Chapter 3

Felicity Roman POV:

I took the elevator down to the garage and drove back to my Beacon Hill brownstone, forcing myself to sleep for four hours.

At ten o'clock the next morning, the sharp ringing of my phone woke me up.

The screen flashed "Elder Mr. Peck"—Garold's grandfather, the ruthless, controlling patriarch of the Peck family empire.

I answered the call, and his cold, commanding voice immediately filled the line.

"Felicity, I heard Garold made a scene at the arena last night with that little model. You are the granddaughter-in-law I personally selected. Your duty is to get pregnant with the Peck family heir as soon as possible, not to sit around uselessly while he embarrasses our name."

My fingers tightened around the phone.

"I've had the estate's kitchen prepare a fertility and anti-inflammatory meal. My driver is dropping it off at your door right now. I want you to deliver it to his headquarters personally. Control your husband, Felicity. Don't force me to step in and clean up his cheap trash myself."

The line went dead.

I stared at the black screen, a cold, self-deprecating smirk touching my lips.

To the Peck family, I was never a top-tier trauma surgeon. I was just an expensive tool meant to leash Garold and breed an heir.

I changed into a sharp, tailored black power suit, walked outside, and took the sleek white paper bag from the estate's driver.

Control him? Fine. I'd go exactly as ordered, just to see what kind of joke my husband was making of himself today.

By two o'clock in the afternoon, I was pulling into the underground executive garage of the Peck Sports Group headquarters in downtown Boston.

I carried the white paper bag up the private elevator to the executive floor.

The receptionist stood up the moment the doors opened.

"Good afternoon, Dr. Roman. Mr. Peck is in his corner office."

I walked past the glass partitions toward the corner suite.

Through the half-open blinds, the scene inside brought me to an immediate halt.

Garold was sitting behind his sprawling mahogany desk.

Karlie was leaning over the edge of the wood, a glossy contract in her manicured hands. She was leaning forward so far that the low neckline of her pastel knit top left absolutely nothing to the imagination.

"Garold, this sponsorship addendum is just so confusing," Karlie pouted, batting her eyelashes. "I'm so stupid. If only I were as smart and capable as Dr. Roman..."

Garold didn't push her away. Instead, he let out a low, relaxed chuckle—a sound I hadn't heard from him in years.

"Her? She's just a cold, rigid machine who only knows how to memorize medical charts. You're different. You're sweet."

My heart felt like it had been pierced by an ice pick.

For three years, I had stayed up countless nights researching his old injuries. I had given up a prestigious surgical fellowship in Switzerland just to oversee his rehabilitation. And in his eyes, all my sacrifices made me nothing but a "cold, rigid machine."

A wave of physical nausea rose in my throat, but my pulse didn't jump a single beat. I had shed enough tears for this man.

I stepped back from the doorway, walking over to the executive assistant's desk outside.

I placed the white paper bag on the desk with a firm, hollow thud.

Mark, Garold's chief of staff, jumped out of his swivel chair, stammering.

"M-Mrs. Peck! I didn't hear you come in. Why didn't you go inside?"

The flirting inside the corner office stopped instantly.

The heavy screech of an executive chair rolling backward echoed through the glass.

I looked at Mark, keeping my voice smooth and loud enough to carry through the open door.

"I'm just dropping off the dietary meals ordered by the Elder Mr. Peck. I wouldn't want to interrupt his grandson's urgent 'private tutoring' business."

The office door was yanked open so hard the frame rattled.

Garold stood in the doorway, his tie loosened, his dark hair messy, looking entirely out of breath.

Karlie trailed right behind him. When she saw me, her eyes flashed with momentary panic before settling into her practiced, innocent pout.

Garold stepped into the hallway, his dark gaze pinned to my face.

"Felicity? When did you get here? Why didn't you come inside?"

I pointed to the paper bag on Mark's desk with a calm, practiced smile. "I'm just fulfilling your grandfather's orders as the dutiful wife. Nothing more."

Garold's jaw clenched. He snatched the bag off the desk. "Do you have to talk to me like this? Karlie is just a rookie who doesn't understand her contract. She's very obedient and innocent. Don't target her."

Don't target her.

I looked past his shoulder, letting my gaze drift over Karlie's exposed cleavage in absolute disgust.

"Innocent? Mr. Peck, I suggest you remind your PR talent that this is the headquarters of an eight-billion-dollar sports empire, not a cheap nightclub on Boylston Street."

Karlie's face drained of color. She pressed her hand to her chest, her voice trembling. "Dr. Roman, you're misunderstanding everything..."

Across the open floor, half a dozen senior marketing vice presidents and legal analysts kept their heads down, but the complete silence in the room proved every single one of them was listening.

I looked directly into Garold's eyes, my voice perfectly level and lethal.

"And Garold, if you're so desperate to play the sugar daddy, at least remember the legal weight of the ring you keep locked in your nightstand. Don't make your cheating look so cheap."

Garold's pupils dilated sharply. His fingers crushed the paper bag until the cardboard base snapped, blue veins standing out along his forearms.

I didn't wait for him to speak.

I spun around and walked toward the elevator bank.

I stepped inside the brass car and watched the reflection of Karlie reaching out to touch Garold's elbow, only for him to violently rip his arm away from her grip.

The doors slid shut.

My phone vibrated in my pocket. The caller ID flashed "Fern Cervantes."

Fern was my best friend and one of the most sought-after haute couture designers in the country.

I answered the call. "Fern?"

"Feli, you will not believe the audacity of these people!" Fern's voice was trembling with sheer rage. "Garold's assistant just called my studio! He actually offered me double my usual rate to design a custom gown for that little side piece, Karlie, for the Museum of Fine Arts Gala tonight! He wants me to be her personal designer!"

My eyes turned to absolute ice.

"What did you tell him?" I asked, my voice deadly quiet.

"I told him to go to hell!" Fern practically screamed. "Who does he think he is? What does he take my studio for? Feli, you are coming to that gala tonight."

"Fern..."

"No excuses!" Fern demanded. "I've pulled my absolute masterpiece for you—the midnight-blue velvet gown. I want you to walk into that ballroom and slaughter them. Let that blind bastard see what a real, irreplaceable masterpiece looks like, and let him see what a cheap, pathetic knockoff he's holding onto."

I looked at my reflection in the polished brass doors. Competing with a mistress was beneath me, but Garold's arrogance in treating my best friend as his personal servant was the final straw.

"I'll be there," I said, my voice dead calm.

I hung up the phone and looked at my reflection in the polished brass doors.

It's time to end this absurd marriage too, I thought,.