Chapter 3

Roxy pov

My thighs were still trembling. Just a little.

I sat on the edge of the massive, ruined hotel bed, staring at the heavy silver cufflink in my palm.

My body ached in places I didn’t even know could ache, a deep, throbbing soreness that was a direct result of the tattooed stranger who had wrecked me just a few hours ago.

I should have been panicking. I should have been scrambling to find my clothes and figure out who the hell he was.

But honestly? I just felt a heavy, satisfied haze.

"Roxy! Honey, are you decent? The car is here!"

My mom’s cheerful voice shattered the quiet of the suite, and I blinked, snapping back to reality. Right. Moving day.

I shoved the cufflink into the bottom of my purse, zipped it shut, and grabbed my coat.

I had deliberately dressed conservatively for the move—a thick, cream-colored turtleneck sweater and a long, pleated midi skirt.

I was trying to hide my curves, trying to look like the demure, respectful stepdaughter I was supposed to be.

It didn't matter that the thick fabric still clung desperately to my heavy breasts and the wide flare of my hips. I just needed to keep a low profile today.

The ride to the Sterling estate took forty minutes, and by the time the black town car pulled through the towering wrought-iron gates, my stomach was tied in knots.

The mansion was ridiculous. It wasn’t just a house; it was a fortress of gray stone and massive glass windows, sitting on a manicured lawn that looked like it was imported straight from Europe.

"Can you believe it?" my mom breathed, her eyes wide as she stared up at the three-story facade. She squeezed my hand, completely oblivious to the dread pooling in my gut. "I still can't believe Arthur is my husband."

*Step-father,* I corrected silently. But I just smiled and nodded.

We walked through the massive front doors, and the temperature inside seemed to drop ten degrees.

The foyer was all cold marble, sweeping staircases, and crystal chandeliers. It was beautiful, but it felt sterile. Like a museum where you weren't allowed to touch anything.

"Mrs. Sterling! Welcome home," a crisp voice echoed. A stern-looking woman in a dark suit approached us, offering a polite bow. "I am Mrs. Gable, the head housekeeper. Let me show you to the master suite."

"Oh, wonderful. Thank you, Mrs. Gable," my mom beamed, already turning to follow her. She paused, looking back at me. "Roxy, sweetheart, why don't you go wait in the drawing room? Arthur said he’d be down from his study to greet us in a few minutes."

"Sure, Mom. See you later."

I watched her disappear up the grand staircase, leaving me alone in the massive, echoing foyer.

I let out a long breath, wrapping my arms around my waist. I just needed to survive the introduction. Shake the man's hand, call him Arthur, and keep my head down for the next six months until I got my trust fund unlocked.

"Roxy."

The voice was deep, smooth, and commanded absolute authority. It seemed to vibrate through the marble floor.

I turned around. Arthur Sterling was standing in the archway of the drawing room, and the breath literally hitched in my throat.

I had only met him a handful of times at my mom’s charity events, always from a distance. Seeing him up close was a completely different experience.

He was forty-eight, but he wore his age like a weapon. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and dressed in a flawless, charcoal three-piece suit that probably cost more than my college tuition.

His hair was dark at the sides but heavily silver at the temples, and his jaw was sharp enough to cut glass.

But it was his eyes that pinned me in place. They were a pale, icy blue, and they were sweeping over me with a slow, deliberate calculation that made my skin prickle.

I was wearing a baggy sweater, but I could feel his gaze tracking the heavy swell of my chest, dropping to the soft curve of my waist, and lingering on the flare of my hips beneath the skirt.

He wasn't looking at me like a father looks at a daughter. He was looking at me like a man evaluating a very expensive piece of property he had just acquired.

"Arthur," I managed to say, my voice sounding way too small in the massive room. I stepped forward, extending my hand for a polite, formal greeting. "It’s good to see you."

He didn’t take my hand.

Instead, he closed the distance between us with slow, predatory steps. He stopped just inches away, close enough that I could smell his cologne—sandalwood, aged whiskey, and cold, hard cash.

He reached out, but instead of shaking my hand, his large, warm fingers brushed a stray lock of hair behind my ear.

My breath caught. His knuckles grazed the sensitive skin of my neck, and a violent shiver raced down my spine.

"You're trembling, Roxy," he noted, his voice a low, quiet rumble. "Are you cold? Or are you just nervous to be in my house?"

"I'm fine," I lied, taking a half-step back. But his hand moved, catching my wrist. His grip was firm, his thumb pressing into my pulse point.

He easily pulled me back into his personal space, his other hand coming up to rest on the small of my back, pressing my soft stomach flush against the hard, tailored line of his chest.

It was a hug. But it lasted way too long, and his grip was entirely too tight.

"Arthur, I—"

"Shh," he murmured, cutting me off. He leaned down, his mouth hovering just a fraction of an inch from my ear. His breath was hot against my skin, sending a fresh wave of dizzying heat straight to my core.

"Your mother is a lovely woman," he whispered, his voice dropping to a dark, gravelly register that made my knees weak. "But she’s not the reason I signed those marriage papers."

My heart slammed against my ribs. I stopped breathing, my eyes widening as his lips brushed the shell of my ear.

"You are," he breathed, his hand sliding up my back to grip the nape of my neck, his fingers tangling in my hair. "You're in my house now, Roxy. Which means you belong to me. Try not to forget that."

He pulled back just enough to look at my face, his icy blue eyes dark and completely unapologetic.

He gave my neck a gentle, terrifying squeeze, before finally letting me go and smoothing his suit jacket.

"Welcome home, sweetheart," he said, his tone suddenly perfectly polite, as if he hadn't just dropped a bomb on my sanity.

"Mrs. Gable will show you to your room. We'll have dinner at eight. Don't be late."

He turned and walked away, his footsteps echoing silently on the marble, leaving me standing there in the freezing foyer, my skin burning, completely realizing that I hadn't just moved into a cage.

I had just locked the door from the inside.