Chapter 1

CHAPTER ONE

—Aphrodite—

They don’t worship gods anymore.

They worship me.

Not for talent. Not for genius. Not for anything earned.

Just this body. This face. This perfect illusion.

I walk into the gala, and the room stills—like it always does. Eyes widen, lips part, hands twitch toward phones they try to pretend aren’t already recording me. A million-dollar dress clings to my curves like it was painted on, black silk dipping scandalously low between my breasts and high enough on my thigh to tempt scandal.

I'm not famous for anything but being wanted.

But that’s enough in this world. That’s everything.

“Aphrodite,” someone gasps as I pass. A whisper, a prayer.

I smile.

That name was a prophecy the moment it was inked onto my birth certificate. And I made damn sure it came true.

Men don’t see me. They crave me. I don’t walk—I glide. I don’t speak—I seduce. Even when I’m silent.

I don't need to act. I don't need to sing. My body is my performance.

I fucked my way into the role they said I’d never get. Onto covers, into editorials, beneath rich men with hard cocks and hollow souls.

I never fake it. I don’t need to.

I take what I want, use what I have, and when I’m done, I leave them ruined.

And yet… tonight, I sense something different. A pull. A weight in the room that doesn't bend to me.

My eyes find him instantly.

Duncan Moretti.

He’s not looking at me.

He’s the only one not looking at me.

Seated at the far end of the lounge area, surrounded by wolves in tuxedos and women dripping in designer desperation. His body is still, composed. Power carved from stone. Black suit sharp enough to wound, dark eyes cold enough to make ice flinch.

He sits like a man used to being obeyed.

I want him to disobey me.

I make my way toward him, each step a calculated temptation, hips moving with hypnotic intent. Champagne flutes tilt. Conversations falter.

He doesn't glance my way until I’m directly in front of him.

Then… slowly… his eyes lift.

And everything in me tightens.

That look. Like he’s dissecting me. Like he sees past the perfection and into the rotting hunger beneath.

“Mr. Moretti.” My voice is honey dipped in heat. “You’re the only man here who hasn’t tried to undress me with his eyes.”

He lifts his glass, sips. “Maybe I’m patient.”

“Or maybe you’re not interested.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

I lean in, just enough for him to catch a whiff of my perfume—night-blooming jasmine, forbidden fruit, a hint of skin. “Most men fall to their knees.”

“I’m not most men.”

No, he’s not. I feel it. His calm is dangerous. His stillness, a loaded gun.

I cross one leg over the other, my thigh grazing his, the slit of my dress parting wider.

“I’ve heard the rumors,” I whisper. “You don’t chase women.”

“I don’t have to,” he replies without missing a beat. “They come to me.”

“Do they come for your money?”

“They stay for how I fuck.”

I inhale sharply, desire coiling low and hot.

“And you?” he asks. “Do you always approach men this way?”

“Only the ones I want to fuck.”

His lips twitch.

Then, without a word, he stands.

He offers me his hand.

I take it.

And the moment our skin touches, I know—

I’m not in control anymore.

---

His penthouse is silence and skyline. Floor-to-ceiling glass, charcoal stone, sleek darkness softened only by the faint gold glow of midnight city light. He doesn’t ask me to sit. Doesn’t offer a drink.

He shuts the door behind me, then circles slowly.

Like a predator.

I let my coat fall, revealing the black silk gown beneath. My back is bare. The gown held up only by faith and sin.

“You’re not wearing anything underneath that,” he says softly.

“No.”

“Good.”

He steps forward and brushes my hair aside. His fingers trail down my spine.

“This body…” he murmurs. “Men fall apart for it.”

“They do.”

“You use it to get what you want.”

“I always get what I want.”

“Not tonight.”

I laugh. “You think you’re different?”

“I know I am.”

He steps in front of me. Lifts the straps of my gown and pulls them down slowly, deliberately, watching every inch of exposed skin like a starving man. The dress slides down my hips and pools at my feet.

I stand naked in front of him, heels still on, nothing between us but tension.

“You’re fucking perfect,” he says. “But that’s not why I want you.”

“No?”

“I want to see what’s underneath the mask.”

“There is no mask.”

He smirks. “Lie better.”

He grips my chin and kisses me.

Hard.

Possessive.

His tongue slides into my mouth, claiming without asking, tasting without apology. I moan into him, nails scraping down his chest as I feel his arousal press against my belly.

He lifts me like I weigh nothing, lays me across his dining table, pushing aside crystal and cutlery like I’m the feast.

And then he spreads my legs.

“You’re already wet,” he says darkly.

“I’ve been wet since you looked at me.”

His eyes burn. “Good.”

His mouth descends.

He licks me slowly. Torturously. Tongue teasing, teeth grazing, until I’m arching, gasping, trembling beneath him. He grips my thighs and eats me like he owns my orgasm.

I scream his name when I come. I can’t help it.

It tears out of me raw and loud and real.

And he doesn’t stop.

He fingers me through it, slow and deep, while he kisses me again. When he finally unzips his pants and reveals the thick length of him, I moan.

It’s not just big. It’s obscene.

“Scared?” he murmurs.

“Ruin me.”

He thrusts in one hard, brutal stroke. And I break.

The stretch is too much, the friction too perfect, the pace too punishing. He pounds into me like a man unchained. Like I’m his possession. Like my body was made for this—for him.

And I let him take it.

He bends over me, breathing into my mouth, his hand wrapped around my throat—not choking, just owning me.

“You don’t get to leave until I’m finished.”

“Then don’t finish,” I whisper. “Fuck me until I forget my name.”

He flips me over, ass in the air, cheek pressed to the cold table, and slams into me again. My body jerks forward with each thrust. I can’t think. I can only feel.

And I feel everything.

He grabs my hair, pulls my head back, and growls into my ear.

“You’re mine now.”

I almost believe it.

---

Later, I lie naked on satin sheets, his scent on my skin, his come dripping between my thighs.

His arm rests possessively across my waist.

But I’m already planning my escape.

His fingers tighten as I move. “Where are you going?”

“I have to leave.”

“No,” he says flatly.

“I don’t belong to you.”

“You do now.”

I look over my shoulder and smile softly. “Someone’s waiting for me.”

His eyes narrow.

“Who?”

I pause. I could lie.

But what’s the point?

I rise slowly, dress crumpled in my hand, and walk toward the door.

“Aphrodite,” Duncan says again, voice low and dark. “Who the fuck is he?”

I turn and meet his gaze.

“The one who really owns me.”

And I leave him with that.

Because Duncan might have my body.

But the man waiting in the shadows…

He owns everything else.