Pursuing Your Long Lost Wife

The studio gleams under sharp, artificial lights, every polished surface—from the glass desk to the immaculate floor—reflecting your presence. Beyond the cameras, the crowd murmurs with anticipation. Victoria Lane, the nation’s beloved talk show host, sits poised with practiced elegance, her manicured nails tapping the edge of her notes. But you need no introduction. You are Seven Fenros. Your name commands respect, fear, and fascination in equal measure. Dressed in a perfectly tailored charcoal suit, you radiate an almost suffocating presence—like a marble statue carved from ice, untouchable and cold. Your icy blue eyes lock on Victoria’s, unblinking, daring her to slip up. The air between you is brittle, taut with tension. “So, Mr. Fenros,” Victoria begins, forcing a bright smile, “do you perhaps have a secret romance going on?” Her question hangs like a spark above a powder keg—one wrong move and it will explode, igniting scandal. You tilt your head slightly, amusement flickering briefly at the corner of your lips—a rare c***k in your armor. Then the sharp slam of a door breaks the silence. All eyes snap to the entrance as two boys, no older than seven, burst into the room, voices high and unrestrained. “Father!” they shout, small hands reaching out as they rush toward you. Victoria’s smile falters, disbelief flooding her features. The studio freezes, a collective gasp audible even over the boys’ joyful cries. For once, you look caught off guard. Your brows furrow, sharp features betraying confusion instead of your usual icy composure. The boys cling to your legs, their faces radiant with unfiltered joy. Victoria scrambles to her feet, panic spreading across her face. “Security!” she hisses, gesturing wildly toward the stunned guards. But before anyone moves, Brian—your ever-reliable assistant—enters with brisk efficiency. “Mr. Fenros,” Brian says calmly but low, “your wife is back in the country, sir. And she has proof these children are yours.” The words cut the air like a blade. “Wife?” Your voice drops low, dangerous. Your gaze snaps to Brian, then lowers to the boys clinging to you. For the first time, you really see them. Their brown hair, so like yours, catching the light. Their features—a mirror of your own—except for their warm brown eyes. They look up at you with unfiltered adoration, faces lighting up as they chatter excitedly. “We’re back, Father! We’ve waited so long.” “Do you remember us? Mama said you would!” Victoria, still standing, feels the blood drain from her face. This wasn’t in the script. Your carefully orchestrated interview is unraveling live. The monitors behind her flood with comments—disbelief, outrage. Seven Fenros—the untouchable bachelor, billionaire mogul—is married? And has children? “Mr. Fenros, would you like to clarify?” Victoria ventures, voice trembling. Your gaze snaps to her—cold and cutting. She freezes beneath the weight, words drying in her throat. Slowly, you stand, towering over everyone. “We’ll discuss this in the car,” you say curtly, voice brooking no argument. “Brian, call the lawyers.” “Yes, sir,” Brian replies, adjusting his glasses, already typing. Without another word, you shrug on your suit jacket, movements precise and deliberate. The boys trail behind, their small feet pattering confidently. They look up at you with unshakable certainty—you won’t leave them. Victoria collapses into her seat, poise crumbling. The comments on the monitors behind her become a storm of shock, speculation, heartbreak. The corridor to the garage echoes with your polished shoes clicking sharply. Your strides are long, relentless. Brian jogs to keep up, sweat pooling on his temples. He’s grown used to your unforgiving pace, but it doesn’t get easier. Behind you, the boys dart and laugh, their innocent squeals a jarring contrast to the tension in the air. Their sneakers squeak on the tiles, their carefree energy bouncing off the cold walls. “She has proof, Mr. Fenros,” Brian pants. “A valid marriage certificate and a DNA test.” You don’t slow, gaze fixed ahead. Voice low, cutting: “Call the lawyers. Now.” Brian hesitates, then sighs with the weight of what he must say: “She’s not in town. Her plane left ten minutes ago.” You stop so fast Brian nearly crashes into you. Clutching his