Chapter 3 - Thirty Minutes of Ownership

Three years earlier.

Blackwood Tower smelled like money and restraint.

Italian leather. Polished steel. Old ambition sealed into marble and glass. Ivy Valmonte had learned the building quickly after her engagement—where the cameras thinned, which elevators ran private, which doors were locked more out of habit than necessity.

Tonight, she stood on the executive floor with her back against a wall of glass, staring out at Los Angeles as if it might offer an escape route.

It didn’t.

Seven forty-two p.m.

Downstairs, the rehearsal dinner glittered—Julian holding court, investors laughing too loudly at his jokes, champagne flowing like absolution. Ivy had smiled until her cheeks hurt, then excused herself under the pretense of a headache.

It wasn’t a lie.

The ring on her finger felt heavier by the minute.

She turned at the sound of ice clinking in crystal.

Sebastian Blackwood stood in Julian’s office as if he owned it.

Suit jacket discarded. Tie loosened. A glass of Macallan cradled loosely in one hand. The city lights cut hard lines across his face, turning his eyes into something storm-dark and dangerous.

“You’re not supposed to be up here,” Ivy said, because it was the safest thing she could say.

Sebastian’s gaze slid over her—slow, unashamed. White dress. Bare shoulders. The engagement ring flashing like a dare.

“Neither are you,” he replied. His voice was low, even. “Run, Ivy. While you still can.”

She laughed softly, brittle. “From what?”

“From him.” He tipped his glass toward the floor below. “From this.”

She should have left.

Instead, she closed the door.

The click echoed through the office like a gunshot.

Sebastian didn’t move. He watched her with an intensity that made her pulse stutter, like a man witnessing the exact moment a line was crossed.

“You don’t know what you’re doing,” he said.

“I do,” she replied, surprising herself with how steady it came out. “I’m choosing.”

That was all it took.

He crossed the room in three strides, the space between them evaporating. His hand came up to her throat—not tight, not cruel, just firm enough to make her breath catch.

“This ends badly,” he murmured.

She rose onto her toes and kissed him.

The sound he made was rough, involuntary. His other hand fisted in her hair, pulling her closer as if he might consume her whole. The kiss was nothing like Julian’s—no patience, no choreography. Just heat and teeth and something feral breaking loose.

They collided with the desk hard enough to rattle glassware.

Sebastian pushed her back onto the polished wood, hands already moving, efficient, ruthless. Her dress bunched at her waist. Her pulse roared in her ears.

“This is a mistake,” he said against her mouth.

“Yes,” she breathed. “I know.”

His belt came undone with a sharp metallic sound. She dropped to her knees without thinking, fingers curling around him through his trousers, delight and terror twisting together in her gut.

Sebastian swore softly.

The desk was Julian’s—she realized that dimly as she freed him, as she took him into her mouth, tasting salt and danger and the forbidden. The thought should have stopped her.

Instead, it made her wetter.

He threaded his fingers through her hair, not forcing, just guiding, letting her set the pace. His control was terrifying—not because he wielded it, but because he could give it up if he chose.

Voices drifted faintly from below. Laughter. Music.

Life, carrying on.

Sebastian pulled her up abruptly, lifting her onto the desk as if she weighed nothing. Her breath hitched when he pushed inside her—slow, deliberate, stretching her around him until her nails dug into his shoulders.

“Tell me to stop,” he said, forehead pressed to hers.

She shook her head.

He moved then, setting a brutal rhythm, the desk creaking beneath them. Every thrust felt like a theft, a betrayal she welcomed. She bit his shoulder to keep quiet, the taste of skin grounding her as the pressure built too fast, too hot.

They didn’t pretend it meant anything else.

No promises. No illusions.

Just two people choosing the same destruction.

When it ended, it ended quickly. Sebastian stilled inside her, breath ragged, then pulled back as if burned. He stepped away first, reclaiming distance, control snapping back into place.

Ivy slid off the desk on unsteady legs, smoothing her dress with hands that trembled despite her best efforts.

They didn’t look at each other.

“Thirty minutes,” Sebastian said quietly. “That’s all we get. Ever.”

She nodded. “That’s enough.”

They returned to the party separately.

No one noticed anything wrong.

By the time Ivy stood at the altar the next day, the city bathed in white and gold, she already knew the truth she would spend years denying:

She had married Julian Blackwood.

But she had given herself to his brother.

And nothing—money, power, vows—would ever undo that choice.