Victor’s arm was heavy around me, an anchor I couldn’t escape even if I wanted to. His breath was steady, calm, completely unaware of the storm raging inside me.
But I couldn’t pretend any longer. Not with the raw memory of Killian still searing in my mind, burning into my skin.
I lay still, my body betraying me, aching for something that had no place in my life. Not when I was supposed to be Victor’s.
But everything about tonight felt like a lie. From the engagement ring on my finger to the gentle press of Victor’s lips on my shoulder, nothing felt right.
And then I remembered Killian. His face. His eyes dark with desire. His mouth. God, his mouth.
I felt the heat rush through my body again, as though I could still feel the press of his lips, the fierce grip of his hands, the savage way he’d taken me.
I needed to stop thinking about him.
But the more I tried, the more my body betrayed me. The pulse between my legs throbbed, reminding me of what I’d lost control of. What I’d given control to.
Slowly, quietly, I pulled away from Victor’s embrace and slipped out of the bed. The cool air hit my bare skin as I made my way toward the bathroom, desperate to splash some water on my face, to wash away the desire that clung to me like a second skin.
I looked at myself in the mirror, my lips bruised, my neck marked with the evidence of Killian’s hunger. I wiped away the dampness on my face, but nothing felt clean. Not anymore.
I knew what I had to do. I had to act like everything was fine. I couldn’t let Victor see the wreck I had become inside. I wasn’t allowed to.
I returned to the room and climbed back into bed beside Victor, trying to hide my unease. His arm draped over me again, and I stiffened beneath the weight. His lips brushed the back of my neck, but I couldn’t push away the memories of Killian’s kiss.
“Ivy?” Victor murmured, his voice thick with sleep.
“Yeah?” I forced a smile, trying to sound convincing.
“You’re quiet tonight,” he said, his hand slipping beneath the sheets to rest on my hip. “Everything okay?”
I nodded quickly. “Yeah. Just tired. Long day.”
He didn’t seem convinced, but he didn’t press further. His hand slid down my body, slipping between my thighs. My stomach flipped in a way I didn’t expect. This isn’t right, I thought. But it was Victor’s touch, steady and sure, nothing like the desperate, raw craving I had felt earlier.
I should’ve stopped him.
But I couldn’t.
When his fingers slid against me, I froze. The desire I felt for Killian rushed back at once, making it impossible to ignore. But I wasn’t ready. Not now. Not with Victor.
“I’m not feeling well,” I blurted, pushing his hand away gently. “Headache. Just… tired.”
Victor paused, his fingers still hovering near me, his expression unreadable. “Alright,” he muttered. “We can just sleep then.”
I nodded, forcing my body to relax as his arm wrapped around me again, pulling me close. I breathed deeply, counting each second until I could escape. I had to.
****
The house was quiet, but I wasn’t ready to face it. Not tonight.
I waited until Victor’s breathing deepened, before slipping out of bed and padding toward the door. I needed air. I needed to breathe.
The cool night air hit my skin as I stepped outside. The tension between my legs, the ache in my body, gnawed at me, but the garden was empty. Or so I thought.
There, near the stone wall, stood Killian.
I didn’t need to see him to feel the tension in the air. It hit me like a wave, making my heart race and my breath catch in my throat. I should turn away. Should go back inside. But I couldn’t.
His dark eyes found mine immediately, and I felt a pull, like gravity itself had shifted.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady, but the tremor in my chest gave me away.
He didn’t answer immediately. He simply watched me with those predatory eyes, his gaze trailing over my body, lingering just a little too long on the marks he’d left on me earlier.
“Your parents asked me to stay the night,” he said, voice low, almost mocking. “They don’t want me driving back at that hour. It was late.”
I clenched my fists at my sides. “Why didn’t you say anything inside?”
Killian took a step forward, his body impossibly close, until the heat of him seemed to press against me. “I didn’t think it was necessary.”
His lips curved into a smirk, but it was his eyes, dark and filled with desire, that had me frozen in place. I tried to move back, but there was nowhere to go. The garden wall stopped me.
Killian leaned in, his breath hot against my ear, his voice a whispered threat. “I see the way you look at me, Ivy. You can lie all you want, but I know what you really want.”
“No,” I whispered, but the word didn’t have the strength I wanted it to. “You… can’t. This is wrong.”
He laughed, a low, sinful sound that made my insides tighten. “It’s too late for that, sweetheart. You can pretend all you want, but you know as well as I do that this was never about right or wrong. This is about us.”
His mouth found my neck again, his lips brushing over my skin as his hands roamed down to my waist. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t think. All I could feel was him, his hands on me, his lips burning every inch of me.
I didn’t fight him this time. I couldn’t.
Before I knew it, his mouth claimed mine, hot and demanding, and I was lost.
I let him kiss me, let him claim me again. His tongue slid into my mouth, deep and possessive. And when his hands slid beneath my dress, pulling it up, lifting me against him, all I could do was moan in response.
“Ivy,” he growled, his lips parting from mine, eyes dark with something savage. “You’re mine.”
“No,” I gasped, but my hands found his chest, pulling him closer, my body arching into him, betraying me.
“Yes,” he snarled. “You’ve been mine since the moment I touched you.”
And with that, he pulled me fully against him, his hands lifting my dress higher, his fingers working quickly, desperately.
And I let him. I let him make me his again.
