The Bargain With The Mistress's Brother

CHAPTER 002: Tell Him What You Came For

I make my way to Peter Whitmore’s office dressed as confidently as I want to feel.

My tailored dress, the color of midnight, clings to my skin. I’ve paired it with sheer black stockings and stiletto heels that click against the polished floors with each step.

When the elevator opens on the 23rd floor, all eyes seem to turn my way.

Heads peek out from cubicles. Those walking by slow their paces. They stare openly at my face, my clothes, my entire being.

I grip the envelope tighter, willing myself to focus. Let them look. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from being Harold Montague’s wife, it’s how to wear a mask.

I push open the frosted glass door labeled Peter Whitmore, Esq.

Peter’s secretary, a mid-twenties lady with a polished ponytail and a sharp blazer, smiles as she sees me.

“Mrs. Montague,” she says, standing as I approach, “the receptionist informed me of your arrival.”

“I need to see Peter.”

She sits and glances at her computer screen. “Mr. Whitmore is currently in a meeting. I’m afraid his schedule is very full today. I can check for the next available slot—”

“I want to see him right now.”

The secretary’s brows lift slightly. “Mrs. Montague, I understand this must be urgent, but Mr. Whitmore’s calendar is booked solid. If you’d like, I can pencil you in for next week—”

“Next week?”

This is clearly Peter’s doing. He won't take my calls, and now he’s tasked his secretary with frustrating me.

I lean over her desk, lowering to let her see the fire in my eyes. “I’m going to give you five seconds to get Peter’s ass on the line, or I’m breaking in.”

Her mouth opens, but no sound comes out.

“One.”

“Ma’am, please.”

“Two.”

“Mr. Whitmore is very busy right now—”

“Three.”

“Maybe if you could just wait a moment—”

“Four.”

Her eyes widen, and she scrambles for the phone. “Ma’am, please! He’s—”

“Five.”

I move past her desk, ignoring her gasp. Her chair scrapes against the floor as she rises, running after me.

“Ma’am, you can’t just—”

But I already have my hand on the door to the main office. Without hesitation, I push it open and stride in.

Peter is behind his mahogany desk, his glasses perched on his nose. He's holding a pen in one hand and a document in the other. As I burst through the door, he looks up, startled.

The secretary comes in after me, her face flushed. “I tried to stop her, sir. She just—”

“It’s okay, Nicole,” he says, waving her off with a patient smile.

Nicole looks like she wants to argue but bites her lip and retreats, closing the door softly behind her.

I march to Peter's desk, the envelope clenched in my fist. “What the fuçk is this, Peter?” I slam it onto the polished surface.

Peter sets his pen and file down. He leans back in his chair, his expression calm. “I see you’ve received the will. However, I’m in a meeting with a client, as you can see. One you’ve just rudely interrupted.”

I turn sideways.

Sure enough, seated in one of the high-backed leather chairs in front of Peter’s desk is a man.

I hadn’t noticed him before in my rage. His presence commands attention, though—composed, legs crossed, a slight smirk on his face. His suit is impeccable, a deep charcoal that sets off the warm undertones of his skin. But it’s his eyes I find the most intriguing.

Amber.

A peculiar hue that seems almost otherworldly. It reminds me of the wolf portrait I have hanging in my bedroom.

He’s staring at me too, and he doesn't seem to blink.

“Is this the daughter?” he asks Peter in a lovely English accent.

Peter clears his throat. “Actually, no. This is Claire Montague, the wife.”

A look of surprise flashes across the stranger’s face. It’s brief, but I catch it—because I’ve seen it before. The double take, the mental math of my youth against Harold’s advanced years. But something about his reaction isn’t like the others. It’s not just mild disapproval. He seems… angry?

Peter shifts uncomfortably. “I apologize for the intrusion—”

The stranger raises a hand, cutting him off. Then he turns to me.

“You heard the man,” he says. “Excuse us while we conclude our business.”

The hell?

For a moment, I think I’ve misheard him. But no, the arrogant curve of his lips confirms it. He’s dismissing me.

I know I’m at fault here—I’m not stupid—but something about the stranger’s condescending tone brings back memories of my college days. Boys and men like him, rich and self-assured, thinking their money made them kings. I’d vowed never to let anyone make me feel inferior again. So I’d be damned if I let a cute stranger with a nice accent look down on me because I married an older man.

“And who the hell are you?” I ask.

He leans back in his seat, surprised. “Does it matter who I am? It’s barbaric and uncouth to storm into an office you’re not wanted at.”

“Excuse you?” My voice rises despite myself.

“You heard me. Get out.”

My jaw tightens, and I begin reciting one of Kieran’s nursery rhymes in my head, desperate to maintain composure. Twinkle, twinkle, little star... I soon realize it's useless. I’m already far down the rabbit hole.

First, I got to deal with Harold’s bullshït will. Then Peter avoiding me. And now this?

I square my shoulders and walk toward the man. His gaze follows me as I lower myself into the chair beside him, crossing my legs deliberately. My dress rides up, enough to grab attention. But I don’t bother adjusting it.

The room is silent.

Peter looks like he’s about to have a heart attack. “Claire,” he begins, his voice strained, “perhaps we could—”

“It’s alright, Mr. Whitmore,” the stranger cuts in. “I understand that some inconveniences are beyond our control. Especially those involving women. They don’t often know when to draw the line.”

I don’t move. Don’t flinch. My eyes stay fixed on Peter’s. It's the only thing keeping me from going ballistic.

“Well, go on then,” the stranger continues, addressing me now. “Tell him what you came for, Mrs. Montague. The money, isn’t it?”

That does it.

I turn to him, glaring a hole through his head. “You’re a fuçking asshole.”