Chapter Four: The Wolf You
1163 Words
POV: Justine
The boardroom used to be his sanctuary.
A fortress of marble and glass, where every chair bowed to his presence, every polished surface reflected his ambition. No one questioned him here. No one dared. That was the way Justine Calloway built his kingdom—on precision, fear, and unshakeable control.
But not today.
Not since she walked back into his world like she owned it.
He stood at the head of the conference table, a dozen high-level executives seated around him, but his focus wasn’t on the reports or projections flashing across the screen. It was on the empty chair across the table—the one he’d set aside for the incoming co-chair.
Ava Vale.
No. Ava Remington.
The room stank of tension and expensive cologne. Someone coughed. Soren cleared his throat beside him, tapping a stylus against his tablet. “Sir, you haven’t signed the Virexo override. If she presents the share consolidation next week, she’ll have equal voting power.”
Justine stared at the numbers on the screen, but all he could see were her eyes from the night before. Cold. Beautiful. Full of venom he once called love.
“She’s not bluffing,” he murmured.
“No,” Soren agreed. “She’s playing to win.”
Justine finally turned to face the room. “Table the vote until Friday. I want every holding company she’s touched tracked and dissected. I want names. I want pressure points. I want blood.”
The silence in the room thickened.
Because when Justine Calloway asked for blood, people bled.
He stalked out of the boardroom like a storm, his tailored suit absorbing the weight of eyes and expectations. Every person in that building had seen the cracks in his empire—thanks to Ava—and he knew half of them were waiting to see if he’d fall or fight.
He wasn’t planning to fall.
Later, alone in his office, he sank into the leather chair behind his desk. The skyline of New York burned through the windows, a wash of lights and rainclouds. The city didn’t sleep—but for once, he wanted to.
He poured a drink.
No ice.
No distractions.
Just the burn.
He pulled open the drawer beside him, and for a moment, his hand hovered over a worn photograph. The edges were frayed. The colors faded. But the image? Untouched.
Ava, wrapped in white linen, hair messy from sleep, smiling at him like he was the sun.
They were in Greece. Santorini. Their honeymoon.
Back when they were untouchable.
Back when she still believed in him.
Back when he still believed in himself.
He shoved the photo back inside and slammed the drawer shut.
His phone buzzed once.
Unknown Number.
No message. Just a single image attachment.
He tapped it.
A screenshot of a classified report—one only senior executives at Calloway Holdings had access to.
PROJECT RAZOR: Black Budget Asset Liquidation.
Confidential.
Highly restricted.
And he was the only one who ever approved it.
His stomach twisted.
She wasn’t just coming for his boardroom. She was digging into secrets no one had permission to touch. And if she found what was hidden beneath the asset line called “Razor”…
She’ll destroy everything.
He picked up the phone. “Trace an image sent from this number. I want metadata, IP routing, physical origin if possible.”
Soren’s voice came quickly on the line. “On it.”
Justine leaned back, rubbing the edge of his jaw.
She knew.
Maybe not the full truth, not yet—but Ava was sniffing around things buried deeper than marriage scandals and headlines.
And if she pulled those bones into the light...
She wouldn’t just ruin him.
She’d ruin everything.
He stood up, walking to the liquor cabinet. This time, he didn’t pour. He just stared at the crystal decanters, each one a monument to indulgence and power. Things he used to revel in. Now they looked like trophies in a dead man’s museum.
And somewhere behind the noise in his mind, the truth whispered: she had every right to burn him down.
But he wasn’t going to let her.
Not without a war.
---
Three Years Ago
Private Airport | The Night Everything Cracked
He’d begged her not to go.
That night was cold, the kind that made your bones ache. Ava stood at the top of the jet stairs, suitcase in hand, hair whipping in the wind. She didn’t cry. Not once.
He remembered how she looked at him—like she didn’t recognize the man standing at the bottom of the stairs. Like he was a stranger wearing her husband’s face.
“You let them call me unstable,” she said.
“I did it to protect you.”
“You did it to protect you.” Her voice cut through the wind like glass. “You made me the scapegoat for something I didn’t do.”
“I couldn’t risk the board pulling everything,” he snapped, stepping closer. “We were already bleeding contracts. The press would’ve torn you apart worse if—”
“They already did.” Her lips trembled, but her spine didn’t. “And you helped them.”
She turned and walked up the stairs.
He didn’t stop her.
He didn’t say her name.
He didn’t chase her.
And the silence that followed became a second skin.
He watched the jet vanish into the sky with a stomach full of glass, convinced it was for the best.
He told himself he'd fix it. That he just needed time.
But time doesn’t heal when trust is the corpse rotting between you.
And in that moment, he knew he’d started a war he couldn’t control.
---
Present
The elevator dinged, pulling Justine from the memory. He looked up as the doors opened and a sharply dressed woman stepped out.
Nikita Crane.
Media shark. Crisis handler. His fixer.
“You’re bleeding,” she said, not even sitting down.
“I’ve got it under control,” he replied.
She scoffed. “No, you don’t. The media’s sniffing around. Your investors are twitchy. And Ava Remington’s name is starting to trend on executive forums. If she pushes this board vote through, she won’t just be co-chair.”
“She’ll own half my empire,” he finished.
“Then stop waiting for her to slip. Make her slip.”
He said nothing.
She leaned forward. “You want to know how to kill a wildfire?”
He raised a brow.
“You burn it faster.”
And just like that, Justine knew what he had to do.
Not destroy Ava.
No.
He had to outmaneuver her.
If she wanted to rewrite the story—he’d remind her who the real author was.
He walked to the window, looking out over the glittering city he once ruled without contest.
But now the queen had returned.
And this time, she wasn’t wearing white.
She was wearing war.
- Writer
