier you refused a direct order from me," I cut in, calm and cold.
He backed down instantly, retreating to a respectable distance.
"Hello, Mr. Ogbonna Patrick. It's nice to see you," I greeted him. I extended my hand; he shook it professionally, straight-forward, and without a hint of a smile. I was used to his unflappable demeanor.
"Good day, Mrs. Giovanni. It is nice to see you. I had sent a message a while ago, but received no response, so I deemed it better to come myself to avoid any chance of a leak." His voice was low, almost inaudible.
"It was wise you came over. So, did you find out what I asked you to?" I asked, leaning closer.
He confirmed he had the information. He pulled a small, gray flash drive from his pocket, sliding it discreetly across the table.
"Your parents' vehicle was found in an old junkyard. We traced it," he stated, his eyes constantly scanning the room. "As expected, the dashcam was missing, but we are still investigating who had it."
"And the footage?"
"A grand archive recovered footage from the bar next to the scene. The immediate conclusion is the same flimsy excuse you received the first time: hit-and-run by a drunkard." He paused, his gaze fixing on mine. "However, the car has not been found, but the license plate register has been located in Edinburgh. That is... off. Why would a car registered so far away, with no official record of entering London, be involved in a hit-and-run here?"
My heart hammered. "Who registered the car? Where is he?"
"The car was registered by a person, a Mr. Chapman Butcher. He was sixty-seven at the time of the accident. He is now deceased."
"Deceased?" I whispered. "So it's impossible to arrest him."
"Precisely."
I nodded, gripping the flash drive until my knuckles were white. "The case is far from over, Mr. Ogbonna. I will let you know if I require anything else."
We exchanged a final, firm handshake, and he left, dissolving into the crowded cafe.
I walked into my private office, my gaze glued to the small, gray flash drive clutched in my hand. It was ice cold. I slipped it into the inner pocket of my suit jacket, the weight of it feeling heavier than a boulder. The air in the room, usually sterile and calm, felt thick and suffocating. Deceased... Edinburgh... No official record...
A wave of pure, white-hot fury hit me. They thought they could close the book on my parents' murder and hide behind a dead man.
With a roar of frustration, I swung my foot and sent the heavy metal trash can flying across the room. The metallic thang echoed the frantic beating in my chest. I slumped into my leather chair, scrubbing my hands over my face.
A light, sharp rap sounded on my office door.
"Go away!" I snapped.
The door opened anyway, revealing Mr. Wang. He cautiously stepped over the overturned trash can. "Mrs. Giovanni, forgive the intrusion. But I was instructed to deliver this immediately. It is marked 'Urgent and Confidential.'" He held out a pristine white envelope, embossed with the silver crest of the Rowling Fashion Industry.