C7

“Hold still, Alice. The board members are standing by the main entrance.”

Sylvester’s voice vibrates against my bare shoulder as his heavy, warm palm settles onto the small of my back with possessive, terrifying precision.

I swallow hard, my pulse hammering wildly in my throat as three dozen camera flashes erupt in the grand ballroom of the Plaza Hotel. "Don't touch me like you own me, Sylvester."

"Right now, every share I hold depends on looking like I own you," he growls through a forced, brilliant smile aimed at the press. "Victor Hale is twenty feet away with three board members. Do not pull away from me."

Before I can draw another breath, his hand slides up to my nape, his long fingers tangling into the silk of my hair, and he pulls my face directly up to his.

His mouth slams down onto mine.

The kiss is not soft. It is an explosive, brutal claim in full view of two hundred high-society vultures. His hot lips part mine with demanding, possessive hunger, his broad body pressing me flush against his chest until I can feel the frantic, violent thumping of his heart against my ribs.

My knees go instantly weak, my hands grabbing his crisp shirt lapels just to stay upright as a dark, intense heat detonates straight down into my core. My breath catches in my throat, my body betraying me as I kiss him back with a sudden, desperate friction that shocks us both. Sylvester lets out a low, ragged growl against my lips, his control fracturing completely for one dangerous, terrifying heartbeat as he deepens the bite of the kiss, pulling me so hard against his groin I feel the sudden, rigid hardness of his cock through his trousers.

The flashbulbs explode like brilliant white lightning all around us.

Sylvester rips his head back abruptly, his heavy chest heaving, his dark eyes wide and wild with a dangerous, chaotic storm.

The ballroom erupts into polite, enthusiastic applause from the board members, but my ears are ringing too loudly to hear it. My lips are swollen, hot, and thrumming with a fierce, achey pulse.

Sylvester turns his face away instantly, his features hardening back into granite, colder than before—furious at himself, furious at his own body, and furious at the raw reaction he couldn't mask.

"That was sufficient," he rasps, his voice rough and laced with venom as he steps back, severing the physical contact entirely.

"You're a hypocrite," I whisper, my breath coming fast as I smooth down my dress, my skin burning everywhere his hands touched me. "You act like touching me is torture, but you almost took me down on the marble floor."

"I did what Jefferson demanded to secure the vote," he snaps, refusing to look at me as he grabs two glasses of champagne from a passing waiter's tray and downs his in a single, hard swallow. "Do not mistake theater for desire, Mrs. Arlington."

The rest of the evening passes in an agonizing blur of charged silence, forced smiles, and icy glances. Every time a board member comes over to congratulate us, Sylvester places his hand back on my waist, but his fingers are stiff, tense, and distant. The fake intimacy is suffocating, but the electric pull hanging between us in the air feels thick enough to choke on.

Around midnight, while Sylvester is cornered by two corporate attorneys near the bar, I excuse myself to head toward the coat check in the quiet, dim foyer.

"I wondered how long it would take for you to run out of breath in his gilded cage, Alice."

The voice is quiet, smooth, and intimately familiar.

I freeze near the coat check desk, turning around slowly. Standing in the soft shadow of the archway is Manson—a man I haven't seen in three years. My childhood friend, the quiet boy from my old neighborhood who spent years watching my front porch, his obsession always masked behind a calm, polite smile. He wears a tailored charcoal suit, his pale eyes tracking my every movement with unnerving focus.

"Manson?" My heart drops into my stomach. "What are you doing here?"

"I go where the money is, sweetheart," Manson says softly, stepping closer until he is standing just a foot away from me. He reaches out a finger, touching the hem of my silk sleeve. "And I follow the news. When I saw the headline about your sudden marriage to Sylvester Arlington, I knew you didn't go willingly. Your mother's debts were heavy, but this... this is suicide."

"It's a business arrangement," I say, pulling my arm back out of his reach. "I have everything under control."

"You don't have anything under control, Alice," Manson whispers, his voice dropping into a dark, intense register. His eyes glitter with an unhealthy, possessive heat as he steps closer, blocking my path back to the ballroom. "Look at you. You look like a terrified bird trapped in an iron fist. Sylvester Arlington is a monster who destroys every woman who touches him. His mother knew it. His father knew it. And you're going to end up buried in his vault."

"Step away from me, Manson," I say, my breath hitching as the first true external threat settles heavily around my shoulders.

"I can help you escape him," Manson says, his hand suddenly reaching out and gripping my wrist hard enough to leave a red mark. "I can get you out of Manhattan tonight. I've always watched out for you, Alice. I'm the only one who truly knows what you deserve."

Across the grand foyer, fifty feet away, a sudden, suffocating chill sweeps through the room.

