Chapter 7 Chapter 7

Chapter 7 Chapter 7
Valentina

Silence filled the car. Mr. Ambrose's eyes were glued to his phone, as he scrolled through the news. The only sound was that of the engine and the steady rhythm of my own heartbeat.

I kept replaying Lucian's words in my head. The audacity of him. Every syllable still burned in my chest. I didn't know why it bothered me so much. Maybe because, somewhere beneath that cold, cruel tone, I felt something else. Something buried as if his arrogance was hiding a wound of its own.

But that didn't change the fact that he was an asshole.

And if he thought I was the kind of woman who'd just sit quietly and let him walk all over her, he was mistaken.

I cleared my throat softly, breaking the silence. "Umm... sir," I said, forcing my voice to sound calm and polite. "Why didn't you assign another person as my driver and then assign your son instead?"

Ambrose's head lifted slowly from his phone. His dark eyes met mine  the kind of gaze that could silence a room. His expression didn't change, but I could feel the weight of his attention, cold and assessing, like I'd just stepped somewhere I shouldn't.

I think in this house, even simple questions could come with dangerous answers.

He finally set the phone down beside him, his fingers brushing over the screen with deliberate calm. "Because I wanted to," 

I waited, expecting more, but nothing came. His eyes drifted back to the window, watching the city slide past in silence. That was it. That was all I'd get.

My fingers curled around my bag. I shouldn't have asked. I should have known better than to question him, but something inside me burned at how easily he dismissed me like I was another one of his staff, not his wife.

"Understood," I muttered quietly, my voice almost swallowed by the sound of the engine.

The rest of the drive was quiet again, but not peaceful. The silence in the car felt suffocating. I could feel the tension radiating from him that controlled, heavy kind of authority that never needed to be raised to be felt.

When we finally pulled into the company parking lot, my chest loosened a little. The car stopped, and before the driver could step out, Ambrose turned his head toward me.

"Don't embarrass me. You represent me now."

I forced a nod, swallowing back the words that wanted to come out. You married me to silence me, not to represent you.

But I stayed quiet. Because that's what women like me had learned that silence sometimes kept you alive.

We walked side by side through the grand glass doors. Every head turned the moment Ambrose stepped in. Men in suits froze mid-conversation, women straightened their blouses, and the echo of shoes softened as people bowed their heads slightly in respect.

It wasn't just politeness. It was fear.

Ambrose Benedict didn't have to say a word for everyone around to remember who he was and what he could do.

I kept my eyes forward, trying not to shrink under the weight of so many stares. The sound of our footsteps filled the space as we walked toward the private elevator. The security guard stationed there immediately pressed the button and bowed, eyes down, not daring to make eye contact.

The elevator doors slid open with a quiet chime, and we stepped in. The ride up was silent. I caught our reflections in the mirrored wall him looking calm, collected, untouchable; me standing beside him, looking like someone who didn't belong.

When the doors opened again, Mr Evans was  already waiting in his crisp suit, and posture that screamed obedience.

"Good morning, Mr. Benedict," he greeted, bowing slightly.

Ambrose didn't waste time. "Morning Evans. Show her to her office. Give her the necessary files to work on."

His tone was clipped, businesslike. Then he turned his gaze briefly toward me, before walking off with the confidence of a man who ruled every inch of this place.

I watched him go, feeling that familiar hollow ache in my chest the kind that came from realizing you were just another part of someone else's empire.

Mr. Evans cleared his throat softly, his voice polite. "This way, Mrs. Benedict."

Mr Evans led me down a long, quiet corridor lined with heavy glass doors and muted paintings. At the far end of the hallway, he stopped in front of a black door bearing a small silver plaque with my name already engraved on it: Mrs. Valentina Benedict.

"This will be your office," 

The space was modern but impersonal wide desk by the window, leather chair that looked barely used, a few decorative plants that screamed "corporate effort." The walls were painted in soft gray tones, and sunlight streamed through the tall windows, spilling over the polished surface of the desk.

He placed a few folders down in front of me, flipping one open. "These are the files you'll be reviewing for now. Your signature will be required on the report summaries once completed. If you need anything, my office is next door."

I nodded. "Alright. Thank you."

He gave a short bow, and then walked out, closing the door behind him.

As soon as he left, I exhaled a slow, weary sigh. My gaze wandered around the office again. It was beautiful, but in a sterile, lonely kind of way. Everything was perfectly arranged, untouched just like every other part of this life I'd been forced into.

I sat down, running my hand over the desk before pulling one of the folders toward me. The papers inside were thick with numbers and reports.

I had just started reading when a knock came at the door.

"Come in," 

It was Mr Evans again. "Mrs. Benedict," he said, holding a folder out to me. "Mr. Benedict asked me to bring this to you. It requires your signature."

I frowned slightly, accepting it. "What is it?"

"You'll understand once you read it," before excusing himself and closing the door behind him.

I opened the folder, scanning the first few lines and immediately froze. My name was there, printed neatly beside Ambrose's signature.

The contract wasn't about company work. It was an agreement. A legal one.

Stating that I, Valentina Benedict, was not permitted to work for or represent any other company, nor engage in any personal or professional ventures outside Benedict Group without written consent from my husband.

