16. A Dinner
1205 Words
Oliver’s knuckles whitened around the steering wheel as he sped toward Shelby’s apartment, his mind replaying Emma’s defiance like a broken record.
"You don’t own me, Oliver."
Her words burned in his chest. Since when did she grow a spine? Since when did she dare to raise her voice at him? If not for Shelby’s urgent message, he would’ve dragged Emma back into that mansion by her hair and reminded her exactly who she belonged to.
The elevator ride to Shelby’s penthouse felt like an eternity, each floor crawling past as Oliver replayed the last twenty-four hours in his head.
When the doors finally slid open, Shelby was already there—barefoot, mascara smudged, tears streaking her flushed cheeks. She clutched her phone like a lifeline, hands trembling.
“Babe, you won’t believe what happened!” Her voice cracked, urgent and raw. She shoved the phone into his chest.
A screaming headline filled the screen:
“Shelby Brown, the Other Woman? CEO Oliver Jones’ Wife Makes a Shocking Office Appearance!”
Below it, a photo—Emma standing close to him in his office, her hand on his arm. He remembered that moment vividly: Emma storming in, threatening him for money. But the image had been weaponized, spun into something sordid.
The comments were venomous.
Gold-digger Shelby finally exposed!
Mrs. Jones is stunning— why would he cheat?
Mistresses belong in the gutter.
Oliver’s jaw clenched, heat flaring in his chest. Was that why she came to the office? To stir up the troubles? If grandpa sees any of these!
“That little whore.” He muttered.
“It’s her,” Shelby sobbed, collapsing against him, her nails biting into his biceps. “She’s trying to ruin me—humiliate me! She’s jealous because you love me!”
Oliver’s jaw clenched. Jealous? Emma? The same woman who’d spent years staring blankly at walls, who flinched when he raised his voice? The same woman who—
His thoughts screeched to a halt.
Unless…
A dark satisfaction uncoiled in Oliver’s chest. So that’s what this is about. Emma’s sudden rebellion, the hired lover, the defiance— all a pathetic ploy for his attention. The thought soothed his rage like a balm. She was fighting for his affection.
Of course she couldn’t let him go. She was nothing without him.
“I’ll handle it,” he murmured, fingers gliding through Shelby’s hair with a touch so soft it felt intimate—but calculated. A quick text to his PR team—Kill the story. Now.—and the scandal would vanish before it spread.
Shelby sniffled, leaning into him as though the world itself might crumble otherwise. Her eyes shone with a mixture of hope and fear. “When are you going to divorce her, babe? It’s been three years.”
Oliver’s lips curved in a faint, measured smile. “You know Grandpa loves her… just a little longer.” His tone was smooth, practiced, almost like velvet draped over steel.
Oliver just needed Emma until his grandpa transferred all the shares of Jones corporation under his name. And then, he can just dump Emma and remarry.
“Then introduce me to him!” Shelby leaned closer, tracing circles on his chest, her nails grazing lightly. “I’ll win him over, just like I won you.”
Oliver’s eyes flicked to hers, a shadow of calculation hiding behind the warmth. William Jones was old-money aristocracy—a man who valued pedigree over beauty. Shelby’s modeling career, glamorous as it was, would likely stain her reputation in William’s eyes.
“He’s… traditional, babe. Your job might complicate things,” Oliver said, his hand tightening slightly at her side—but not enough for her to notice.
Shelby’s grip on his arm hardened, desperation in her voice. “I’ll quit. I’ll be whatever he wants. Just please, Ollie… I can’t keep hiding. Don’t you love me anymore?”
She had grown up fighting for every scrap, every opportunity. Since her modeling career had taken off, all she had wanted was security—a life where she could rest, safe from struggle. Oliver had seemed perfect—until Emma appeared.
Oliver leaned down and kissed her forehead, soft and protective on the surface, but underneath, every inch of him measured and manipulated. “Let’s get dinner. That new place you love—Le Mirage?”
Shelby’s tears vanished as quickly as they came, replaced by a dazzling smile. “Really? Oh my God, yes!”
☆☆☆☆
Le Mirage was a whispered secret among the elite— a Michelin-starred hideaway where privacy was priced higher than the truffle-laced dishes. But as Oliver pushed through the ornate doors, the maître d’ stepped forward, blocking their path.
“Mr. Jones, I’m afraid we’re closed for a private event tonight.”
Oliver’s brow shot up. “Since when?”
He had called ahead, made the reservation himself, even had a table saved under his name—this wasn’t just a casual dinner spot. He was a prominent figure in the city; being turned away was unthinkable.
“Last-minute booking,” the man said, avoiding his gaze, eyes flicking past him as if trying to dismiss him entirely.
Oliver followed that glance—and froze.
Shelby whimpered, clutching his arm, her nails digging in. “But… you own some shares in this building!”
Oliver did own some of it, through shell companies. He was the second highest shareholder. Very few knew that. Which meant whoever had booked it tonight had more power than him.
His eyes narrowed, scanning the dimly lit interior through the glass doors.
And then he saw her.
A woman. Back turned. Slim frame. Chestnut hair cascading down a familiar emerald-green dress— didn't Emma have a similar dress? Oliver remembered since he brought the same classic one for Shelby and a cheap knockoff for Emma for one of the office parties.
Oliver’s breath hitched.
No. It couldn’t be.
He moved toward the entrance, but two armed guards materialized, blocking his path.
"Sir, you can’t—"
"Do you know who I am?" Oliver snarled.
The woman stood. A man— tall, broad-shouldered—curved an arm around her waist, guiding her away. He couldn't see either of their faces.
A glimpse of a sharp jawline. A smirk Oliver couldn’t see but felt in his bones. They looked intimate, especially when that man kissed the side of her head and then whispered something and she giggled.
Then they vanished into the shadows.
"Oliver?" Shelby tugged his sleeve. "What’s wrong?"
Before he could answer, his phone rang.
"Mr. Jones," his secretary’s voice crackled. "You asked me to monitor Mrs. Jones’s movements."
"Yes," Oliver gritted out.
"She visited pubs in last few days but left alone every time. Booked a hotel room but never stayed. No men involved so far."
Oliver exhaled. Of course.
Emma was alone.
Pathetic.
No one wanted her. Not really. Even in a pub full of hungry wolves, she had to leave alone!
That glimpse in the restaurant? It couldn't be Emma. It was a high end restaurant and certainly no man would book the entire restaurant for a woman like her.
"Let’s go," he told Shelby, steering her away.
- Writer
