A genuine, unforced twitch of my lips without even realizing it until she pointed it out. I force the thought to the back of my mind and drag the mouse on my laptop.
The surveillance footage at the main door from last night is still paused on the screen. Yesterday, when I saw the person who was supposed to be in bed sleeping, walk out all dressed up on a motorcycle, I had people follow her.
My men are, as always, efficient, recording everything they could. One was even diligent enough to impersonate a male dancer and get inside the private room.
I reviewed the mission brief and the gathered intelligence. Seeing the things Tyr was up to. the dancing, the drinks, the general chaos it makes perfect sense why she looks like that today. The hangover is well-deserved.
I don't have a problem with her having fun, as long as she makes sure not to get caught up in a scandal. That part is non-negotiable.
But the thing with the call, the casual contempt in her voice, poked at my sore spot. I wasn't always this... what did she call me?
Cold-faced bastard. I was a cheerful kid once. A kid who would pick dandelions and run over to give them to my mother.
But one day, I ran back, excited with a bunch of yellow flowers, and saw a monster standing above my bleeding mother. She was in shambles as she screamed, "Run!" Her scream still haunts me in my dreams. The memory, cold and sharp, tries to drag me under.
A knock on the door cuts through the darkness. I shove the emotion back down, burying it deep beneath the polished surface I wear every day.
"Come in," I say, my voice level.
Catarina enters. "Sir, she drank it."
"Okay." I keep my response minimal.
Catarina looks like she wants to say more, a protest perhaps, but she turns to leave.
"How was her face?" I ask before she can exit.
Catarina turns back, a small, knowing smirk touching her lips. "Disgusted."
The juice, made from my own recipe, is truly a hangover cure, but I told Catarina to add extra bitter melon and gooseberries, the most vile additions possible.
"Good," I say, and turn back to the screen.
I tap my fingers on the desk, a faint rhythm of satisfaction. I can't wait to see the surveillance footage of her drinking that sludge. This is punishment for her calling me names behind my back and calling my lips... soft.
"Sir, don't you think that's a little childish?" Catarina ventures cautiously, stepping back toward the door.
"She called me a cold-faced bastard," I reply, my tone leaving no room for debate.
Catarina purses her lips. "Understood." It's written all over her face that she desperately wants to laugh.
"Don't you have someone to be supervising?" I ask, my voice hardening slightly.
"Yes, Sir," she says quickly, and walks out.
I swipe my finger on the mouse pad again to wake up the laptop, but I pause. I hear a distinct sound from the hallway: Catarina laughing. The door is closed, but I still hear the muffled, undeniable sound of her amusement before it quickly vanishes.
I let out a short, sharp sigh. Even my staff is corruptible by her idiocy.
***
TYR POV
I walk out of the guest room, dressed up in a crisp blue A-line midi halter dress for the occasion. I navigate the enormous hallway and walk down the main staircase, bumping right into Vega. He's holding a cup of coffee, and his expression is surprisingly relaxed.
"You are really enjoying your weekend, aren't you?" I say, resentment sharp in my voice.
He doesn't answer. He just sips on his coffee, his eyes half-lidded.
"Ugh. If your grandmother dislikes me, you can't blame me," I state, walking toward the door, keen to get this over with.
"If she dislikes you, it doesn't matter," Vega says, his tone dismissive.
"Oh, that's right," I reply, smiling sweetly over my shoulder. "I'm a temporary wife."
His brows crease slightly as I walk out the door.
A towering bodyguard opens the car door for me. I sit inside the Maybach and breathe deeply. If I said I wasn't nervous, I would be lying. The hangover is long gone, but the fear of the matriarch remains.
The car drives out of the property, and immediately, it's surrounded by two black SUVs, one in the front and one at the back. We're encased in a rolling fortress.
I suddenly feel like this Vastano family isn't just a legitimate business empire. Otherwise, why would one need this much security?
Halfway to the country club, a car suddenly pulls up in front of us, blocking the way. It's an expensive, flashy luxury sports car. The man in the sports car jumps out, practically foaming at the mouth, claiming that we had cut him off. He's delusional, of course. Vega's drivers are far too precise for that.
I am about to open the car door, wanting to assess the situation myself, but the driver immediately locks the doors. I look at him through the rearview mirror.
"Madam, it's best you stay in the car," the driver says, his voice calm but firm. "It's safer that way."
I don't dare to argue. I watch the drama unfold. Suddenly, the man in the sports car is grabbed by two of the bodyguards from the lead SUV and unceremoniously shoved into the back of the car ahead.
Another bodyguard takes the man's keys and drives the sports car away, following the lead SUV as it takes a sharp turn to the left. Meanwhile, the car that was behind us pulls ahead, now leading our Maybach.
"It's all clear, Madam," the driver says, his tone completely neutral. "You can relax."
I suddenly feel like I am in an action movie or rather, a Mafia movie, and I'm the disposable wife who dies in the beginning. I chuckle at the thought, thinking it's utterly ridiculous.