A bitter laugh escaped me before I could stop it. I leaned back in the chair, shaking my head.

So that was it. Control. Disguised as responsibility.

Did he think I was planning to run off? Or was this his way of making sure I remembered who held the leash in this marriage?



The rest of the day blurred into a slow rhythm of paperwork, reading, and mental exhaustion. I spent hours going through company reports figures, contracts, and detailed summaries of the Benedict Group's growth since its establishment. The deeper I read, the clearer it became that Ambrose was not just a powerful man by reputation; he was brilliant in business too.

Every year showed exponential growth, carefully built alliances, and ruthless precision in expansion. His company shared similarities with my father's logistics, import, and manufacturing real estate business but Ambrose had taken it to a height that even my father might envy.

Still, I couldn't help but wonder why he wanted me here. It wasn't like I had made any significant impact in my father's company. I'd been more of an obedient daughter someone who followed orders without question, not someone expected to think or lead.

After sitting in one place for hours, I finally leaned back in my chair, pressing a hand to my stiff neck. The ache traveled down my shoulders. A quiet sigh left me as I glanced at the piles of papers still waiting for review.

Mr Evans brought me lunch and somehow I wanted to tell him he didn't need to keep running back and forth, that he could send someone else. But I knew how it would go. He would probably refuse, quoting Ambrose's instructions word for word.

I shut down the desktop and leaned back, the clock told me it was time to call it a day. And then the reminder that strucked me. Lucian was supposed to pick me up.

I let out a quiet groan. The thought of being trapped in a car with him wasn't exactly thrilling. He made it clear enough that he didn't like me, and honestly, the feeling was mutual. Still, I had no choice. Ambrose's word was law, and I wasn't about to disobey.

Grabbing my phone and bag, I walked out, passing by Ambrose's office. For a brief second, I wondered if he'd be staying late probably buried under more files or planning something else I wasn't meant to know. Maybe that was why he had assigned Lucian to me in the first place his convenient way of keeping watch even when he wasn't there.

I couldn't care less. The less time I spent around Ambrose Benedict, the better. His presence alone was intimidating enough.

The elevator ride down was quiet, except for the hushed murmurs that followed me. Every staff member I passed either bowed or nodded in respect. All because I was his wife.

It felt strange, foreign. I wasn't used to people treating me like I mattered.

When I finally stepped outside, the cool air hit my face. Parked near the side entrance was Lucian's black car, unmistakable and sleek. My heart sank a little at the sight of it, memories of our last encounter flashing vividly in my mind.

I took a deep breath and walked toward it, choosing to open the back door. If I was going to deal with him, at least I could keep some distance.

But before I could duck my head inside, that familiar cold voice came from the front.

"Get in the front."

"Excuse me?" 

His jaw flexed slightly, still not looking at me. "You heard me. Get in the front."

The sharp edge in his voice made it clear he wasn't asking.

I wanted to argue God, I wanted to but something about his cold indifference made it useless. With a low breath, I shut the back door and circled to the front passenger side, pulling it open harder than necessary before slipping in. The scent of his cologne hit me clean, dark, and far too expensive. It filled the car, mingling with the way heat crept into my skin.

"Seat belt."

I turned to him slowly, raising a brow. "You know, there's something called talking politely," I said, irritation curling in my tone.

"If I wanted polite, I wouldn't be sitting next to you," 

God, he was impossible. "You really don't know how to talk to people, do you?"

"You're not people. You're my father's wife."

I whipped my head toward him, eyes narrowing. "What exactly is your deal, Lucian? If you hate my guts so much, maybe you should've sent someone else to pick me up."

He finally looked at me then, his gaze cold as the city lights reflected off his eyes. "Trust me," he said slowly, "If I had a choice, I would've."

I let out a dry laugh, the sound brittle and laced with irritation. "You really think you scare me with that attitude? Newsflash, Lucian you're not that intimidating. Just an arrogant man throwing silent tantrums because daddy brought home a new wife."

I am never someone that says a lot but somehow with Lucian I'm always on the edge to speak out. 

His hands tightened around the steering wheel, his knuckles whitening. Those piercing grey eyes of his locked onto me with such intensity that it made my throat tighten.

"What did you just say?" His voice was quiet, dangerous, like the calm before a storm.

I met his gaze stubbornly, refusing to back down despite how my heart was suddenly racing . "You heard me."

In the next breath, he leaned toward me too close, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body and the scent of his cologne wrapping around me.

My pulse thudded so loud I swore he could hear it. Every nerve in my body screamed for space, but my body stayed frozen, trapped between defiance and something I didn't dare name. His eyes dropped briefly to my lips, then flicked back to my face.

For a moment, the air thickened between us charged, heavy, impossible to ignore.

Then, just as quickly, he moved. His hand brushed past my shoulder, pulling the seatbelt strap from behind me and clicking it into place with a sharp snap.

"Wouldn't want you flying through the windshield," he muttered, his tone cool again as he leaned back and started the car.

I turned my face toward the window, my chest still rising and falling too fast. Damn him. For a man I claimed to despise, he had far too much effect on me.