The client's wife

I never break my rules. Not for money. Not for loyalty. And certainly not for anyone else’s wife.

Yet here I was, standing in a room where power whispered from every corner. The polished mahogany tables gleamed under soft chandeliers, men in tailored suits whispered deals, and yet all I could see was her. Selene Hawthorne moved through the crowd like a storm contained within elegance — untouchable, graceful, and utterly oblivious to the chaos she’d already sown inside me.

Her husband, Edward Hawthorne, was a master of appearances. The perfect smile, the steady handshake, the calm confidence that made him untouchable. He was Edward Hawthorne — philanthropist, elite businessman, my richest client — and he was about to be my undoing.

I smiled at him, smooth and controlled, concealing the storm beneath my skin. Every instinct screamed to keep my distance, to maintain the lines I had spent years drawing. And yet, the moment our eyes met — hers and mine — a quiet war began, silent but undeniable. Desire, sharp and electric, tore at me. Forbidden, reckless, impossible.

Marcus, Edward’s assistant, hovered near the table, adjusting papers nervously. Lila Monroe, a socialite who thrived on watching power games, laughed softly at a comment from Victor Lang, Edward’s business partner. I noticed them both — small details, fleeting movements — but nothing mattered. Not their whispers. Not their glances. Only her.

She leaned slightly, just enough for me to see the curve of her neck, the subtle glimmer of a diamond bracelet. That tiny flash of elegance — unguarded, yet deliberate — was a line I would never cross. And yet, every part of me longed to.

I excused myself under the pretense of checking a phone call and walked past her. Her scent, faint but intoxicating, brushed against me like a challenge. Did she notice? Perhaps. She glanced up, her eyes meeting mine for the briefest instant, and I felt my control unravel, even as I tried to tell myself it was nothing.

“Mr. Voss,” Edward said, his tone smooth, practiced. “Glad you could join us tonight.” His smile was harmless — but it carried weight, authority, a subtle reminder that everything I valued was balanced on a knife’s edge.

“Always a pleasure,” I replied, carefully neutral. Yet beneath the words, my mind raced. Every choice here mattered. One slip, one glance too long, and everything — my empire, my control, even my life — could be at risk.

Selene laughed again, softly, lightly, and it was like a chord struck inside me I couldn’t silence. Dangerous, exquisite, and entirely forbidden. I wanted to step back, to retreat into the control I commanded like armor. But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

A waiter passed, carrying crystal flutes of champagne. I accepted one, walking just close enough to her for our shoulders to brush. It was accidental. Or maybe not. She didn’t pull away. My chest tightened, and I realized the war inside me wasn’t just desire — it was treason.

Across the room, Evelyn Drake observed quietly, polite, distant. Even the extras — the silent security, the murmuring assistants, the gossipy socialites — were tools in a game I hadn’t intended to play tonight. And yet, it was happening. I was being consumed by something I had never surrendered to, something that could unravel everything.

I reminded myself: She was Edward’s. His wife. His world. A forbidden line I could never cross. And still, the thought of her kept me awake, restless, calculating how I could be near her without being caught, without revealing the obsession I already felt deep in my chest.

“Adrian,” a voice murmured in my ear. Julian Frost, my colleague, smirked. “You seem… distracted.” His words were light, teasing, but they cut close. I forced a smile, masking the turmoil inside.

The night stretched on. Deals were made, hands shaken, words exchanged. And all the while, she was there — poised, graceful, unaware of the quiet war she had sparked in me. Every glance from her, every subtle smile, every innocent movement became a battleground where desire fought against honor, and treason was already winning.

By the time I left the room, champagne glass in hand, I knew one thing with absolute certainty: I would fight it. Desire, obsession, temptation — I would resist. And in resisting, I would slowly unravel.

Treason had begun.