Chapter Eleven: Possession

The private dining room of the Grand Celeste is a tomb of white marble and gold leaf. 

There is no smoke here, only the clinical, bright light of crystal chandeliers and the clinking of silver against bone china. 

The scent of a vintage Romanée-Conti fills the air, a wine that costs more than Rhea’s entire life is worth.

Dominic doesn’t let go of her as they approach the table. His grip on her arm is a silent warning.

Marcus Thorne is already waiting. He looks like a silver-haired wolf in a light gray suit, probably twenty years Dominic’s senior. 

He is the only man Rhea has ever seen who doesn't flinch at Dominic’s presence. Instead, he watches them with a predatory challenge.

"You’re late, Ashcroft," Marcus says, his voice as smooth as the silk Rhea is wearing underneath. His eyes immediately lock onto her, stripping away her trench coat with a single, slow look. "And I see you brought a guest. I thought this was a closed game."

"She isn’t a guest. She’s my assistant," Dominic says, his voice flat and dismissive, as if he were describing a piece of office furniture.

Rhea forces a small, trembling bow. "I’m Rhea Voss."

Marcus’s lips curl into a smile that doesn't reach his eyes. He nods, a silent acknowledgment that he’s just found a new weakness to exploit.

Dominic leans in, his lips brushing Rhea’s ear in a way that looks intimate but feels like ice. "Stand straight, Fragile," he hisses, for her ears alone. "And remember... if you sit or bend the wrong way, that silk will ride up. Give these men a show, and I promise you’ll wish you had never been born."

Dominic pulls out his own chair and sits, leaving Rhea standing like a servant. He doesn't even look at her when he speaks. "Ms. Voss, pour the wine."

Rhea’s hands shake as she reaches for the heavy crystal decanter. As she leans forward, her trench coat gaps. She freezes, the air hitting the bare skin of her chest. Every centimeter of movement is a gamble when she has nothing but air beneath that emerald slip.

"Allow me," Marcus says, standing abruptly.

He doesn't reach for the wine. He reaches for Rhea’s hand, his fingers clamping around hers before she can pull away.

The air in the room dies. Dominic goes rigid, his eyes turning into shards of black glass.

"You look tense, Rhea," Marcus purrs. He doesn't let go; instead, he uses his thumb to graze her knuckles in a slow, insulting caress. He looks at Dominic, mocking him.

"Does he work you too hard? A woman like you shouldn’t be wasting her nights on spreadsheets. You should be draped in diamonds and tucked away in a bed somewhere private."

Marcus leans closer, his voice dropping to a foul, intimate whisper. "If you ever get tired of being an assistant, my door is always open. I’m much better at... appreciation... than Ashcroft is."

In a flash, Dominic’s hand snaps up from his lap. He catches Marcus’s wrist in a bone-crushing grip.

"Her name is Ms. Voss to you," Dominic growls, a low, vibrating sound that makes Rhea’s blood run cold. "And if you touch her again, I won’t just take your shares in the merger. I’ll take your hand."

The silence that follows is deafening. Rhea stands there, her hand tingling where Marcus has touched her, her heart hammering against her ribs.

"Sit down, Marcus," Dominic commands. He turns his gaze to Rhea, his eyes flashing with a possessive rage that turns her knees to jelly. He grabs her wrist, his grip bordering on bruising. "And you. Sit."

He points to a chair positioned right against the floor-to-ceiling glass window beside him. It feels like being on a pedestal.

Rhea sinks into the cushion, her breath hitching. As she sits, the emerald silk betrays her, sliding dangerously high up her thighs. She feels the cool leather of the chair against her bare skin and frantically yanks her trench coat over her knees, praying that Marcus hasn't seen how exposed she truly is.

Her hands ache to adjust her glasses, to hide behind the frames but she knows the consequences of that movement.

The first course arrives, a delicate sea bass crudo, but Rhea can’t even look at the fork. Her stomach is in knots.

