The Grand commander's Return; Ex-wife's fatal Mistake

Chapter 17: The Cold Toast

Brody slammed his phone onto the desk, his knuckles white and his breathing heavy.

"Two major investment groups just put their morning deposits on hold," Brody muttered, staring at the screen as the numbers flickered. "Two hundred million dollars, sitting in verification because some retired banker opened his mouth at dinner."

Nala walked into the room, smoothing down the front of her cream silk robe. She didn't look at the financial charts on his tablet or notice the cold sweat along Brody's hairline. Instead, she crossed her arms, her lips pressed into a tight, offended line.

"You need to set a date for an official engagement party, Brody," Nala said, her tone carrying a sharp, insistent edge. "My mother spent the entire night telling the guests that we're practically married, but everyone at the gala was whispering behind their hands because you haven't even given me a ring yet. People are looking at me like I'm a fool."

Brody didn't look up from his screen. His fingers flew across his keyboard as he tried to reroute server logs. "Not now, Nala. I'm dealing with the Central Reserve clearance."

Nala stepped directly between him and the screen, refusing to be dismissed.

"I am serious, Brody," she fussed, her voice rising. "The entire city is watching us, and right now I don't even have a piece of jewelry to prove what we are. Everyone assumes we're together, but you haven't put a ring on my finger. What are people supposed to think? Is there someone else? Is that why you're dragging your feet?"

Brody stared at her, his jaw clenching so hard a vein throbbed on his temple. For three years, he had watched Declan quietly cater to her every mood, pulling out her chair, holding her tea, and listening to her complain without ever raising his voice. Brody had assumed Declan was just weak. Now, with two hundred million dollars on the line and Nala interrogating him about an engagement party while his entire empire hovered on the edge of a cliff, Brody felt a surge of pure, violent irritation.

"Are you out of your mind?" Brody barked, shoving his laptop aside as he stood up. "I am trying to keep a three-billion-dollar valuation from freezing, and you're throwing a tantrum because I haven't bought you a shiny rock fast enough?"

Nala recoiled slightly, her eyes widening in shock. "I am asking for basic respect, Brody! After everything I sacrificed to stand by you—"

"You didn't sacrifice anything!" Brody snapped, grabbing his whiskey glass and pouring a heavy drink. He didn't offer her a glass, nor did he ask if she was cold in the drafty room. He drank it in one fast swallow, turning his back on her completely. "Stop interrogating me and stop talking about parties until the bank clears my money."

Nala stood frozen in the middle of the room. Her chest heaved with quiet indignation, but beneath her anger, a cold, unfamiliar ache settled in her stomach.

When she had been with Declan, he had never once raised his voice at her. He had never poured himself a drink without offering her one first. If she was upset, Declan would silently step in, fix the problem, and hand her a warm cup of tea without asking for credit. Brody gave her a mansion to display in public, but behind closed doors, he treated her like an inconvenient nuisance and couldn't even be bothered to make her his legal fiancée.

High above the city lights, the private elevator chimed softly inside Declan's penthouse suite.

Declan walked out of the bathroom, a white towel wrapped loosely around his waist as he dried his hair with a smaller towel. He froze mid-step as the elevator doors slid open.

Fiona strolled straight out into his living room, carrying a heavy stainless steel thermal container.

Declan nearly dropped his hand towel. His eyes widened in genuine shock, his stoic composure shattering for a brief, frantic second as he snatched a throw blanket off the back of the sofa and wrapped it tightly around his shoulders like a shield.

"Fiona!" Declan blurted out, his voice dropping an octave as he backed up half a step. "What are you doing? Do you ever knock?"

"The elevator requires my keycard, Declan, so knocking on my own private property would be redundant," Fiona replied seamlessly. She didn't look away at all, her eyes twinkling with pure, wicked amusement as she looked at him bundled up like an oversized tactical burrito. "And put that blanket down. You're wearing shorts under that towel, aren't you?"

"I am wearing dark gray athletic shorts," Declan corrected defensively, his face warming just a fraction before he pulled the blanket off and set it down, adjusting his shirt quickly. "That isn't the point. Normal people announce themselves."

"Normal people bring hot food," Fiona said, setting the container down on the kitchen island with a satisfying thud. "I brought my chef's signature garlic chicken soup. I spent four hours reading Cromwell's bond contracts, so you are going to eat this and be grateful."

Declan looked at the steam rising from the soup, his mild irritation instantly evaporating into a quiet smile. He pulled a chair out for her first, then took a bowl for himself.

"Thank you, Fiona," Declan said, taking a hot spoonful. "Honestly. I haven't eaten since breakfast."

"I know," Fiona said gently, leaning her chin on her hand as she watched him eat. "You forget basic human functions when you are working. Lucky for you, I do not."

As he ate, Declan noticed the small wooden pantry cabinet beside her had a loose lower hinge, causing the door to hang slightly crooked. Without saying a word, he reached into a drawer, pulled out a compact precision tool, and set to work. Within twenty seconds, the hinge was realigned and silent.

Fiona watched his steady, efficient hands, a genuine warmth softening her sharp eyes. He did not brag about his strength or demand praise. He simply fixed things when they were broken.

"Our legal teams have finished locking down the final bond tranche," Fiona said softly, watching him work. "Griffin Holdings now holds seventy percent of Cromwell Capital's debt. Brody has nowhere to run."

Declan set the tool down, closing the cabinet door with a clean, smooth click.

"Brody is a narcissist trapped by his own phantom ledgers," Declan said, his voice quiet and absolute. "When his fake empire starts to crack, he will not look at the bank. He will look for someone to blame. By tomorrow afternoon, Nala is going to find out exactly what kind of man she traded me for."

Back in the Cromwell mansion, the silent clock on the wall struck two in the morning.

Brody sat hunched over his desk in the dark, his face illuminated only by the harsh blue light of his monitor. A sudden red error code flashed across his terminal, a tiny, single-line ping indicating that the dark-web clone shell was failing to synchronize with the Central Reserve's security bus.

"No, no, no," Brody whispered, his hands trembling as he typed furiously, trying to force the override.

Nala sat on the edge of the large bed in the adjacent room, staring at her empty left hand.

She picked up her phone, instinctively opening her old messaging app. Declan's contact was still blocked at the top of her list. For three years, his name had meant stability, quiet comfort, and total peace. Now, sitting in a mansion worth millions with a man who would not even commit to an engagement, Nala felt more utterly alone than she ever had in her life.

She looked toward the office door, where Brody was cursing loudly at his computer screen, and for the very first time, a small, dark seed of regret took root in her heart.