Chapter 111
Christian was working at the heavy mahogany desk in his private study when the loud commotion echoing from the hallway made his jaw tighten with dark frustration. His wolf was already pacing under his skin, raw and volatile, and he had zero patience for whoever was daring to disturb him.
The double doors burst open. Carrie marched straight into the suite, his personal secretary trailing a step behind her helplessly.
"I’m so sorry, Mr. Wayne," the secretary stammered, pale and trembling under his icy gaze. "Miss Carrie forced her way past security..."
Christian gave a curt, dismissive flick of his wrist, signaling the woman to leave. The heavy doors clicked shut, leaving the two of them in suffocating silence.
"What is the meaning of this, Carrie?" Christian growled, his golden eyes narrowing onto her like a predator sizing up prey. "You know better than to interrupt me when I’m managing pack affairs."
"I know, darling," she purred, her voice dripping with artificial warmth as she glided toward his desk. Her eyes were half-lidded, her lips curved into a practiced, sensual pout as she leaned against the polished wood, arching her spine to flaunt her figure. "But I missed you so terribly... I couldn’t keep myself away."
"Get off my desk," Christian commanded, his tone dropping into a sub-zero register that made the air in the room freeze.
Carrie shivered, the coldness in his voice striking her like a physical blow. She scrambled backward, standing nervously beside the heavy leather chair.
"Christian... why are you shutting me out like this?" tears welled in her eyes as she forced her lower lip to quiver. "I am your fiancée. How can you treat me like a stranger?"
"The engagement is off, Carrie," Christian growled, not even bothering to look up from the pack ledgers in front of him. "How many times must I beat that simple fact into your thick, pathetic skull?"
Carrie gasped, clutching her chest. "Off?! Christian, no! I will die without you! I love you—please, don’t throw me away!" she pleaded, her voice hysterical. Yet beneath her desperate performance, a bitter, venomous rage was consuming her as she realized her beauty had completely lost its grip on the Alpha King.
"Stop wasting my time with this theater and get out," he said, waving his hand with utter detachment. "And if you ever show your face at this estate again, my guards won’t be so gentle."
Carrie’s jaw dropped, her face flushing crimson as her grief melted into pure, unadulterated fury. "Is this... is this because of that human bitch, Fleur Swann?!" she shrieked, her voice cracking. "No matter how much you crave her, she will never replace your late wife! Open your eyes, Christian! She’s playing you—she’s only after the Wayne fortune!"
"Watch your tongue," Christian warned.
The temperature in the room plummeted. He didn’t raise his voice, but the low, thunderous frequency of his Alpha command rattled the glass windows of the study. His eyes flared with a lethal, terrifying intensity. "If you ever breathe her name again, or speak ill of my mate, the consequences will leave you wishing you were dead. Am I clear?"
Carrie stumbled back a step, a wave of instinctual terror washing over her.
He hadn’t touched Fleur since the morning she left, forcing himself to maintain his distance to protect her from the political crosshairs of his enemies. But the self-imposed exile was tearing his wolf apart from the inside, leaving his chest aching with a hollow, unyielding fever.
"Christian... she doesn’t love you," Carrie whimpered, trying one last time to summon her fading tears. "I am the one who belongs at your side. Please, remember what we used to be."
"That was a political arrangement, Carrie. It is dead," Christian grumbled, the hard set of his jaw offering zero mercy. "Now leave my sight."
Carrie stood her ground, her fists clenching at her sides as she glared at him.
"Leave now," he thundered, his patience completely snapping, "or I will have my security throw you into the street like trash."
Panic finally seized her. Carrie let out a loud, dramatic sob, turning on her heel and fleeing the office. But as soon as the private elevator doors slid shut behind her, her tears instantly dried. Her face twisted into a grotesque, murderous snarl.
Just wait, Fleur Swann, she hissed under her breath, pulling her phone from her designer handbag and typing out a short, lethal message. I will destroy everything you hold dear, too.
***
Meanwhile, across the territory, Mila stood before the wrought-iron gates of Raphael’s estate. She smoothed down her clothes and took a long, steadying breath to quiet her hammering heart. She had walked through these doors a hundred times as his PR director, but today the air felt suffocatingly heavy.
Stepping into the grand foyer, she made her way toward the private study. Following her usual habit, she knocked once and pushed the heavy oak door open. Typically, she would find Raphael sprawled on the sofa reviewing movie scripts or handling media calls, allowing her to quietly work on her laptop in the corner until he was free.
Today was entirely different.
Raphael was pacing the length of the room, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, his sharp brows drawn together in a dark frown. The second he heard the door click, he stopped dead in his tracks.
A slow, victorious smirk curved his lips as he turned to face her. "Mila," he purred, his voice smooth and brimming with terrifying confidence. "What is your answer?"
Mila held his gaze, burying her anxiety deep beneath a mask of professional stoicism. "I accept your proposal."
