MY CRUEL STEPSISTER FORCED ME TO MARRY A BROKE FISHERMAN TO SAVE OUR SMOKEHOUSE—ON OUR WEDDING NIGHT, HE MADE A CALL THAT BOUGHT HER ENTIRE EMPIRE!

By nine that evening, the storm had reached its peak, howling against the eaves of Whitaker Point with gale-force intensity. Jonah had given Wren the master bedroom upstairs—a spacious room with a vaulted ceiling, a king-sized brass bed, and a private balcony overlooking the churning ocean. He had taken the small guest room adjacent to the kitchen without a word of complaint, insisting that she needed rest after the ordeal at the notary’s office.

Wren lay beneath a heavy wool quilt, listening to the rain beat against the glass. Sleep was an impossible luxury. Her mind raced with images of Tessa’s mocking smirk, Gloria’s cold sneer, and the terrified faces of the plant workers who would clock in on Monday morning completely unaware of the trap closing around them. She slipped out of bed, pulling an oversized woolen cardigan over her shoulders, and walked softly down the stairs to fetch a glass of water.

As her bare feet reached the landing, she heard the low, rumbling timbre of Jonah’s voice coming from the study behind the stone fireplace. The door was cracked open an inch, casting a thin sliver of warm lamplight across the floorboards.

“I don’t care what the asking price on the secondary debt is, Harrison,” Jonah was saying. His tone was not that of a struggling lobster fisherman haggling over bait prices; it was clipped, razor-sharp, and commanding. “Buy every dollar of Calloway Seafood’s delinquent commercial paper by eight o’clock tomorrow morning. Clear the mezzanine loans through Vanguard Trust.”

Wren froze, holding her breath against the dark hallway wall.

A voice crackled through the speakerphone on Jonah’s desk, crisp and unmistakably British. “Sir, North Point Capital already placed an earnest deposit on the processing equipment and waterfront parcel. Gloria Calloway signed an option agreement yesterday afternoon.”

“An option agreement isn't a closing,” Jonah responded coldly. “Gloria had no legal authority to sign without the minority shareholder’s consent. Maggie Calloway left twenty-five percent of the voting shares in a living trust for Wren. Gloria suppressed the second codicil, but my legal team pulled the archived probate records from Augusta this afternoon. What’s the status of the North Point parent company?”

“Wholly owned subsidiary of Blackwood Maritime Holdings, sir,” the voice replied.

Jonah let out a quiet, dangerous chuckle that sent a shiver down Wren’s spine. “Then call Julian Blackwood directly on his personal line in London. Tell him Whitaker Global is exercising our preemptive right of purchase on all Atlantic eastern-seaboard leases. Tell him if his junior partners set foot in Greyhaven on Monday, I will terminate Blackwood’s shipping contracts in Rotterdam by Tuesday noon.”

There was a stunned pause on the other end of the line. “Understood, Mr. Whitaker. Shall we initiate the transfer from the Zurich account or liquidate the Boston bonds?”

“Liquidate the Boston reserves. I want sixty million in liquid escrow by tomorrow afternoon,” Jonah commanded. “And Harrison?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Find out which boutique salon Tessa Calloway uses in Portland. Buy the commercial building it sits in. When she goes in for her Monday appointment, I want her car towed from the lot.”

“Consider it done, sir.”

The call ended with a soft chime. Wren stood paralyzed in the shadows, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. Whitaker Global? Sixty million in liquid escrow? She stepped back, but a floorboard gave a minute creak under her weight.

The study door swung wide instantly. Jonah stood framed in the amber light, holding a crystal glass of amber whiskey. His sleeves were rolled up to his forearms, revealing corded muscle and a heavy platinum signet ring that had not been on his finger at the notary’s office. He looked at her standing in the hallway, his expression shifting from corporate ice to guarded warmth.