Arabella walked into the sleek penthouse kitchen the next morning wearing one of Damon's oversized shirts — not because she wanted to, but because it was the only thing remotely comfortable in the ridiculously cold guest bedroom he'd stuck her in.
She found him at the marble island, sleeves rolled, reading emails on a tablet with a mug of black coffee in hand like the damn poster child for 'ruthless billionaire.'
He didn't even glance up when she entered.
She cleared her throat. "Good morning."
Silence.
"Still mad you kissed me?" she added casually.
His eyes flicked to her, sharp as ever. "We agreed on boundaries. I crossed one. Won't happen again."
"Oh, please," she scoffed, opening the fridge. "Don't act like I threw myself at you. You wanted that kiss as badly as I did."
He closed the tablet, eyes locking on hers. "Wanting something and taking it are two different things, Arabella. I've made a career out of knowing the difference."
She turned, clutching a carton of juice. "So now you're noble?"
"No," he said simply, rising from the stool. "I'm dangerous. And you should remember that."
He walked past her, his cologne following like a shadow.
Click.
The door slammed shut.
Ara stood there for a moment, jaw clenched.
Why did he have to be this confusing? Cold one second, scorching the next. She wasn't made of steel—she was starting to feel things she couldn't afford to.
Later that afternoon, she was seated at a charity art exhibition, attending in Damon's place—his idea of "letting the public see the pretty new wife."
And she played the role well. Smile polished. Dress perfect. Mind miles away.
Until he showed up.
"Arabella Monroe," said a deep voice beside her.
She turned to find a tall, gorgeous man in a navy suit and a mischievous grin. Green eyes. Tousled hair. Charm practically leaking from his pores.
"I'm Tristan Wolfe," he said. "Friend of the Chancellor. But now… a fan of yours."
Ara smiled politely. "Are you always this forward with married women?"
He leaned in. "Only the ones pretending not to be in miserable contracts."
Her eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"
"Oh, come on." He chuckled. "Everyone knows your marriage to Damon Knight is PR gold. But you? You're far too fiery to be anyone's showpiece."
She opened her mouth to shut him down—but the hairs on her neck rose.
She turned—and there was Damon, standing across the room, watching them with a look so dark it nearly stopped her heart.
In seconds, he was at her side, his hand wrapping around her lower back with possessive force.
"Tristan," Damon said flatly. "Didn't expect to see you here."
"Neither did I," Tristan replied, amused. "Though I am enjoying your wife's company."
Damon's jaw clenched. "She's not your company. She's mine."
Arabella blinked, startled.
Then Damon pulled her closer, his lips brushing her ear.
"Smile," he whispered, voice low and dangerous. "And say goodbye."
She obeyed. "It was lovely chatting, Tristan."
Tristan raised an eyebrow but backed off. "I'm sure we'll meet again."
As soon as he walked away, Damon led her toward the gallery exit, hand never leaving her waist.
"What the hell was that?" she hissed.
"I told you I don't like blurred lines," he said. "That includes charming little rich boys thinking they can flirt with my wife in public."
She jerked away. "So I'm yours now? You don't want me, but God forbid someone else looks at me?"
He turned on her, eyes burning. "Yes. You are mine. That's what a ring means."
"You don't even like me!"
"That's not the point
Arabella walked into the sleek penthouse kitchen the next morning wearing one of Damon's oversized shirts — not because she wanted to, but because it was the only thing remotely comfortable in the ridiculously cold guest bedroom he'd stuck her in.
She found him at the marble island, sleeves rolled, reading emails on a tablet with a mug of black coffee in hand like the damn poster child for 'ruthless billionaire.'
He didn't even glance up when she entered.
She cleared her throat. "Good morning."
Silence.
"Still mad you kissed me?" she added casually.
His eyes flicked to her, sharp as ever. "We agreed on boundaries. I crossed one. Won't happen again."
"Oh, please," she scoffed, opening the fridge. "Don't act like I threw myself at you. You wanted that kiss as badly as I did."
He closed the tablet, eyes locking on hers. "Wanting something and taking it are two different things, Arabella. I've made a career out of knowing the difference."
She turned, clutching a carton of juice. "So now you're noble?"
"No," he said simply, rising from the stool. "I'm dangerous. And you should remember that."
He walked past her, his cologne following like a shadow.
Click.
The door slammed shut.
Ara stood there for a moment, jaw clenched.
Why did he have to be this confusing? Cold one second, scorching the next. She wasn't made of steel—she was starting to feel things she couldn't afford to.
Later that afternoon, she was seated at a charity art exhibition, attending in Damon's place—his idea of "letting the public see the pretty new wife."
And she played the role well. Smile polished. Dress perfect. Mind miles away.
Until he showed up.
"Arabella Monroe," said a deep voice beside her.
She turned to find a tall, gorgeous man in a navy suit and a mischievous grin. Green eyes. Tousled hair. Charm practically leaking from his pores.
"I'm Tristan Wolfe," he said. "Friend of the Chancellor. But now… a fan of yours."
Ara smiled politely. "Are you always this forward with married women?"
He leaned in. "Only the ones pretending not to be in miserable contracts."
Her eyes narrowed. "Excuse me?"
"Oh, come on." He chuckled. "Everyone knows your marriage to Damon Knight is PR gold. But you? You're far too fiery to be anyone's showpiece."
She opened her mouth to shut him down—but the hairs on her neck rose.
She turned—and there was Damon, standing across the room, watching them with a look so dark it nearly stopped her heart.
In seconds, he was at her side, his hand wrapping around her lower back with possessive force.
"Tristan," Damon said flatly. "Didn't expect to see you here."
"Neither did I," Tristan replied, amused. "Though I am enjoying your wife's company."
Damon's jaw clenched. "She's not your company. She's mine."
Arabella blinked, startled.
Then Damon pulled her closer, his lips brushing her ear.
"Smile," he whispered, voice low and dangerous. "And say goodbye."
She obeyed. "It was lovely chatting, Tristan."
Tristan raised an eyebrow but backed off. "I'm sure we'll meet again."
As soon as he walked away, Damon led her toward the gallery exit, hand never leaving her waist.
"What the hell was that?" she hissed.
"I told you I don't like blurred lines," he said. "That includes charming little rich boys thinking they can flirt with my wife in public."
She jerked away. "So I'm yours now? You don't want me, but God forbid someone else looks at me?"
He turned on her, eyes burning. "Yes. You are mine. That's what a ring means."
"You don't even like me!"
"That's not the point