Raphael cocked his head, an eyebrow arching lazily. "So it’s a yes?"
"Yes," Mila exhaled.
"A wise choice," Raphael said. He reached over to his desk, picking up a thick leather folder and offering it to her. "My legal team already drafted the binding contract. Read the clauses carefully and tell me if you require amendments."
Mila took the folder, flipping open the cover to reveal several dense pages of legal stipulations.
To her surprise, many of the terms were heavily stacked in her favor. She had expected to fight for basic boundaries, but Raphael had already included a strict non-intimacy clause. They would occupy separate wings of his estate and remain strictly platonic behind closed doors. Any physical violation of the clause by either party carried a steep ten-million-dollar breach penalty.
She glanced up at Raphael, who was leaning against the edge of his desk, watching her every movement with intense, hawk-like precision.
Mila returned to the text. The next section laid out their public obligations: whenever they were around his family, studio executives, or the press, they were required to display convincing physical affection—holding hands, subtle touches, and public embraces—to sell the illusion of a devoted, newly married couple.
Regarding living arrangements, she was required to move into his primary estate immediately following the ceremony, though they would live as independent strangers within the house. He would cover all household expenses, medical bills, and personal allowances. In exchange, Mila was required to step down from her role as his PR manager and assume the full-time public persona of his wife, accompanying him to every industry event and pack gathering without refusal.
Furthermore, she was required to sever all romantic ties with outside parties and maintain absolute loyalty to the Dumas name for the duration of the year.
The final clause explicitly stated that revealing the existence of the contract to any third party constituted an immediate, severe breach of non-disclosure, punishable by law and financial ruin.
It was an airtight, spotless contract. Mila closed the folder and met her boss’s gaze.
"Did you review every condition?" Raphael asked, standing up straight and thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets, a rare flicker of impatience in his posture.
"I did," Mila replied.
"And?"
"I agree to all your terms. I only request one additional clause," she said calmly.
"Name it," Raphael demanded.
"You must also accompany me as my husband to my own family gatherings whenever requested."
Raphael nodded once, pulling his phone from his pocket and dialing his attorney on speaker to add the stipulation directly to the final draft. "Anything else?" he asked, keeping the lawyer on hold.
"I don’t want to abandon my career entirely," Mila admitted, looking down at her hands. "If I sit idle for a full year, my professional credentials will rot. I can’t treat being a contract wife as my permanent occupation."
Raphael watched her face fall, a strange, unfamiliar tug stirring in his chest. "Mila, you will be the wife of a global icon. It would look absurd to the media if you were still grinding forty hours a week as a publicist." He paused, seeing her disappointment, and added smoothly, "However... if you want to run a venture, I will fund a boutique fashion line, a jewelry house, or whatever enterprise you choose. And the business will remain entirely yours after the divorce."
Mila blinked, stunned by the offer, before shaking her head slightly. "That’s... that won’t be necessary. I’ll remain at the estate." She refused to accumulate more debt or obligations than she could repay. Independent survival was the only rule she had ever lived by.
"We can revisit the topic later," Raphael dismissed casually, though his mind was already making a mental note to establish an independent trust in her name.
"Then I’ll leave you to your work and pack my things," Mila said, turning toward the exit.
"Wait," Raphael snapped suddenly.
His sharp vision had caught the faint, unnatural texture along her jawline. Mila froze as Raphael strode across the room, his tall, broad frame invading her space with intense authority.
"What happened to your face?" he growled, his brows pulling together in a heavy, dangerous scowl.
Mila licked her dry lips, averting her eyes. "It’s nothing. I was careless in the dark and bumped into a door frame."
"Look at me," Raphael commanded softly. Before she could step back, his large hand reached out, his thumb gently catching her chin and lifting her face into the light. He traced the edge of her cheekbone, his warm skin sliding over the heavy layer of foundation, smudging it just enough to expose the dark, swollen crimson bruise beneath.
Mila winced slightly at the pressure, a sudden, electric tingle shooting through her skin where his fingers brushed her flesh. She held her breath, desperately trying to ignore how intoxicating his rich scent of cedar and amber was from this close.
Raphael’s eyes turned a lethal, fiery shade of blue.
"Who hit you?" he snarled, his voice dropping into a guttural rumble that made Mila flinch.
She stared at him in shock. Daniel hadn’t even looked at her face while sitting right next to her on the bed, yet Raphael had spotted the carefully disguised injury from across a massive room.
"I told you, it was an accident," Mila lied quietly, taking a firm step backward to break his grip. "It’s really nothing."
Raphael’s eyes narrowed into sharp slits. He didn’t believe her for a second, but seeing her guard go up, he forced himself to calm down and released her.
"May I be excused?" Mila whispered, her gaze fixed on the floor.
"Go," Raphael murmured, his intense gaze tracking her every move. He watched with a heavy frown as his future wife hurried out of the study like a startled creature escaping a trap.