The tape measure was cold against my skin.I stood still, arms stretched slightly out, as a stranger circled me with pins in her mouth and a tablet in her hands. Another woman crouched at my feet, murmuring something about the hem. A third pointed at fabrics I hadn’t chosen, describing a dress I’d never seen.None of them asked me what I wanted.“Silk organza,” one of them said. “Ivory, not white. Mr. Wolfe prefers ivory, it photographs better under chandelier lighting.”I blinked. “Who said I wanted ivory?”Silence.The woman smiled politely, too polished to flinch. “It’s standard for a Wolfe bride. Classic. Elegant.”I wanted to laugh. I wanted to scream. I did neither.Instead, I stood there, barefoot and quiet in the middle of the grand guest salon, surrounded by sketches, fabric swatches, and a flurry of preparations I had no control over. I wasn’t a bride. I was a mannequin.The planner’s assistant adjusted the bustline on the mock bodice. “We’ll bring the final fittings in two
The study smelled of aged leather, sandalwood, and something darker, an undercurrent of silence so sharp it felt like a blade.Robert Wolfe sat in his chair, the one behind the mahogany desk where generations of Wolfe men had sat before him. None with his precision. His fingers steepled beneath his chin, his expression carved from stone.He had waited exactly fourteen minutes.Victor was late on purpose.That boy is growing wings.Robert didn’t move when the door opened, nor when his son strolled in, unbothered, unapologetic. Victor closed the door with quiet finality, then leaned against it, hands in the pockets of his ash gray slacks. His black shirt was open at the throat, sleeves rolled to his elbows. Casual in the way only men born into untouchable power could afford to be.“Dad.” Smooth. Controlled. Almost bored.Robert’s gaze flicked up. “Sit.”Victor didn’t move. “Why? So you can shout like I’m ten again?”Robert’s jaw flexed. “If I wanted to shout, you’d already be bleeding. N
The file came just after three a.m.No message. No warning.Just a quiet buzz from my encrypted line, followed by a digital packet that unpacked itself in a slow, efficient bleed of data.I didn’t open it right away.Instead, I stood barefoot in the center of the room, nursing black coffee like it could delay what I already knew was coming. The night pressed against the floor to ceiling windows like a question I didn’t want to answer. I have been awake all night, I couldn’t sleep. The thought of ivy had creep into me all day till midnight. There is something going on, I have seen it with my mother, but with ivy, it is different. She is strong, stubborn and difficult to break. It seems different seeing her being mould into something else by Robert and Victor. Eventually, I walked back to my desk and double tapped the screen.One file.One face.One mark.Red.My stomach clenched, of guilt, but not with fear, and with something heavier. Familiar. The way old grief wraps around your ri
The screen glowed softly in the dim room, my phone resting on the nightstand like a live wire. I didn’t want to look at it again, afraid of what I’d find. But I did. Every second, every pull of my finger brought me closer to pieces I couldn’t handle right now.A single new message: Killian: I’m sorry.I stared. The world shook a little.Not “I love you,” not “I’m here,” just “I’m sorry.” Enough. Too much. It carried every apology he’d never said, every absence, every cowardice, every choice he’d made that ended with my world in shreds.I pressed my forehead to the cool wall. Tears came unbidden, hot and sudden. My breathing came in broken shards. Everything in me had clenched, tightened, shut down. And now…opened, spilling.I curled into myself on the bed, hugging knees to my chest. I pressed the phone against my heart like a talisman. And I fell apart.What I felt wasn’t relief. It was heartbreak all over again. Because I loved him. Still do. I hate that I do. And now I knew love woul
The city at night never slept, but Killian Wolfe’s apartment sat high above it all, quiet, detached. He liked it that way. Clean lines, dark stone, silence stretching through the rooms like a second skin. It was a place built for forgetting. A place where nothing reached him unless he allowed it to.And tonight, he couldn’t stop letting her in.He scrolled through his phone with the slow, unfocused rhythm of someone trying to numb himself. News. Markets. Weather. A text from a broker. Then, There she was.Ivy Lancaster.His chest seized before his mind caught up.It was a photo. Her smile was demure. Too demure. Her back was straight. Her clothes expensive and soft, cream silk and pearl earrings.But it was the caption that shattered him.“Adjusting. Slowly. Grateful.”He read it again.And again.The words were wrong. Ivy didn’t speak like that. Ivy was spitfire and sarcasm. She had once written him an entire paragraph about how “grateful” was the kind of word rich men gave their wiv
Morning didn’t come with sound, only light, soft and golden through the linen curtains. It brushed her cheeks like a whisper, but Ivy didn’t stir. Her body woke before her mind, stretching without direction, her hands curling loosely over the sheets.She hadn’t dreamed. Or maybe she had, and the dreams were so quiet she mistook them for death.Her eyes opened. The ceiling above her was ivory with delicate carvings. A room meant to soothe.But Ivy had begun to understand something ugly, Even comfort could be a kind of violence.She sat up slowly.The breakfast tray was already placed near the window, steaming gently. Eggs. Toast. Fruit cut into perfect shapes. She hadn’t heard anyone come in.They moved around her now like she was something sacred, or untouchable.Her robe lay folded on the end of the bed. Next to it, a dress she hadn’t picked: pale yellow with thin straps and a fitted waist, the color of springtime and submission.She stared at it. Then she got up, undressed, and step