Chapter 18 018
Rhea's POV
"Stop here, please," I told the driver when we were still a few blocks out. I didn't want my colleagues seeing me roll up in a car that cost a quarter of a million dollars.
I'd faced enough bullying to last a lifetime; I didn't need a new wave of "gold-digger" gossip.
He pulled over without a word. I got out and tucked my hair forward, trying to hide behind it like a curtain.
I kept my head down, losing myself in the morning rush until the revolving doors of the building swallowed me whole.
Inside, the lobby was noisy: phones ringing, the aggressive clack of keyboards, and the bitter scent of over-roasted coffee.
I spotted Lisa at the front desk, looking frazzled as she blocked a woman's path.
"Ma'am, I'm sorry, but you can't see Mr. Alvarez without an appointment," Lisa said.
Her voice held steady, but I noticed the tell-tale signs of a coming storm—her eyes were twitching, and her nostrils flared with every shallow breath.
"And who are you to stop me?" the woman snapped. Her tone dripped with a toxic level of entitlement, the kind that usually only comes with extreme wealth or a complete lack of shame.
She leaned over at the desk, invading Lisa's personal space.
"You're just a receptionist. You aren't even his personal assistant, so don't act like you have the authority to bar the door."
Lisa's face went a dangerous, mottled shade of red. I watched her fingers curl into tight fists on the marble counter.
She was seconds away from a complete blowout—or a total breakdown—and I knew if she snapped at a client in this lobby, Alejandro would let her go without a second thought.
I couldn't let that happen. Without further thoughts, I moved, stepping directly into the line of fire.
I planted myself between them, my body physically blocking the woman's view of Lisa and shielding my friend from the heat of that venomous gaze.
"Is there something I can help you with?" I asked, keeping my voice as level as possible.
They both froze. Lisa's eyes blew wide, a mix of "thank God" and "why are you here?" written all over them. "Rhea!" she breathed.
The stranger didn't offer any such relief.
She slowed down, her gaze raking over me from my flat shoes to my face with a look of pure, unadulterated disdain. It was the look of someone deciding if I was worth the effort of stepping on.
"And who are you?" she seethed, her arms snapping across her chest as if to wall herself off from someone so beneath her.
Alejandro's wife. The words were right there, ready to be weaponized.
I knew it would act like a glass of ice water to her face, shocking that smug entitlement right out of her. But I swallowed the impulse. I wasn't ready to wear that crown in public.
"I'm his personal assistant," I said, keeping my voice clipped and professional.
The woman huffed, sizing me up again with a sneer. "Well, assistant, I need to see him. Now."
"I'm afraid that's not possible without an appointment," I replied, channeling every ounce of calm I had left. "If you'd like, I can schedule one for you."
The woman scoffed, puffing out her chest.
"I don't need an appointment. He didn't need an appointment when he knocked up my daughter and left her to be a single mother!"
The air left my lungs in a sudden, violent rush, leaving me lightheaded. My chest constricted until it ached. My God. Not another one.
Was Gabby not the only one? Was he really just a "community dick," scattering children and broken hearts across the city like some sick trail of breadcrumbs?
How many more were there? The timeline in my head began to fracture.
Did he see these women while we were together? Were these the "prospective business trips to get investors" and "late-night meetings" I had once blindly supported?
My stomach churned with the realization that I might have been the only one playing for keeps while he was playing the field.
Does Gabby even know that he's legally married to me now? Does she know that while she's holding down her corner of his life, he probably has his sperm growing in someone else's womb?
The humiliation and guilt I felt knowing that I had signed a contract to be the "lead" wife in a play where the cast of characters was seemingly endless and suffocating.
Employees edged closer, pretending to shuffle papers but clearly eavesdropping, their eyes darting between us like spectators at a gladiator match.
"Ma'am," I began, my voice holding a steady, professional edge despite the nausea rolling up my throat.
"Your accusations are serious, and this is a professional space and time. Personal matters should be handled privately, after hours. If you'd like to leave a message or an address for a legal channel—"
"Legal channels? He bought the legal channels!" she yelled, her face contorting.
"I understand you ma'am but—" I tried, but she wasn't listening. Not even a little.
The rage in her boiled over, and she exploded into a full-scale tirade.
She began shrieking about "deadbeat fathers" and "her daughter's ruined life," her voice hitting the high, vaulted ceilings and echoing back.
Lisa and I exchanged a panicked glance, both of us trying to interject with frantic, low-voiced pleas—"Please, calm down," "Let's just step into a side office"—while a security guard hustled over, his radio crackling with urgent static.
But she was feral now, flailing her arms and drawing a massive crowd of employees who were suddenly very interested in the "drama" at the front desk.
Just then, the private elevator dinged; a soft, ominous chime that cut through the chaos.
Alejandro stepped out. He had one hand casually tucked into his pocket while the other scrolled through his phone, looking as if the lobby wasn't currently a three-ring circus.
At the mere sight of him, the employees scattered like roaches under a sudden light, their desks and computer screens suddenly becoming the most fascinating things in the world.
Within seconds, the eye of the storm was empty, leaving only me, the raging woman, Lisa, and the guard, all of us frozen as he looked up.
The woman, who had been a whirlwind of rage a second ago, suddenly froze. Her fire didn't just dim; it vanished.
"Alejandro," she breathed. I stared at her in shock.
All that bravado, all that "mother bear" fury, and she looked like a frightened cat the moment he made eye contact.
Alejandro didn't look at her at first. He looked at me—a long, searching gaze that felt like a probe—before his eyes shifted to the woman.
For a split second, I expected him to flinch, to show a flicker of guilt, or even to recognize her. Instead, his expression remained as cold and immovable as a marble statue.
He tucked his phone into his pocket, his expression a mask of bored authority.
"What is going on in my lobby?" he asked, his voice low and dangerous.
"Alejandro," she whispered again, her voice cracking.