The Wife He Underestimated Chapter 04
Marcus woke at dawn to the sound of waves crashing against the shore.
Victoria was still asleep in the guest room. He’d spent half the night ensuring the perimeter was secure, making calls to his security team, checking
threat assessments. The competitors who’d attacked them were still out there, circling like sharks.
He needed coffee. And he needed to check on Isabelle.
His wife had been… different lately. Distant. That look in her eyes when he’d handed her Victoria’s bourbon–he’d seen something flicker there. Something cold.
But Isabelle was always accommodating. Always understanding. That’s what made her the perfect wife.
He walked down to the kitchen. Empty. No coffee brewing, no breakfast being prepared. Strange. Isabelle always woke before him.
“Belle?” he called out.
Silence.
He checked the bedroom. The bed was made, untouched. His chest tightened slightly. Maybe she’d gone for an early walk.
He found his head of security, James, on the terrace.
“Have you seen my wife?”
James’s expression flickered with something Marcus couldn’t quite read. “No, sir. Not since last night.”
“What do you mean, last night?”
“She went for a walk around 9 PM. We tracked her along the beach perimeter. Then…” James hesitated.
Then what?
“Then she disappeared from our radar, sir. We assumed she’d come back inside through another entrance.”
Ice shot through Marcus’s veins. “You assumed? You didn’t verify?”
“Sir, Mrs. Steele has never been a security concern. We were focused on the external threats-”
Marcus was already moving, pulling out his phone. He called Isabelle’s number.
It rang. And rang. And went to voicemail.
“Belle, call me back. Now”
He tried again. Same result.
Something was wrong. Very wrong.
4
He called their penthouse staff. “Has my wife contacted anyone this morning?”
“No, Mr. Steele. But sir… there was a car here yesterday. Diplomatic plates. The driver collected some items Mrs. Steele had packed.”
Marcus went very still. “What items?”
“Personal belongings, sir. Not much. A single suitcase.”
His mind raced. Diplomatic plates. Personal belongings. The divorce papers he’d signed without reading.
+45 Coins
No.
He pulled up his email, searching frantically for the documents he’d signed two days ago. There they were, scanned and filed by Isabelle as always.
He opened them.
And his world tilted.
“Petition for Dissolution of Marriage.”
The words blurred. He scrolled through page after page of legal language, his signature at the bottom of each one. She’d filed for divorce. And he’d
signed it without even looking.
But that wasn’t what made his blood run cold.
At the bottom of the final page, there was a line he’d somehow missed:
“Petitioner: Isabelle Vittoria Moretti, sole heir to Moretti Group Holdings.”
Moretti.
The name detonated in his brain like a bomb.
The Moretti family–old European money, the kind that didn’t make Forbes lists because they owned the things Forbes measured. Banking dynasties, pharmaceutical empires, real estate portfolios that spanned continents.
His wife. His quiet, efficient, forgettable wife.
Was a Moretti.
He stumbled to his computer, fingers shaking as he typed. “Isabelle Moretti.”
The search results were sparse–the Morettis didn’t do press. But there were a few photos from charity‘ galas in Zurich and Milan. Society page
mentions
And there she was.
His wife. Except she didn’t look like his wife.
In these photos, she was stunning–designer gowns, diamonds, standing next to men who ran countries. Her posture was different. Confident. Regal.
One caption caught his eye. “Isabelle Moretti, 28, rumored to be taking over the family’s investment portfolio, stands with her father, Vittorio Moretti, at the Geneva Banking Conference”
4
That was three years ago. Two years into their marriage.
She’d been managing a multibillion–dollar empire while making him breakfast.
Another photo: Isabelle at Oxford, graduating top of her class. Another: at INSEAD, receiving some prestigious finance award.
His wife wasn’t just smart. She was brilliant.
And he’d treated her like a secretary.
His phone rang. His lawyer.
“Marcus, we have a problem. Your wife’s legal team just filed a response to your contest of the divorce.”
“I didn’t contest anything-”
“Your team did this morning, trying to void the papers on grounds of non–disclosure. Marcus, do you know who her lawyer is?”
“No.”
“Wilhelm Brenner. He represents the Rothschilds. The Saudi royal family. And apparently, the Morettis. Marcus… who did you marry?”
“I don’t know,” Marcus whispered. “I thought I knew. But I don’t know.”
“Well, you’re about to find out. Brenner’s response includes a full accounting of your wife’s contributions to Steele Capital. Every deal she facilitated.
Every connection she made. Every strategy she developed. Marcus, if this goes public-”
“It destroys me.”
“It destroys the entire narrative of your success. The self–made billionaire story falls apart.”
Marcus ended the call.
He stood at the window, looking out at the ocean where his wife had disappeared into the night.
She hadn’t just left him.
She’d been planning her exit for months. Maybe years.
And he’d been so busy chasing Victoria, so absorbed in his own ego, that he’d never seen it coming..
His phone buzzed. A message from an unknown number.
Stop looking for me. The papers are final. Move on with your life. – I.M.
Isabelle Moretti.
Not Isabelle Steele.
She’d never really been his at all.
