Chapter 4: Cracks in the Ice

The ball of the Knight family was nothing short of breathtaking. Crystal chandeliers poured golden lighting over the expansive ballroom, where powerful men and elegant women mingled with flutes of champagne in hand. Laughter and hushed whispers hung suspended in the air, a symphony of wealth and secrets.

Isabella stood at the top of the stairs, her heart pounding beneath the midnight silk of her gown. The fabric clung to her body like a second skin, the low bodice provocative and yet classy. She'd never felt so exposed, and yet so untouchable. Every head turned as she descended, whispers in her wake.

And then she saw him.

Alexander stood near the bar, a black bespoke suit seemingly chiseled onto his form. His eyes found her at once, sharp as razors, but something flickered there something he couldn't quite hide. Possession. Hunger. Warning.

As she reached the bottom of the stairs, he moved forward to meet her, his hand coming to rest at the small of her back with a possessive pressure. "You clean up well, Mrs. Knight," he remarked, his voice velvet-wrapped steel.

"You sound surprised," she replied, her chin lifting in silent challenge.

"Not surprised," he replied, taking her into the throng of people. "Just reminded that you were meant to play the role of a wife. Even if it's only for show."

His words stung, but Isabella didn't let her head drop. If she was going to survive in his world, she couldn't allow him to see her bleed.

The night blurred together in a smear of introductions, knowing smiles, and polite lies. Socialites and business partners eddied around them, measuring, judging, calculating. Alexander's hand remained at her waist, as though daring anyone to question her place at his side.

But it was not the party guests that set Isabella's nerves ablaze. It was the way Alexander bent forward when he spoke, the brush of his hand against hers when he passed her a drink, the dangerous attraction she could not avoid.

At one point, she escaped out to the balcony, half-dying for air. The night air caressed her, a rough contrast to the heat rising inside her.

"You shouldn't slip away."

The voice was low, familiar. She turned and found Alexander standing in the doorway, his face impassive. He came into the room, the city lights casting him in shadow and silver.

"I needed a break from all the pretending," she said softly.

He looked at her, his jaw tight, his eyes roiling. "Pretending?"

"Pretending we're this perfect couple. That I belong in your world.".

"You do belong," he said, his tone sharper than she had expected. "Like it or not."

The air between them became dense, charged. Isabella's breath caught as he stepped closer, near enough that she could feel the warmth radiating from him.

You drive me mad," he growled, as if to himself. His fingers brushed against her cheek, rough yet gentle, as though he hated himself for the contact. "I should hate you, Isabella. I want to hate you. But

His mouth crashed down on hers before she could reply.

It was not gentle. It was not sweet. It was fire and fury, possession and punishment simultaneously. She gasped, her hands against his chest, but rather than push him away, she held on tighter. The world disappeared the music, the voices, the city. There was only Alexander.

When he finally drew back, his breathing was ragged, his eyes afire.

"This changes nothing," he warned, his voice rough. "You are still my prisoner, Isabella."

Her lips were swollen, her heart racing, and yet a dangerous truth settled deep inside of her.

Nothing was different, and yet… everything was.

The kiss lingered long after the gala lights went dark and the last guests departed. Isabella reclined in the back of the limousine, her gaze on the dark blur of the city outside. She could still feel the heat of Alexander's lips on hers, the strength of his hands, the need in his touch.

And yet his words cut more than the kiss itself.

This changes nothing.

Alexander sat beside her, silent, his profile carved from granite. No hint of emotion betrayed him, yet the tight clench of his jaw and the fists bunching his hands spoke volumes. A man at war against her, against himself, against some nameless entity neither one of them dared mention.

When they finally arrived at the mansion, Isabella took a quick departure. She was desperate to escape the suffocating tension. She dashed upstairs, but his voice stopped her in the middle.

"Isabella."

She paused. She turned slowly to him.

His face was impassive, shadows cavorting on the firm planes of his face. "Don't mistake what happened tonight as weakness," he said, his voice tight. "I don't want you to believe you have power over me."

Her lips curled in a bitter smile. "Funny. Because for a man so determined to be in control, you looked an awful lot like a man who couldn't stop himself."

His eyes darkened, a dangerous storm brewing. He stepped closer, close enough that she could feel his breath on her ear. "Careful, wife. You're playing with fire."

Her heart raced, but she forced herself to stand tall, not flinch. "So are you."

That night, Isabella was unable to sleep in bed. The recollection of his kiss taunted her, burning her skin, twisting in her mind. She hated him or at least kept trying to tell herself that she did. But hatred had never been so intoxicating.

And Alexander?

He sat alone in his study, whiskey glass in hand, staring into the flames in the fireplace. He'd promised himself he'd never let her get under his skin, never forget why she was here. She was a path to his revenge. A pawn. A reminder of betrayal.

So why did the taste of her lips make him feel like the man who was losing control?

The next morning, the household staff moved about quietly, sensing the tension that hung like a storm cloud over the mansion. At breakfast, Isabella sat across from Alexander, pushing food around her plate. He read the paper, pretending not to notice.

But when his phone buzzed and he answered, his voice hardened.

“Yes… I’ll be there. Don’t start without me.”

He ended the call, stood, and straightened his suit.

"Where are you going?" she questioned, before she could stop herself.

His gaze met hers, cool and unfathomable. "Business."

She rose from her chair. "You mean secrets."

The corner of his mouth curved in a mocking smile. "You married a billionaire, Isabella. Secrets come with the package."

And with that, he walked away, leaving her alone to stand in the vast dining hall, her chest tight with something she could not name.

Was it fear? Was it longing?

Or was it the terror of realizing that she no longer despised the man she was meant to despise?