Kaleb Virello. If ambition wore a face, it was his. Dark curls. Deep green eyes. A jawline that could headline a war. He didn’t walk into rooms—he shifted their gravity.

At twenty-nine, he was already more myth than man. Billionaire. Disruptor. Style icon by accident. Tattooed knuckles, precision-cut suits. He didn’t follow trends. He wasn’t a wave—he was the ocean. And power didn’t just follow him. It knelt.

He had no entourage. No messy past. No red carpets, no scandals, no broken hearts behind him. At least, not publicly. Kaleb Virello was immaculate.

Except for one thing.

A signature on a marriage license. Silent. Legal. Binding. A family favor turned legal inconvenience. A wedding with more politics than petals.

She was his wife. On paper. On record. But never in reality.

He barely looked at her. She worked under him now—two floors down, fourth cubicle from the end. Another muted outfit. Another name on the payroll. No one was supposed to know.

But they knew.

The women at Virello Industries whispered her name with venom. They smiled with teeth when she passed, then sharpened their envy behind closed doors. They knew she wore the ring. And they didn’t care.

Because Kaleb didn’t.

He ignored her like she was furniture. A legal misstep he planned to correct. Eventually. When it was convenient.

And so, when Amara—sleek, blonde, always in pencil skirts a shade too tight—sashayed into his office with a file in one hand and a smirk in the other, he didn’t question her motives.

“She’s been accessing restricted client files,” Amara said, casually, like she was commenting on the weather. “Late last night. I saw it myself. I even pulled the logs.”

Kaleb didn’t blink.

He took the file she handed him, flipping through doctored screenshots, time stamps that looked real enough, and a login history that told a story someone wanted him to believe.

A story where she—the woman he was forced to marry—was stealing from his empire.

The fury was instant. Controlled, but electric. He stood. Didn’t ask questions. Didn’t send HR.

Just walked the two floors down, silent as thunder.

She was at her desk, head bent over a folder. Working. Focused. Unaware.

Until his shadow fell over her.

And then— “Come with me,” he said, his voice cold and blade-sharp.

No explanation. No eye contact. She stood slowly, holding his gaze for the first time in weeks.

She didn’t ask what this was about. And he didn’t offer it.

But as she passed Amara’s smirk on the way to his office, her eyes flickered—just once. Something knowing. Something dangerous.

And suddenly, this wasn’t just a war of silence anymore.

It was about to get loud.