tablet, he waits for your next move. You turn your head slightly, unreadable, then resume walking. “To where?” “Africa. She wants to meet you tonight.” You open the car door and slide inside. That small noncommittal sound you make hangs in the air—heavy, unreadable. Brian scrambles to interpret it, but before he can, the back window rolls down, revealing your cold glare. An unspoken command: get in, or be left behind. The boys climb in eagerly, chattering about their mother’s promises, about futures you don’t yet understand. Their innocence clashes sharply with your calculated world—but they don’t notice. And you don’t care. Brian slides in front, barely buckled before the car speeds off. The silence in the car breaks with your calm, commanding tone: “Let me see it.” “See what?” Brian asks, glancing back. “The marriage certificate.” “Oh.” Brian fumbles with the tablet, passing it back. Your piercing blue eyes scan the document. Your name, your signature—undeniable. But your gaze lingers on the other name: Natalie Fenros. It feels foreign, distant. A ghost of a memory you pushed away—one night you dismissed as insignificant. The boys chatter breaks your thoughts. “What’s for dinner, Father?” “Are we going to live with you now? Mother said we would.” “Is there a piano? I love to play.” Their excited questions tumble over one another. Your gaze softens—almost imperceptibly—as you turn to them. “What are your names?” you ask, voice quieter. The taller boy straightens proudly. “Daniel Fenros.” “David Fenros,” the other adds, sharper. “Nice to meet you, Father. But you owe us—for ignoring us. Do you know how much humiliation we’ve endured because of your irresponsibility?” Brian chokes on a laugh, masking it with a cough when your and David’s identical glares land on him. “Like father, like son,” he mutters under his breath. Your expression remains impassive, but a flicker of something—amusement, irritation—glimmers in your eyes. “My name is Seven Fenros,” you say evenly, meeting David’s challenge. “Seven Calrix Fenros,” David corrects, solemn. “CEO of the F&Q Business Empire. Richest mogul. Heir to Fenros Corporation. Thirty-two years old.” Brian’s jaw drops as the boy continues. “And your mother only named you Seven because you were the seventh pregnancy. The first to survive.” The car jolts as the driver adjusts, startled. Brian coughs, barely suppressing laughter. You remain composed, gaze steady. “Book a restaurant. Something nice. And get the best candies and cakes.” Brian blinks in disbelief. Daniel’s soft voice interrupts, polite but firm. “Mother says sweets are unhealthy. We’re not allowed.” You pause, feeling the sting of being overruled by a seven-year-old. Not used to losing, but not willing to admit defeat. “Sweets are good for kids,” you insist. David crosses his arms. “We won’t disobey Mother in her absence. That would make us bad children. And we’re good children, Mr. Fenros. Unlike you.” Brian witnesses a rare sight—your speechlessness. Seven Fenros—untouchable, unshakable—outmaneuvered by two kids. Finally, you sigh, resigned. “Fine. You can have whatever you want.” The twins cheer, victorious grins lighting the car. Brian shakes his head in disbelief. The rest of the drive is cloaked in uneasy silence. You lean back, eyes closed, the engine’s hum and boys’ murmurs fading into dull background noise. Your jaw tightens each time their cheerful voices break the stillness. Brian, meanwhile, is anything but silent—fingers flying over his tablet, calls and emails, navigating the chaos you attract. When the car pulls into La Merveille’s private garage, tension doesn’t ease. You step out first, dark suit catching the dim lights. The boys pad after you, eyes wide, drinking in the opulence. Brian follows, but you stop him with a sharp look. “We’re good. You don’t have to follow us.” His protests sputter out. “Postpone the board call and product launch,” you command, voice as cold and unyielding as steel. “And ensure the DNA test is ready.” Brian nods, thrown by your sudden shift. “Then do your job.” Your words leave no room for debate. He stands frozen as you stride toward the restaurant, the boys trailing behind, swallowed by the warm golden glow inside. Brian sighs, rubbing his neck. “Selfish, as always,” he mutters, climbing back into the car.