Wife vs. Intern, A Luxury Showdown

The sharp click of the car unlocking echoed through the empty garage.

I reached for the passenger door—then froze.

A young girl with a high ponytail sat comfortably in my seat, an auction catalog spread open across her lap.

She glanced up at me, flashing a smile that showed off her sharp canines.

"Hi, sis! I'm Emily Dawson, Mr. Sinclair's new assistant," she chirped.

My hand tightened around the door handle, nails digging faint marks into the leather.

In the rearview mirror, Ethan was on a call, his long fingers tapping rhythmically against the steering wheel, oblivious to the tension crackling inside the car.

"I heard there's an ancient enamel hairpiece up for auction tonight," Emily said, waving the catalog like an excited tourist. "I begged Mr. Sinclair to bring me along for the experience."

She nestled deeper into the seat, making no move to get out.

Three years ago, during the press conference for our arranged marriage, a reporter had joked that the Sinclair heir was frigid.

That night, Ethan had pinned me against the walk-in closet wall, tracing the delicate arch of my shoulder blades with his fingers and murmuring, "Would you like to verify that yourself, Mrs. Sinclair?"

Since then, he had shielded me from boardroom toasts, held me through sleepless nights of stomach pain, and always remembered to bring home my favorite jasmine candles from his trips.

Everyone said Ethan Sinclair was an iceberg—

Except when it came to me.

Until today.

"Get out," I said, my voice cold, my fingers tapping an impatient rhythm against the steering wheel.

Emily blinked up at me, stunned, her wide doe eyes filled with confusion.

Clearly, no one had warned her—

I wasn't someone to mess with.

"S-sister…" she stammered, twisting the hem of her dress between trembling fingers.

I hit the unlock button without a second thought.

"You've got three seconds to move, or I'll remove you myself."

In the rearview mirror, Ethan ended his call.

His gaze flicked lazily over the scene, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He leaned in, his fingers brushing lightly over my seatbelt buckle, his breath warm against my ear.

"Who dared upset my Sophia today?" he murmured.

I swatted his hand away and aggressively adjusted the seat, the lingering floral perfume on the leather making my temples throb.

"Ethan," I said through gritted teeth, "did you forget our three rules?"