CHAPTER 19: CHAOS FOR A WIFE

Aiden’s POV

I should have been informed immediately. That’s what assistants are for—to relay critical messages promptly, not filter them based on their perception of urgency. But Tobias, usually competent to a fault, had decided to wait.

When he finally approached me that afternoon, his hesitation spoke volumes. "Sir, there’s... a matter I thought you should know about. I think Miss Alexia called earlier."

I looked up from my desk, my tone cutting. "And you’re telling me this now?"

He shifted uncomfortably, clearly aware of the storm brewing beneath my calm exterior. "Apologies, sir. She... well, she was quite insistent, but also, uh... unconventional in her approach."

My gaze narrowed. "Explain."

Tobias cleared his throat. "She referred to you as—" He paused, as though the next words physically pained him. "Mr. Almond Milk."

For a moment, silence filled the room. I set my pen down deliberately and leaned back in my chair, my fingers steepled. "Mr. Almond Milk?"

"Yes, sir."

I could feel the faint stirrings of fury—controlled, precise, and aimed directly at her. Only Alexia would have the audacity to come up with something so absurd and use it so shamelessly. If I didn’t think she was the perfect candidate to play this role as my wife, I’d have dropped her nonsense the moment she hurled that mud at me.

"What else?" I asked, my voice cold.

"She instructed me to tell you that your... ’fiancée’ was calling. She said she lost your card and demanded a callback. Her exact words were something about how if she didn’t hear from you soon, I’d be responsible for finding you a new wife."

I stared at him for a long moment, and he had the good sense to lower his gaze.

"And you didn’t think this warranted my immediate attention because...?"

"I thought it might not be worth troubling you with, given her... unconventional manner, sir. I was going to bring it up, but the day has been busy, and—"

I held up a hand, silencing him. "Enough. If you ever delay a message like this again, Tobias, you’ll be finding a new job. Understood?"

"Yes, sir. Of course."

With a curt nod, I dismissed him, my mind already turning over the interaction. Alexia had called me Mr. Almond Milk. The name itself was irritatingly ridiculous, but coming from her? It carried a peculiar bite that both infuriated and intrigued me.

This woman had absolutely no concept of decorum, respect, or self-preservation. She was infuriatingly brazen, reckless, and impossible to predict. And yet, somehow, those very qualities made her perfect for what I needed.

"Send me the number," I said, my tone crisp, already anticipating her next move.

I glanced at my phone, considering for a moment before dialing her number.

When she answered, her tone was casual, as if she hadn’t just insulted me through my assistant hours earlier. "Hello?"

I let the silence stretch for a beat before speaking, my tone dry, deliberate. "So, you lost my card, huh?"

There was a pause on the other end, and I could almost hear the gears turning in her head. Then she muttered, "Oh, great. The jerk himself."

The audacity.

There was a pause, long enough to suggest she was debating how to respond. "Uh... maybe?" she finally said, attempting to sound casual.

"Not a big deal," she added quickly. "These things happen."

"And before we go further," I continued, my tone growing sharper, "did you, or did you not, refer to me as ’Mr. Almond Milk’ to my assistant?"

Another pause. I could almost see her sheepish expression. "Uh... maybe?" she said, clearly trying to sound nonchalant.

"Maybe," I repeated, my voice flat. "You’re aware that’s entirely inappropriate, correct?"

"Well," she shot back, her defiance bleeding through the line, "it’s less intimidating. Easier to deal with."

I pinched the bridge of my nose, exhaling slowly. "Fascinating logic. However, in the future, you’ll refrain from such... liberties when addressing me."

"Noted," she replied, the smirk in her voice almost palpable.

I let the silence hang for a moment before continuing. "I’ll send you the address. Be there this evening."

"And?" she prompted, her tone dripping with suspicion.

"And dress decently," I added, my voice edged with authority.

Her sharp intake of breath was almost satisfying. Before she could launch into another one of her tirades, I ended the call.

Leaning back in my chair, I allowed myself a brief moment of reflection. Alexia was chaos incarnate, the kind of disruption that had no place in my carefully constructed world. Yet, somehow, she fit.

