Pampered By The Rival Underground Boss

Jolene Battle POV:

I tossed and turned the entire night.

When morning broke, I passed by the guest bedroom. The sheets were tucked tight, untouched and cold.

Alec hadn't come home.

I pulled on a clean set of dark work clothes, locked the door, and drove down to the Iron Horse Saloon.

Inside the private office behind the barroom, Connor sat behind an aged oak desk, his sharp eyes behind rimless glasses focused squarely on his diagnostic monitor, a heavy steel pen scratching deliberate lines across a ledger.

I knocked lightly against the doorframe and stepped inside. "Good to see you, Connor."

I had always respected Connor. When I stepped away from the spotlight to evade Woodward's watchful eyes, the entire tuning circuit wrote me off as a washed-up ghost. Only Connor quietly preserved my independent patent records, watching for any window to pull me back to the frontlines.

"Good to see you, Jolene," Connor said, rising to pull out a leather chair. "Did you bring the identity files and patent credentials?"

"Right here." I slid the heavy manila envelope across the desk.

Connor broke the wax seal, scanning the notarized seals and serial numbers. He let out a low breath. "Paperwork is clean. The state registry transfer will clear in exactly thirty days. But... walking away like this, what are you going to tell Alec?"

"There's nothing left between us," I replied evenly, my voice devoid of emotion. "I'm serving him with an absolute dissolution of our marriage."

Connor studied my face for a quiet second, then nodded solemnly. "You're making the right call. Anyone who grinds down your worth isn't worth keeping around. With your engineering instincts, you belong somewhere that gives you room to run."

I gave a faint nod.

Connor checked his watch. "Come on. I'll take you back to the VIP annex to meet Mr. Lynch. He’s the financial backer behind the Oakland tech facility and the President of the Iron Ghosts MC. You'll be dealing with him directly, so it's best to establish terms early."

"Let's go."

Galen Lynch's reputation had reached me long ago.

A living legend in tactical engineering, he had enlisted at eighteen, serving in a black-budget military division tasked with pioneering next-generation airborne equipment. After his discharge, he returned to California and dismantled every rival syndicate along the transit corridor with ruthless efficiency, transforming the Iron Ghosts into an industrial powerhouse of heavy armor and tactical transport. And he was barely twenty-eight years old.

When we stepped into the private annex, the man was already there, leaning against the window sill as he reviewed a technical file.

His features were carved and unyielding, radiating an aura of lethal, quiet discipline. Hearing the door click, his gaze slowly shifted toward me.

Those piercing ice-grey eyes cut into me so sharply that my breath hitched in my chest.

Yet within a fraction of a second, his gaze drifted past me, landing indifferently on Connor.

"Mr. Lynch, let me introduce you," Connor said, pride coloring his gravelly tone. "This is the designer behind the micro-injection powertrain architecture, Jolene Battle—known in the circuit as Nova. She will be taking full charge of the heavy tactical engine overhaul."

I took a half-step forward, extending a calloused hand. "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Lynch. I look forward to working with your team."

Up close, the sheer presence of the man was undeniable. His jawline was razor-sharp, his build lean and imposing.

Alec was considered an intimidating figure on his home turf, but Galen Lynch operated on an entirely different level. Dressed in a dark tactical shirt buttoned straight to the collar, he carried an austere, military intensity that commanded the entire room.

Galen didn't take my hand. He looked down at me, his voice smooth, low, and completely detached: "Has the contract been executed?"

I lowered my hand, hiding the brief awkwardness, and glanced toward Connor.

Connor cleared his throat quickly. "We haven't signed yet, but I can personally vouch that once Jolene commits to a project, she doesn't back out."

Galen's brow twitched with faint skepticism.

His assistant, Louis, immediately stepped forward, placing a thick leather-bound folder on the conference table.

I understood the caution. Galen didn't know me, and in this line of work, safeguarding proprietary schematics against corporate espionage was simply good business.

I flipped through the terms: a base salary of one million dollars, full operational autonomy over the Oakland R&D facility, and a three percent equity cut of all production engines built on my micro-injection architecture. The penalty clauses were equally ruthless: any breach or defection would incur full financial clawbacks and a matching thirty-million-dollar liability.

The terms were exceptional, and uncompromising.

Without hesitation, I picked up the heavy steel pen and signed my name on the final execution line. I slid the folder toward him. "Mr. Lynch, you won't regret this investment."

"Good."

The man picked up the pen and scrawled his sharp, authoritative signature right beside mine.

As he finished, his shadow shifted over the table as he rose to his full height.

He stood at an imposing six-foot-three—taller and far broader than Alec.

He held out his right hand, a weathered silver skull ring glinting beneath the overhead lights. His ice-grey eyes pinned mine with total focus. "Get your affairs in order quickly and report to Oakland. Welcome aboard, Miss Battle."

I took his hand firmly. "Thank you, Mr. Lynch."

His skin was calloused and cool against my fingertips, carrying the heavy texture of a man used to handling firearms. The instant our palms brushed, a jolt of strange, bone-deep familiarity shot straight up my arm.

Before I could process the feeling, a blaring alert tone sliced through the room as the overhead TV screen cut into a breaking local bulletin.