I look up over Manson's shoulder. Sylvester is standing at the edge of the ballroom archway. He isn't moving. He isn't talking. He stands entirely still, his massive frame radiating a terrifying, lethal rage as his dark, murderous eyes fixate on Manson's hand wrapped tightly around my wrist. His jaw clenches so hard I can see the muscle straining beneath his skin, his hands fisting into hard, violent balls at his sides.

"Let go of my wrist, Manson. Now," I say, yank my arm back with all my strength.

Manson lets his hand drop slowly, a dark, unsettling smile spreading across his face as he notices Sylvester watching us from across the room.

"He's using you, Alice," Manson whispers leaning in close to my ear, his voice dripping with venom. "When he's done securing his board shares, you'll have nothing left. No gallery, no money, and no life. Call me when you wake up."

Manson turns on his heel and disappears smoothly into the crowd heading toward the exit doors.

Sylvester walks across the foyer toward me, his heavy, deliberate strides sounding like a death march against the marble floor. He stops right in front of me, his shadow completely blocking out the ambient light of the chandelier. His chest is heaving, his dark eyes burning with an unnamable, possessive fury that makes the tiny hairs on my arms stand straight up.

"Who was that?" Sylvester growls, his voice dropping into a dark, guttural threat that vibrates against my chest.

"An old friend," I say, trying to keep my voice steady despite the rapid pounding of my heart.

"You don't have friends who put their hands on you in public while wearing my ring, Alice," Sylvester snaps, grabbing my arm firmly and steering me toward the private side elevator. "We're going home. Now."

The ride home in the back of the black town car is suffocatingly silent. Sylvester says absolutely nothing. He stares out the tinted window into the wet streets of Manhattan, but his right hand remains clamped into a white-knuckled fist against his thigh, his breath coming short and harsh.

When the car pulls into the private underground garage of Arlington Tower, he steps out first, not waiting for the driver, and marches into the elevator. I follow him inside, the doors sliding shut with a heavy, metallic click.

As the high-speed elevator shoots up toward the penthouse, I raise my trembling hand in the dim light of the cab and touch my fingers to my swollen lips. The memory of his mouth slamming over mine, the taste of his dark, possessive heat, and the sudden, dirty friction of his body against mine burns through my veins like fire. I hate myself for how hard my body responded to him. I hate myself for the way my lower abdomen is still aching with a deep, throbbing wetness.

The staged kiss was supposed to be a lie for the board, but it changed the terms of our contract completely. We both know it.

The elevator doors ping open directly into the penthouse living room. Sylvester steps out first, throwing his suit jacket onto the floor with a violent jerk of his shoulders.

He turns around to face me, his dark hair messy, his white shirt open at the collar.

"Don't ever speak to that man again," Sylvester commands, his voice rough and laced with absolute authority.

"He's a friend from my past, Sylvester! You don't own my acquaintances!" I shout back, taking a step toward him.

"I own your public image until the board votes on Monday!" Sylvester roars, taking two long strides and closing the distance between us. He grabs my waist with both hands, slamming my back gently but firmly against the glass wall of the living room. "And I will not have another man placing his hands on what belongs to me!"

His proximity is overwhelming. His heavy body traps me against the cold glass, his hard chest pressing against my breasts, his dark eyes locked onto my mouth with a wild, hungry desperation.

"I don't belong to you," I breathe, my heart hammering like crazy against my ribs.

"You carry my name," he rasps, his head lowering until his lips are brushing against the shell of my ear, his breath scorching hot against my skin. "You wear my ring. And when I kissed you on that floor tonight, you didn't fight me, Alice. You opened your mouth for me."

My thighs press together as a sharp wave of heat shoots straight down between my legs. "It was... it was for the cameras."

"Lie to yourself all you want," Sylvester growls, his hand sliding up my ribcage, his thumb pressing firmly into the curve of my waist. "But if that bastard comes near you again, I'll destroy him."

Before I can answer, his private phone on the marble counter chiming with a sharp, persistent tone.

Sylvester doesn't let go of my waist. He reaches out with one arm, grabbing the phone off the counter and clicking the speaker button with his thumb, keeping me trapped firmly against the glass with his body.

"What is it, Jefferson?" Sylvester growls into the phone, his breath still heavy against my neck.

Jefferson's voice comes through the speaker, crisp, loud, and entirely stripped of its usual calm:

"Sylvester, drop whatever you're doing. The courier from the courthouse just delivered the official medical file attached to Alice's bloodline registry."

Sylvester's grip on my waist tightens slightly. "What medical file?"

"The blood test results from the marriage filing came back," Jefferson says, his voice shaking slightly through the speaker. "Alice isn't an orphan, Sylvester. And her mother's maiden name wasn't Reed. Her biological mother was Eleanor Arlington—and the official DNA match confirms she is your full-blooded sister."