Her audacity grated on me, her defiance tested my patience, and her lack of decorum should have disqualified her entirely. But if there was one thing I valued more than order, it was effectiveness. Alexia would fulfill the role perfectly—not because she was obedient or polished, but because she wasn’t.

As much as she annoyed me, I couldn’t deny it: she was exactly the type of person who could stand in my world without crumbling under its weight.

But if she called me Mr. Almond Milk again, I wouldn’t be so forgiving.

.....

She is late. I’ve been waiting for her for twenty minutes now. Just when I thought she was a no show....

I caught sight of her the moment she walked in.

It was impossible not to. She stood out like a misplaced puzzle piece in a room curated for the elite. Her outfit—a hoodie and sweatpants that screamed defiance—clashed against the restaurant’s opulent backdrop of chandeliers and gleaming marble. Yet, she strode in with her head high, unapologetic, her audacity radiating in every step.

The corner of my mouth twitched. Unbelievable.

I adjusted my posture slightly, leaning back in my chair as I continued to observe her. She hadn’t seen me yet, too focused on the maze of tables and the occasional sideways glances from other patrons. The staff had noticed her too.

The heavy footsteps of security were the first sign. My gaze shifted briefly to the two guards moving with purpose, their attention locked on her. She didn’t even flinch. In fact, she ignored them completely, picking up her pace in what I assumed was an attempt to outrun the inevitable confrontation.

"Ma’am!"

Her shoulders stiffened for a fraction of a second before she dismissed the call with an exaggerated roll of her eyes. She didn’t stop.

Amusement flickered through me. She thought she could handle this on her own—or maybe she was banking on me to intervene.

Her gaze found me then. Even in the chaos, it was immediate. Our eyes locked, and for a split second, her stride faltered. There it was—that flash of uncertainty she couldn’t quite hide.

Good.

I let my expression remain impassive, cold. If she expected a warm welcome, she was in for a disappointment. My attention shifted behind her, landing on the guards as they closed in. Their eyes darted toward me the moment they caught my expression.

I didn’t need to speak.

The guards froze mid-step, their confidence evaporating under my gaze. They exchanged a brief, uncertain glance before retreating, their heavy boots retreating across the polished floor.

She turned slowly, watching them leave. Her smirk—cocky and self-satisfied—told me everything I needed to know about her. She thought she’d won.

Of course, she had no idea that victory wasn’t hers. It was mine.

When she finally reached the table, I let my gaze drift over her deliberately. The hoodie. The sweatpants. The sneakers that looked like they’d seen better days.

Predictable.

"Mr. Almond Milk," she muttered as she pulled out the chair across from me.

She did again.

I set my glass down with precision, the faint clink cutting through the muted chatter around us. "I see you... interpreted the dress code in your own way."

She dropped into the chair with a grin that was equal parts defiance and charm. "What can I say? I aim to impress."

My lips twitched, but I refused to let the amusement show. "Clearly."

Her bravado didn’t falter. She leaned back, crossing her arms as though she belonged here, as though she hadn’t just forced me to clean up her mess. "Lucky for you, I showed up at all," she said lightly, brushing at her hoodie like it was couture. "Besides, you said to dress decently. You didn’t specify whose standards we were going by."

I raised an eyebrow, letting my gaze linger. "This is what you call dressing decently?"

"Hey," she shot back, "I happen to think this hoodie is a classic."

Silence stretched between us as I considered her, my mind cataloging every detail. Her posture, her tone, the way she masked her unease with humor. It was almost impressive. Almost.

"You haven’t changed a bit," I said, more to myself than to her.

Her expression shifted, the bravado cracking ever so slightly. "What did you just say?"

I tilted my head, feigning indifference. "Nothing. Just that you’re as impossible as I expected."

The look in her eyes told me she didn’t believe me. She wanted to push, to press for answers, but she didn’t. Instead, she leaned forward, her grin sharpening into something that felt like a challenge.

"Well, lucky for you," she said, her tone deceptively light.

Lucky for me? Hardly.

I took another sip of my water, letting her words hang in the air. She thought she was playing a game. What she didn’t realize was that the pieces were already in my hands.

This was going to be interesting.