Wolf in Suit

An imposing, broad-shouldered man wearing a black coat over a crisp white V-neck stepped into view.

The younger Strathmore is almost thirty now, but time had only refined his appearance. His dark hair was neatly swept to the side, enhancing his polished, deceptively charming look. He gave a genuine smile toward the people in the room, greeting them like a prominent man.

However, the Castellijo heir refused to be fooled by his carefully crafted facade.

'A wolf in sheep's clothing, ' her mind recoiled with fear and disgust.

As Henricho walked towards her, Reane's breath hitched, and she stiffened as if her body had forgotten how to move.

Every step Henricho took towards her looked slow and deliberate—like a predator closing in. He moved with an effortless grace that only comes from a lifetime of confidence—like someone who'd never known rejection.

Sylvia noticed something was wrong, picking up on the strain in Reane's posture and the slight twitch of her daughter's fingers. But there was no time to react as the Strathmore heir stepped closer to the Castellijo heir with a smooth and unreadable expression.

Henricho leaned in close to play her, arms slightly outstretched as if he meant to embrace Reane. Nevertheless, she flinched before she could stop herself, taking a quick step back.

A brief of emotion crossed the confident man's face—annoyance? amusement?—before he quickly masked it with a practiced smile and said.

"It's okay,"

"I forgive you," he murmured in velvety tone.

Reane blinked in shock, meeting Henricho's gaze head-on. Her striking green eyes collided with his piercing grey ones.

'Forgive me?'

'For what, asshole?!'

She wanted to shout those words at him, but she chose to stay silent. There was nothing she could do. She was trapped—like a caged animal staring down its captor.

And Henricho, knowing exactly what was racing through her mind, seemed to savor every moment of it and decided to tease her more.

Reane was taken aback as the menacing man seized her hand, lifting it slowly, his lips brushing against the back of it and lingering just long enough to make her skin crawl.

"Look at my gentleman son. They are both stunning. They look so good together. It's a good thing that my son also inherited my good looks," Albert Strathmore said proudly, excitedly tapping his cane on the floor.

Oblivious to the tension between the Strathmore heir and his daughter, Rodney laughed and patted Henricho on the shoulder, nodding in approval.

Before Henricho turned away, he leaned in just slightly, his warm breath against Reane's ear.

"I'll talk to you later," he whispered, voice laced with something almost… possessive.

A chill ran down Reane's spine as Hernicho left her stage and approached the older men.

She looked at them, barely registering the conversation that followed. Despite hearing some of Albert's pleased remarks, Rodney's laughter, and other things, everything seemed to fade into the background.

Reane couldn't help but clench her fists so tightly that her nails dug into her palms, breaking the skin—though she hardly felt it. It was the only thing she could control right now.

She wanted to shout, hurl insults, and let her rage explode, but despite that, she kept herself together for her mother, who was still there with her, quietly watching. Sylvia's presence is a silent reminder of her responsibility to stay composed.

'Get a grip, Reane. You can do this.'

She keeps telling this to herself like a mantra to keep herself sane.

But deep down, she knew.

This wasn't over. Not by a long shot.

The strawberry blonde thoughts shattered at the sound of Albert's voice. His tone carried an unmistakable edge, Infused with condescension as he addressed the head of the Castellijo family.

Rodney's eyes darkened, but the older Strathmore only grew more

serious as he addressed his future daughter-in-law.

"My son here—" Albert placed a firm hand on Henricho's shoulder, a clear sign of his favor. "Even when he's drunk or under pressure, he never acts recklessly. Unlike you."

His words were a dagger wrapped in civility. Then, with slow deliberation, he pointed his cane at Reanne. All eyes turned to her. She felt like a cornered mouse beneath Albert's withering gaze, his gesture brimming with disdain.

"So I hope you won't pull a stunt like that again—especially in public, where prying eyes are eager to tear us down." His voice dropped to something sharper, a final warning.

"We don't want to see or hear any scandals in the press once you two are engaged. It wouldn't be good for our business— to our family."

Reane wanted to retort, and a part of her desperately hoped her father would step in—to counter the harsh words the balding man hurled at her and defend her. But before she could even part her lips, her father's gaze stopped her cold. It was a warning: 'Say anything, and it's over.'

She realized that she belonged to them now and that everything had already been decided for her. "We", "US" and "Our" affected her more than she had anticipated. She was nothing more than a pawn—an asset to be traded and showcased.

And so, the conversation between the Castellijo and Strathmore leaders continued—man to man, in a world where she didn't belong. The longer they talked, the more distant they became, as if she were fading further away from their world.

She despised it.

But speaking up now would accomplish nothing. It would only make things worse.

So, she forced herself to stay quiet.

Albert droned on, his voice a steady hum of arrogance. Henricho stood beside him, nodding along. Rodney remained composed, offering only brief responses.

As anxiety crept into Reane's mind, she felt as if the walls were closing in around her. The air grew heavier, pressing against her chest as she stood there, observing the three towering figures before her.

And yet, there she was—like a ghost in the room, barely present and barely seen.

"Ren, are you okay? What's going on with you?"

A warm hand gripped her arm.

Sylvia.

"Her mother's worried eyes searched her face, and her touch was a quiet reminder that someone in the room still mattered.

Reanne wanted to collapse into her—to break down and let everything spill. The fear, the helplessness, the night she tried to forget. The quiet rage simmering beneath her skin. But she couldn't. She wouldn't.

Instead, she forced herself to stand. Forced herself to breathe.

"I'm sorry, Mom."

"I have to go."

She said in a wavered voice and stormed out of the room.

Her sneakers hit the floor in quick restless steps, each one heavier than the last, weighted with everything she couldn't bring herself to say.

The silence behind her was crushing, pressing in like a held breath—but she didn't stop. She wouldn't turn around. She couldn't.

The weight of their gazes burned into her back, but she refused to acknowledge them. If she did, she might shatter.

She heard her father calling after her, but Albert Austria's dismissive and cold voice cut in. "Let her be. Now, about the business..."

Whatever they may have said, it didn't matter. None of it did. Nothing she cared about existed in that room anymore.

All she wanted was to get as far away as possible before she drowned, standing still.

She fought back the tears stinging her eyes. She was upset—but where did she even begin?

To her father, who was arranging her marriage?

To the Strathmores, who already seemed to have her father in their grasp?

To her mother? Definitely not her mother.

No—it was herself.

For not standing her ground. For letting them silence her. For allowing the men in power to dictate her fate—again.

Reane's thoughts became a whirlwind of frustration and self-loathing.

'Why am I letting them control me? Why couldn't I say anything back?'

And yet, despite it all, running away felt just as pathetic.

'If only I could disappear,' she thought bitterly.

When she reached the elevator, her breath was uneven, and she repeatedly jabbed the downward arrow button, desperate to escape—as if pressing it enough times would make it arrive faster.

As if it would make this moment vanish.

Then, just before the doors opened, a hand landed on her left shoulder.

"You know, I'm too old to chase you around," a familiar woman voiced, slightly out of breath.