Chapter 14
Axell quickly exited the CEO’s office. Now was not the time to linger in Marcus’s line of sight.
But just as he relayed Marcus’s orders, another crisis erupted.
A subordinate called to report that Marcus’s wife had returned and was demanding a divorce at the entrance of Beverly Hills, the marital home Marcus had assigned his wife before leaving the country.
Axell was stunned. “You’re certain it’s her?”
“Who’d dare lie to the CEO’s face? No mistake.”
After a moment of contemplation, Axell didn’t dare to delay. He steeled himself and reentered the office.
“Marcus, Mrs. Gonzalez is back. She’s waiting for you at Beverly Hills.”
“Who?”
Your wife.”
Marcus pondered for a moment before remembering that he had a wife he had never met.
Why is she there?”
To file for divorce.”
Marcus fell silent.
This woman, who’d vanished for six years without a word, now suddenly reappeared to dump him?
If he agreed, what excuse would he have left to keep Brenda at bay?
Tell her I’m on a business trip. Divorce is off the table until I return, with no fixed timeline for when that will
be.”
If she’d been a decent woman, Marcus might have felt guilty using her like this.
But she wasn’t, so Marcus didn’t feel guilty about using her.
Axell, having served Marcus for years, understood his motives perfectly. Unsurprised, he suggested, “Mrs. Gonzalez might not believe a messenger. Would you consider a video call to explain personally?”
“Absolutely not.”
Why did he waste time on someone so insignificant?
Marcus refused without hesitation, completely unaware that this “insignificant wife” was the very woman he’d been desperate to find.
“Also, stop calling her Mrs. Gonzalez. There’s only one woman who deserves that title in this household.”
Axell knew Marcus referred to Casper’s birth mother. “Understood.”
At Beverly Hills, Bertha was dumbfounded after receiving Marcus’s reply.
With no idea when Marcus would return, she couldn’t predict when the divorce would go through.
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How was she supposed to take the children and leave?
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She tried contacting Marcus several more times, all to no avail. Finally, she left the manor in low spirits, feeling utterly defeated.
Unable to leave now, Bertha faced a cascade of problems. The children’s civil register would remain unresolved, blocking their school enrollment.
Without stable residency, she couldn’t secure long–term employment, and her savings were dwindling fast.
And she needed to face the man who resembled both Alfred and Jacob and the 8–million–dollar debt.
She sank onto a bench under a shady tree, not wanting to go home and worry the kids in her frazzled state.
Just as she pondered her next move, a four or five–year–old child suddenly bolted from across the street into oncoming traffic.
The road was full of vehicles. The road erupted in a chaos of screeching brakes, blaring horns, and terrified shouts.
Soon, the child’s parent raced into the street, but the boy flailed wildly, refusing to be carried.
He was like a cornered animal, snarling at his parent and passersby.
Without warning, he slammed his tiny fists into a nearby new car, then turned on himself, slapping his face and raking his nails across his skin.
When his father forced him into a hug, the child bit and kicked, emitting ear–piercing howls.
Bertha looked at the child and realized something was wrong, so she quickly got up and ran over.
The child wriggled free from his father, who stood there seething with a mix of anger and anxiety. His face flushed scarlet with rage, reaching the boiling point of fury, as he raised his hand to strike.
Bertha quickly stopped him. “Calm down! Don’t do that!”
Bertha crouched to meet the child’s eye level, her arms open wide in a gentle invitation.
‘Don’t be afraid. Come here, let me hold you. I’ll keep you safe,” she said softly, her face warm and reassuring.
The boy eyed her warily.
‘I won’t hurt you,” Bertha continued, her voice steady.“It’s okay. Come to me.”
For a few seconds, the boy just stared. Then, without warning, he bent down, snatched a stone from the ground, and hurled it straight at her.
Bertha failed to dodge in time, and the stone struck her squarely on the forehead, drawing a sharp hiss of pain from her lips.
The mother burst into tears.
“I’m sorry, miss. This child has bipolar disorder. He’s having an episode. We can’t control him.”
“I know, it’s okay, what’s his name?”
“Galen Wallace. We call him Gal.”
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Bertha said, “You’re scaring him. Step back. I’ll calm him down.”
The Wallaces stared at her, then reluctantly retreated.
They had no other options.
Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
