His Unwanted Wife Is A Genius

Chloe tightened her grip on the silk sheets, trying to hold onto the fading warmth of his body. It was a useless gesture. Griffin was already swinging his legs over the side of the bed, his back a landscape of hard muscle and cold indifference. The air in the room, once heavy with their breathing, was now thin and sharp.

The silence was broken by the vibration of a phone on the nightstand.

Griffin snatched it up. The screen cast a pale, unforgiving light on his face, illuminating the sudden tension in his jaw. Chloe didn't need to see the name to know who it was. It was always her. Jaida.

He answered, his voice a low murmur that held none of the harshness he reserved for the rest of the world. Chloe watched the line of his shoulders, the way his head tilted slightly as he listened. From the other end of the line, a faint, delicate cough was just audible. It was enough.

His entire posture shifted, hardening into that of a protector, a guardian.

Chloe reached out, her fingers barely brushing the skin of his arm. It was a small, hesitant touch, a silent plea.

He flinched away as if her hand were fire. The rejection was so swift, so instinctive, it stole the breath from her lungs. A cold fist clenched in her stomach.

Griffin ended the call and turned to face her. His eyes, the color of a stormy sea, held no trace of the man who had been inside her moments ago. They were flat, empty. Commanding.

"Get dressed," he said. The words were clipped, devoid of emotion. "We're going to the clinic on the Upper East Side."

A tremor started in Chloe's hands. The clinic. The sterile smell, the cold leather chair, the needle. Her throat went dry.

"Griffin, please," she whispered, the words catching. "Not tonight. It's... it's my birthday."

A cruel, humorless smile touched his lips. It didn't reach his eyes. "Don't forget your obligations, Chloe. The agreement wasn't just for show."

The word "agreement" landed like a physical blow. It was the foundation of their marriage, the invisible wall that stood between them always. She was an obligation. A walking, breathing contract.

The last flicker of hope in her chest died, leaving behind a cold, heavy ash. She bit her lip, the sharp pain a welcome distraction from the hollowing ache in her chest. She would not cry. Not in front of him.

Wordlessly, she threw back the covers and stood up. The cold air hit her bare skin, and she shivered.

They dressed in silence, a suffocating quiet that filled every corner of the massive bedroom. He moved with efficient, angry grace, pulling on a dark sweater and slacks. She fumbled with the buttons on her blouse, her fingers feeling numb and clumsy.

He was already at the door before she had even found her shoes. He didn't wait. He never waited.

She followed him out of the room, her bare feet silent on the plush runner of the hallway. The grand staircase, carved from imported marble, felt like a glacier beneath her feet. Each step sent a jolt of cold up her legs, which felt weak and unsteady. Halfway down, her knee buckled, and she had to grab the banister to keep from falling.

Griffin didn't even turn around. He was already pulling open the massive front door, a slice of the cold night air rushing in to greet them. He strode towards the garage without a backward glance.

The roar of the Maybach's engine was an assault on the quiet night. Chloe pulled open the heavy passenger door and slid inside. The seatbelt buckle was cold against her fingers, and the strap dug into her collarbone as she clicked it into place.

The air conditioning blasted on high, chilling the enclosed space to an unnatural cold. She wrapped her arms around herself, but the chill was coming from the inside out. Her teeth began to chatter.

Griffin stared straight ahead, his hands gripping the steering wheel, his knuckles white. He slammed his foot on the accelerator, and the car shot forward, leaving the grand, lonely estate behind as it merged into the river of lights that was Manhattan at night.

The drive was a blur of traffic lights and neon signs reflecting off the wet pavement. Chloe stared out the window, watching the city rush by, feeling as detached from it as she was from the man sitting beside her.

He screeched to a halt in front of the private clinic, the tires protesting against the asphalt. Before the car had even fully stopped, Griffin had his door open and was striding towards the entrance.

Chloe scrambled to follow, her legs still feeling like jelly. She had to half-jog to keep up with his long, impatient strides, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps.

The clinic's lobby was unnaturally bright, the white walls and polished floors reflecting the harsh fluorescent lights. The smell of antiseptic hit her, and her stomach churned violently. It was the smell of her own personal hell.

Dr. Sullivan met them at the reception desk, a patient file in his hand. He was a kind-faced man in his late forties, and his brow furrowed in concern as he took in Chloe's pale, drawn face.

"Right away," Griffin commanded, his voice echoing in the sterile space. "Arrange the blood draw. Now."

A nurse appeared, pushing a stainless-steel cart that rattled with the instruments of Chloe's dread. Her eyes locked on the syringe, the long, thin needle glinting under the lights. Her vision narrowed. The sounds of the clinic faded to a dull roar in her ears. Her whole body went rigid.

"Mrs. Donovan?" Dr. Sullivan's voice seemed to come from a great distance. He saw the terror in her eyes, the way she was swaying on her feet. He reached out, his hand warm and steady on her shoulder, trying to guide her to a chair. "Are you alright?"

Griffin's head snapped around. His eyes narrowed as he saw the doctor's hand on his wife's arm. For a split second, a dark, possessive glint flashed in their depths. He saw the doctor's touch not as a medical gesture, but as a challenge to his authority, an intrusion on his resources.

He closed the distance between them in two long strides.

"Don't touch her," he growled, his voice low and dangerous.

He roughly shoved Dr. Sullivan's hand away and grabbed Chloe's arm. His grip was like iron. He dragged her towards the collection chair and forced her down onto the cold leather.

A strangled cry of protest escaped her lips. She tried to pull away, to get up, but he was too strong. He leaned over her, using his body to pin her against the back of the chair, his weight a crushing, inescapable force.

"Hold her still," he ordered the nurse.

The nurse, a young woman with wide, frightened eyes, hesitated.

"Now!" he roared.

Chloe's frantic struggles were useless against his strength. She turned her head away, squeezing her eyes shut as the nurse swabbed her arm with alcohol. The cold sting was the prelude to the pain.

Then came the sharp, brutal pierce of the needle breaking her skin.

A scream tore from her throat, raw and ragged. A cold sweat erupted across her entire body, soaking the back of her blouse. She could feel the blood leaving her body, a warm, sickening pull.

She risked a glance at Griffin. His face was a mask of stone, but as he watched the dark red blood flow through the clear plastic tube, his gaze flickered away for a fraction of a second. It was a barely perceptible movement, a momentary inability to watch what he had ordered.

The nurse withdrew the needle. The moment the pressure was gone, Chloe's body went limp. She slumped in the chair, gasping for air, her vision swimming with black spots.

Griffin's phone buzzed again. He answered it instantly, his back to her.

"I'm on my way," he said, and the cold fury in his voice had been replaced by a gentleness that was more painful than any blow. "I'll be there in ten minutes. Just hold on."

He turned and walked towards the door without a single word to her.

With the last of her strength, Chloe reached out. Her hand, slick with sweat, trembled in the air, her fingers grasping for his sleeve, for anything.

She caught nothing but the cold, empty air he left behind.

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