The Ruthless CEO's Revenge Wife
Chapter 203: The Cunning Mother

Chapter 203: The Cunning Mother

Logan had worked harder. Changed everything... his body, his name, his place in the world.

Logan Kingsley. It’s not just a name anymore. It’s a brand. Not the soft, overweight nobody in hand-me-downs anymore.

And when fate handed him a deal where Jean had to marry him, he took it. With satisfaction.

He would own her world. Make her bend. Make her remember the man she spat on.

That was the plan.

So why the hell was he here... cooking her dinner? Watching over her sleep? Confronting boardroom sharks on her behalf and bringing her ice cream just to see her smile?

Why was he worried about her eating?

Why was it easier to remember the way she looked in pain than it was to recall his own grudge?

He had sworn to make her days hell.

But instead...

He was giving her shelter.

Softness.

A home.

Logan pressed his hand to the back of his neck and stared at the ceiling.

"You were supposed to hate her," he muttered to himself. "So why does it feel like all you want is to destroy anything that hurts her?"

He thought of her tonight... the quiet way she asked, "Wasn’t this marriage supposed to be contractual?" As if she still believed that was all she meant to him.

And maybe she had every reason to.

Because Logan couldn’t even admit it to himself yet.

He walked toward the window and leaned his forehead against the glass, watching the city lights blur beneath the fog of his breath.

He used to think revenge would taste like power.

But now, all he wanted... Was to keep her safe.

Even from herself.

__________________________

The house had gone still.

Jean lay on her side, the sheets tucked neatly under her arm, eyes wide open in the dark as the clock blinked past midnight.

She was waiting.

Not for sleep.

For him.

It wasn’t like she missed Logan, she told herself. Not really. She just... noticed the quiet more when he wasn’t around. Noticed that the air in the room didn’t shift the same way. That the scent of his cologne wasn’t lingering faintly in the sheets like it usually did.

That the space beside her was still undisturbed.

She exhaled and turned onto her back.

Maybe he was working late. Maybe he was still upset. Because of her.

She shook her head. Maybe she was overthinking it.

Jean let her eyes drift to the ornate ceiling above her, letting the silence wrap around her like a heavy coat. She had never needed anyone beside her to sleep. Not before Logan. Not even now.

And yet...

Her hand inched toward his side of the bed.

The sheets were cool. Crisp. Unwrinkled.

Not a trace of warmth.

Not even the ghost of his weight.

Jean closed her eyes... not from tiredness, but to escape the strange tightness in her chest.

It was foolish to care.

He didn’t owe her his presence.

They were just partners on paper, after all. A merger built on necessity, not affection.

And yet, despite herself, she kept glancing at the door.

Waiting.

But Logan never came.

Eventually, exhaustion won. Her breathing slowed, lips slightly parted as sleep crept in, quiet and reluctant.

The next morning, she woke to pale sunlight trickling through the curtains.

The other side of the bed?

Still untouched.

Still cold.

Jean sat up slowly, the silk sheets sliding off her shoulder. Her hand pressed into the mattress, feeling again for warmth she knew wasn’t there.

Her brow furrowed.

Where did he go?

Why... didn’t he come back?

___________________________

Jean came down the stairs slowly, her fingers brushing the polished railing, the hem of her robe dangling against the steps.

The house smelled like fresh coffee.

The staff moved about quietly, already halfway through breakfast prep.

But Logan’s voice... wasn’t among them.

He usually said something by now.

A sarcastic comment. A low hum while scanning headlines. The clink of his watch against his mug.

Today? Nothing.

Jean’s brows furrowed as she walked into the kitchen, spotting the housekeeper setting out dishes with quiet efficiency.

"Good morning, ma’am," the woman greeted gently. "Shall I bring your tea to the dining room?"

Jean hesitatingly nodded at her but then saw no trace of Logan she turned to her. "Where’s Logan?"

The woman paused only for a second before answering.

"Mr. Kingsley left quite early today. Said he had a full day of meetings."

Jean blinked.

"Early?" she repeated.

"Yes, ma’am. Around six. He didn’t want to disturb your rest."

Her rest.

How considerate.

Jean nodded slowly, not trusting her voice for a reply. She made her way to the dining room, her bare feet brushing cool marble.

The teacup was already waiting for her... warm and fragrant but she didn’t touch it.

Her gaze drifted to the chair across the table.

Empty.

Still pushed in neatly.

Logan hadn’t just left.

He’d left without saying goodbye. Again!

Jean sat down, her hands curling around the teacup out of habit. It didn’t escape her that the porcelain felt warmer than the bed beside her had.

And for a brief, unguarded moment... She missed him.

_________________________

The private salon at the Rosewood Club smelled of roses, gin, and old money.

Darla Adams sat poised in her pearl white suit, legs crossed, diamond bracelet catching the afternoon light as she sipped her tea like it was blood.

Across from her sat a young woman in a pale beige skirt, trying not to wring her hands too obviously.

Darla’s smile was warm. But her eyes were knives.

"Tell me, sweetheart," she said softly, "how’s your internship under Jean Adams going?"

The girl blinked. "It’s... challenging, ma’am. She’s demanding."

"Demanding is good," Darla replied, stirring her tea once, precisely. "It means she expects excellence. But it also means she’s distracted."

Susan shifted uncomfortably in her seat, unsure where this was going.

Darla leaned forward, voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. "Jean is about to launch a new product line, isn’t she?"

The girl hesitated. "...Yes. There’s been a lot of closed door meetings."

"I imagine the files are in her private office?"

Susan’s eyes widened... a sharp intake of breath. "Ma’am... I don’t think I can..."

Darla’s smile never faltered. But her tone... chilled.

"You can. Because you’re smart. And loyal."

She slid a small envelope across the table. The edge of a prepaid card peeked out... thick, loaded.