Velvet Room

Christian pov

I shouldn’t have come back.

Not yet.

Two more weeks of silence would’ve served her right.

But something about the quiet in my hotel suite had begun to itch beneath my skin.

The thought of her alone, waiting, maybe learning her place—should’ve satisfied me.

It didn’t.

So here I was, back in the city sooner than I planned, stepping out of my car and into the marble entrance of the penthouse. The air smelled the same—cold, expensive, sterile.

My guards straightened as I passed. Daniel trailed behind me, briefcase in hand, quiet as always.

I didn’t say a word to them. My mind was elsewhere.

Where is she?

I hadn’t called once since I left.

She didn’t deserve that kind of consideration. This marriage was a transaction, not a romance. But still... I expected her to behave.

I walked through the corridor and pulled off my gloves, pausing at the base of the staircase.

“Nana,” I called.

Her familiar steps shuffled across the upper landing, and then she appeared, holding a dish towel like it was some kind of shield.

She froze when she saw me.

“Christian,” she said, smiling too quickly.

“You’re back—”

“Where is my wife?” I cut her off.

Her smile faltered. “Elizabeth?”

I stared at her. “Do I have another wife I don’t know about?”

She flinched. “She’s not here, dear.”

The silence that followed that sentence was loud.

I stepped closer. “Not here? What do you mean not here?

“She… asked if she could step out.”

A muscle ticked in my jaw. “Where.”

“She just needed to get some fresh air.

She’s been cooped up—”

I clenched my fists. “Nana.”

She folded. “The Velvet Room.”

The name slammed into my brain like a punch.

A club.

My wife! my possession! was at a club.

Without my knowledge.

Without my permission.

I exhaled through my nose, jaw clenched so tightly it ached. “You let her leave.”

“She’s been lonely, Christian. Twelve days, no word from you. She’s young—”

“She belongs to me,” I said coldly. “Lonely or not, she doesn’t step a foot outside this house unless I say so.”

“She begged.”

“Then you should’ve slammed the door in her face and told her to cry into her designer pillows.”

The room stilled. Nana’s face crumpled, but I didn’t care.

What the hell was she thinking?

A girl like Elizabeth didn’t belong in a club.

Men would stare. Some would touch. She wasn’t built for that kind of world—not anymore. Not with my name tied to hers.

She didn’t understand what it meant to be mine.

But she would.

I turned, my voice clipped. “Get the driver. I want the car out front in three minutes.”

“Christian—”

“If anything happens to her,” I said, pausing to glare at her, “you’ll be the first one I deal with.”

She nodded, trembling slightly. “Yes, sir.”

I shoved open the door, stepping into the night air, rage simmering beneath my skin like molten steel.

She wanted fun?

She would regret it.

This marriage was about control. My control.

And Elizabeth was about to learn exactly what that meant.

********

The club was packed.

Bodies swayed under pulsing lights, music thundered like a heartbeat through the floors, and the stench of cheap perfume, alcohol, and sweat hung in the air like fog.

This place was filth.

I shoved the doors open and walked in like I owned the place. Because I did, in a way. I had enough power in this city to close it down with a single call.

But I didn’t care about the crowd. I didn’t care about the music. I was looking for one thing.

Her.

My wife.

I scanned the crowd with a cold, calculated eye.

And then—I saw her.

Right in the middle of the dance floor, like a goddamn flame to every moth in this godforsaken room.

And she was dancing. No—twerking.

Twerking.

Hands on her knees, back arched, hips rolling to the music like she was performing for someone.

The second her hips rolled to the beat, something inside me snapped.

She was surrounded by flashing lights, bass-heavy music, and eyes. So many damn eyes.

All of them watching her.

Men with filthy thoughts.

Men who didn’t deserve to breathe the same air as her.

And there she was—my wife—dancing like she didn’t belong to someone. Like she didn’t have a ring on her finger, even if I hadn’t bothered to give her one.

But that dress? That mouth? That body?

Mine!

This was what she’d left the house for?

This?

Her ass shaking for a room full of men, while they stared like she was on the damn menu?

She didn't see me yet. Her head was thrown back, drunk, laughing, her hair falling over one shoulder like a fucking fantasy. The girls around her were cheering her on like it was a game.

But this wasn’t a game.

It never was.

I stormed toward the dance floor, each step heavier than the last, heat burning beneath my skin.

Who the hell gave her permission to leave my house looking like that? Nana? That old woman has clearly lost her damn mind.

I saw a guy try to step closer to her. His eyes were glued to her ass like he owned a piece of her.

Touch her and I swear to God, I’ll break your hand right here on this sticky floor.

I moved through the crowd like a blade, my jaw locked so tight it hurt. My blood boiled under my skin, rage rising in every step.

No one! no one should see her like this but me.

Not like this. Not ever.

She didn’t even notice me. She was laughing, drunk, her lips glossy and parted, surrounded by girls who egged her on, all of them oblivious to the storm about to land.

I reached the edge of the dance floor.

And that’s when I snapped.

“Elizabeth!” I roared over the music. The music didn’t stop, but everything else did. At least for her.

Her body went still, like someone had cut the strings. Slowly, her head turned. Her eyes found mine.

Her lips parted in shock.

That smile wiped clean.

Her cheeks drained of color, even under all that makeup.

And I watched her world tilt.

She froze, legs stiff, mouth trembling. I saw the panic build in her eyes.

Saw her lips move.

“I’m so screwed,” she whispered.

Damn right, she was.

One of the girls beside her leaned in. “Who’s that?”

“My husband,” she croaked.

I didn’t stop walking until I was in front of her. I didn’t care who was watching. Let them. Let them see who she belonged to.

“Outside. Now.” My voice was like ice cracking through fire.

She hesitated for a second too long.

she just stood there.

Wide-eyed. Breath caught. Frozen.

She didn’t move.

Bad idea.

I didn’t give her a second chance.

In one swift motion, I grabbed her by the waist, yanked her against me, and slung her over my shoulder, her shocked gasp lost in the music.

Her heels kicked uselessly in the air as her ass lifted, round and sinful beneath that tight little dress.

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

Let them watch.

She squirmed. “Christian! Put me down!”

“Don’t tempt me,” I growled, smacking her ass hard.

The sound cracked above the bassline. Her body jerked, and her ass jiggled deliciously against my shoulder.

Fuck.

Mine.

“Act like a brat,” I muttered low enough for her alone, “and I’ll treat you like one. You want to be a little whore in front of strangers? Fine. I’ll remind you exactly who owns this mouth. This body. This ass.”

Her nails clawed at my back, not to hurt, but from shock, from heat. I felt her shiver—

whether from embarrassment or something darker, I didn’t care.

I was hard. Furious. Unapologetically possessive.

And she was going to learn what that meant.

I carried her through the club like a goddamn warning. My guards cleared the path, eyes down. Smart men.

She writhed again.

I smacked her other cheek. “Keep moving and I’ll bend you over the car the moment we’re outside. Do you want them to watch me fuck my wife senseless in public, Elizabeth?”

She whimpered. She didn’t answer.

I didn’t need her to.