[POV Sloane]
There was something deeply wrong with the way she smiled at him. Not because it wasn’t genuine—it was. Not because she meant anything by it—she didn’t.
But because it didn’t belong to him, and I hated that it didn’t belong to me, hated it so much I couldn’t finish the drink I was pretending to nurse, couldn’t listen to the man beside me talking about international print acquisition.
Couldn’t do anything except watch her from across the marble ballroom floor and feel the slow, curling grip of something primal tighten around my throat.
Ari stood near the central chandelier, laughing softly—too softly—with a man I didn’t know but instantly disliked.
He was one of those types, the kind with a thousand-dollar smile and hands that lingered too long, someone who would lean just slightly closer than necessary under the guise of conversation, and she—God, she let him.
Maybe because she didn’t notice, maybe because she was trying not to, or maybe, worst of all, because she didn’t mind.
The dress she wore was deep green, satin, elegant, and utterly unforgiving, the kind of fabric that clung to skin and turned movement into poetry. It dipped low in the back, showed the delicate slope of her spine, hugged the soft flare of her hips, and every time she shifted her weight, I saw men noticing.
I saw them watching. And I couldn’t fucking stand it.
Not when her smile made something ache in my chest. Not when I knew how she looked first thing in the morning, hair tousled, voice husky, wearing nothing but one of my shirts and bare feet on polished floors.
Not when I’d spent the last week avoiding her eyes because I was too afraid of what I might admit if I looked too long.
When his hand brushed the small of her back—the exact spot I used to guide her through doors, the place that made her tense and lean subtly into me like her body recognized mine before her brain did—that was when the coil inside me snapped.
I moved without conscious thought, like gravity had shifted, like the room had tilted and the only thing keeping me upright was the need to stake a claim on something that was never mine to begin with but somehow felt like it should’ve been.
She noticed me the second I stepped into her space—her laughter faltered, her eyes widened, and she stiffened slightly, but she didn’t move away.
Neither did he.
So I smiled. Thin. Calculated. Cold.
“I see you’ve met my wife,” I said, my voice smooth, practiced, but with a razor edge beneath the surface that only a few people in the industry recognized as dangerous.
The man blinked, visibly recalculating. “Your wife?”
“Ari,” I said, wrapping my hand around her waist in a slow, deliberate movement that felt like a claim. “This is—?”
“Daniel,” he filled in. “Daniel Paxton. Sorry—I didn’t realize.”
I didn’t say you should have. I didn’t have to.
Ari shifted beside me, tense, silent, her body betraying the discomfort she wasn’t putting into words. That was all I needed to confirm what I already knew—this wasn’t harmless. She hadn’t been enjoying the conversation. She’d been enduring it.
And I hated that I wasn’t the one who stepped in sooner.
The man excused himself quickly, tail between his legs, disappearing into the crowd of finance sharks and publishing titans like the air had gotten too thick around us.
Only once he was gone did she pull away from me.
“You didn’t need to do that,” she said, her voice low, sharp.
“You looked uncomfortable.”
“I had it under control.”
“You shouldn’t have had to.”
She glared up at me, lips painted and slightly parted, like she was holding back all the things she actually wanted to say but knew she couldn’t—not here, not with the audience still watching us from the edges of their champagne-fueled smiles.
So she smiled. Sweet. Poisoned.
And said, “You’re good at pretending to care.”
We didn’t speak again until we were back in the car.
The city slid past the windows in streaks of light and shadow, but the real tension was in the space between us—her pressed against the far door, arms crossed, legs elegantly angled away from me, like putting physical distance between us might help untangle the mess of tonight’s performance.
“You humiliated me,” she said finally, her voice soft but lethal.
“I protected you.”
“From what? From a conversation? From a man trying to flirt with me at a business function?”
“From a man who touched you without permission.”
Her mouth twisted. “So what? You think this arrangement gives you the right to police who talks to me? Who stands too close?”
“No,” I said, forcing the lie through my teeth. “But it gives me the obligation to protect the illusion. That’s what I was doing. Nothing more.”
She turned to look at me then, her eyes locked onto mine in the dark of the car, her mouth parted like she was about to call bullshit but couldn’t quite get the words out.
Because maybe, deep down, she didn’t believe it either.