The Housewife's Return To Her Alluring Prime - Chapter 76: Chapter 76

The move hit Tracy like a slap. Her eyes flashed crimson; she spun on her heel and herded the rest of the executives toward the elevator bank, jabbing the call button like it owed her money.
"Babe, put me down—I can walk," I insisted, trying to sound brave.
Jared's jaw stayed locked. "Quit the hero act. You're hurt, so behave."
"It's really nothing. Only a quick stretch." I'd never twisted anything to begin with.
"Mm." Noncommittal. Classic Jared.
The next elevator dinged open. He carried me in. My cheeks went hot. This wasn't a rom-com—getting bridal-carried through a Marriott felt ridiculous in real life.
"Let me stand. Just hold my arm," I whispered, wriggling. He relented and lowered me gently, then anchored one big hand around my elbow.
I limped into the private dining room at half-speed, Jared glued to my side.
Tracy was out in the hallway, phone to her ear, voice sharp enough to slice bread. Couldn't tell who was on the other end, but whoever it was, they were getting flambéed.
I tilted my head toward the noise. "Didn't know Ms. Darwin had that kind of bite."
Jared glanced back, shrugged. "Guess somebody pushed her buttons."
A cold little rock dropped in my stomach. Does he think I'm the one pushing?
Tracy stalked back in, cheeks still flushed. The second she spotted Jared, though, she swapped the scowl for a smile that could sell perfume—confident, silky, the kind that said I don't need anyone—except maybe you.
Every few seconds, her gaze flicked to Jared, wounded-puppy eyes on full display.
I watched the performance with the detachment of a bored movie critic. You used to ignore me, Trace. Let's see how long that lasts.
Let's be honest: Tracy's family tree had bigger branches than mine. But she was still shopping for a sturdy trunk to lean on.
Jared—young, hot, CEO-level competent—checked every box. She wasn't about to saddle herself with some fifty-year-old sugar daddy. She wanted the fairy tale, and Jared was Prince Charming with a balance sheet.
Only flaw in her storybook? He'd already married me, and we'd made Yvonne.
Actually, scratch that. She might genuinely adore Yvonne. Last time around, she quietly terminated a pregnancy just so my little girl wouldn't feel replaced.
She knew how much Jared adored his daughter, and she played the long game to stay in both their good graces.
Back in my own family tree, the roots are soaked in straight-up sexism. People still mutter about "carrying on the name."
But in Hachester, I figured that rumor about them not caring about sons was just a rumor. Then I had Yvonne, and no one blinked.
Jared's devotion to Yvonne was absolute. When she was little, he'd fly home between meetings just to watch her nap on his chest. He'd balance spreadsheets with her curled on his lap like a sleepy kitten.
The image that still guts me: Yvonne running a fever, Jared's eyes glassy-red, slipping out to the parking deck so none of us would see him cry.
Those razor-sharp details stacked up like Lego bricks until they built the prison of my old hopeless crush.
I hate him for it. If he doesn't love me, why does he keep lighting these tiny, stupid fires I have to stamp out? Why can't he just be ice-cold, give me something clean to walk away from?
But this time I've adjusted the lens. Yvonne carries half his DNA; doting on her is simply fatherhood doing its job. Once you label it "duty," the magic spell snaps.
At the table, the conversation stays locked on term sheets and cap tables. I chew slowly, listening hard. One wrong bet and the whole board can flip—Monopoly money with real-life consequences.
Somehow, I found my favorite dish was within reach. Before I can lift my fork, Jared forks a piece onto my plate without missing a beat in his conversation with the CFO. Casual, automatic—like breathing.
I freeze. Across the table, Tracy's knuckles whiten around her fork. Great. Another breadcrumb. Could you maybe stop seasoning my life with these meaningless gestures?
I swear, the man's fishing with live bait, convinced I'll bite if he sprinkles just enough sweetness. Does he honestly believe "good wife" is a default setting I'll slide back into if he keeps buttering the pan?
But a real partner earns a "good wife," the same way a good man earns loyalty.
Most guys just cosplay husband until the credits roll—and Jared's got an Oscar in that category.
Dinner wrapped up when one of the senior VPs blurted out that she wanted to hit the Stonecrag Church tomorrow.
She swore the place was magic for both love and career, and after her divorce, she still hadn't found "the one," so maybe a prayer wouldn't hurt.
Jared said that tomorrow was a day off, with no work scheduled, so everyone was free to do as they pleased. Tracy then suggested that we all go for a walk at Stonecrag Mount.
Jared's eyes slid to me. Voice low, he asked, "Wanna come?"
I nodded. "Sure."
By ten, we'd all drifted back to the hotel. When Jared figured out I'd booked my own room, his face went storm-cloud dark.
I stopped him in the hallway, yawning for show. "Hon, I'm beat. Gonna crash early—big climb tomorrow."
"Yeah." He pivoted into his own room without another word.
Inside my suite, the dumb thought hit: if Tracy finds out I'm not bunking with him, will she tiptoe down the hall and slide into his bed?
By nine-thirty, the idea died. I'd just stepped out of the shower, blow-drying the ends of my hair, when the door opened. Jared—fresh from his own shower—walked in, hair damp, eyes locked on me. I looked away.
When the dryer clicked off, he broke the silence. "My mom told me she gave you some pills. You taking them?"
I froze. She'd even looped him in? "Not really. They never work, and I'm worried about my liver."
He held out his palm. "Let me see them."
I dug the black foil packet from my bag and set it in his hand. "You're actually going to swallow this?"
"My mom insists." His voice stayed flat.
I tried a joke. "What if it's poison?"
His gaze heated. "Only one way to find out."
My pulse stuttered. If he took it, he'd expect me to— "Don't. It's useless." I reached out to snatch the packet back.
He caught my wrist. "Relax. I'll take it. You enjoy the ride."
Before I could protest, he emptied the powder into a glass of water, knocked it back, and swallowed.
"Stay right there," I warned, half laughing, half freaked. Lately, Jared had been wild in ways I didn't recognize.
He sat on the edge of the bed, and within minutes, a flush climbed his neck. Fingers working the top button of his pajama shirt, he muttered, "Victoria, I'm burning up."
"I'll call a doctor—classic poisoning symptoms," I chirped, already inching toward the door.
He saw the escape attempt. In one smooth move, he grabbed my arm, spun me, and pinned me to the mattress. "Running already?"
I squeezed my eyes shut and dropped the mood killer. "How much are you paying me this time?"
Every ounce of heat drained from his face. "You're really doing this now?"
"Price first. If we renegotiate after—" His mouth crashed over mine, angry, cutting me off.
Whatever was in that packet, it worked overtime. Jared was stronger, rougher, and more relentless. Each time I tried to wriggle free, he yanked me back, teeth grazing my neck, hands branding my hips.
Between breaths, he growled against my skin, "Tell me again. You're really letting the dice roll? You don't care anymore?"
My brain short-circuited; my body wouldn't lie. "Yes," I hissed, clinging to the last shred of logic. The word flipped a switch—he drove harder, deeper, until time blurred.
When it finally ended, he stayed locked around me, arms iron-tight. Two fresh bruises throbbed on my throat.
Curled against his chest, I whispered the same stupid question. "So... how much?"