“So, Ashcroft,” Marcus says, swirling his wine as if he hasn't just been threatened with mutilation. He watches Rhea’s every flinch with a knowing, amused smirk. 

“About the shipping terminals in Singapore. I heard you’re looking to buy out the government’s stake. That’s a bold move, even for you.”

“Fortune favors the bold, Marcus,” Dominic replies smoothly.

Above the table, the conversation is a sterile dance of millions of dollars and global dominance. But beneath the heavy white linen, a different kind of war is being waged.

Dominic’s left hand vanishes from sight.

Rhea nearly bolts from her chair when she feels his large, calloused palm settle firmly on her bare thigh. His skin is a branding iron against her cold flesh.

She lets out a soft, broken gasp, a sound so out of place in this silent room that she has to immediately cover it with a sharp, fake cough.

Marcus tilts his head, his gray eyes narrowing with the precision of a hawk. “Are you quite alright, Ms. Voss? You look… breathless.”

“I’m…I’m fine,” Rhea stammers, her fingers clawing at the edge of the table until her knuckles turn a ghostly white.

Under the tablecloth, Dominic’s hand begins to move. It isn’t a caress; it is a conquest.

His fingers dig into her soft skin, deep enough to leave blooming red marks she knows will be there tomorrow. He slides higher, inch by agonizing inch, testing the limits of her composure. He is daring her to scream, to break, to reveal the scandalous secret he has forced her to wear.

“Ashcroft,” Marcus continues, leaning forward in a way that feels like he is trying to peer through her.

“You really should let Ms. Voss speak. She’s the one who handles the logistics for the merger, isn't she? I’d love to hear her perspective on the tax implications.”

Dominic’s fingers reach the apex of her thighs. He pauses there, his thumb stroking the sensitive, damp heat of her center. The threat is silent but absolute: One wrong word, and I’ll take everything from you right here.

“Ms. Voss is here to listen, Marcus,” Dominic says, his voice dropping into a husky, dark register that vibrates through Rhea’s very bones. “She knows her place. Don’t you?”

As if to emphasize the point, Dominic’s fingers suddenly push into her in a sharp, rhythmic thrust.

Rhea’s breath hitches, a violent tremor racking her body that she can't hide. Her eyes go wide, pleading and glassy, but Dominic doesn't even grant her a glance. He remains locked in a stare-down with Marcus, his expression one of cold, smug triumph.

He is claiming her right in front of his business partner, and Marcus has no idea how close he is to seeing the truth.

“Ms. Voss?” Marcus prompts again, his voice dropping into a flirtatious, mocking purr. “The tax implications?”

Rhea swallows hard, her voice trembling as Dominic continues to drive into her - slow, sharp, and agonizingly deep.

“The… the projections are stable,” she manages to choke out, the words feeling like glass in her throat. “We expect a… a twelve percent decrease in overhead once the terminals are integrated.”

“Impressive,” Marcus murmurs. He isn't looking at the data. He is watching the way Rhea’s chest heaves under her trench coat, the way her pupils are blown wide with a mix of terror and unwanted heat.

Dominic’s hand finally stills, but he doesn't pull away. He keeps his palm pressed firmly against her, a heavy, wet reminder of her vulnerability. 

It is a psychological cage; she is trapped between an older wolf who wants to steal her and the younger monster who has already bought her soul.

“How is your naughty Ava?” Marcus asks suddenly, swirling his wine and watching Dominic’s reaction. “It’s been a long time since you two were in contact, isn't it?”

Dominic ignores the question entirely, his focus shifting back to the trembling woman at his side.

“You’re shaking,” he whispers, picking up his wine glass and taking a slow, deliberate sip. “Is the room too cold for you?”

“No, sir,” she whispers, her head hanging low so the others won't see her tears.

“Good. Then finish your wine,” Dominic says, his voice a low promise of what is to come. “We have a long night ahead of us.”