The morning light was a judgment. Ariyah lay in bed, the phantom thump of club music replaced by a pounding in her skull. The memory was a sick, swirling blur colorful drinks, loud laughter, the feel of sequins on her skin... and then strong arms lifting her, a wall of a chest, the scent of sandalwood.
Humiliation burned hotter than the hangover.
She was still wrapped in his cashmere coat, a prisoner in the silk of her own disastrous choices. She forced herself to look at her phone. The Celebrity Corner Blog photo was everywhere. Her, a glittering mess. Him, a dark savior. The comments were a public flaying.
Her phone vibrated in her hand. Chloe.
Ariyah answered, her voice a dry rasp. "Hey."
"Ari. Oh my God. Are you alive? Are you okay? I'm so sorry I left you alone for a second!" Chloe's words tumbled out in a worried rush. "When I came back, you were just... gone. And then the pictures... Wayne just appeared like Batman. It was the most terrifyingly hot thing I've ever seen. But are you okay ?"
Hearing the concern in her best friend's voice undid her. A tear tracked through the leftover mascara on her cheek. "I don't know, Chlo. I screwed up. Royally. My uncle called. The internet thinks I'm trash. He... he hasn't called or texted at all."
"That's the worst part, isn't it?" Chloe said softly. "The silence."
"Yeah."
"Take a bath. Eat some toast. You're Ariyah freaking Jones. You passed the bar on your first try. One bad night doesn't erase that. And that man carried you out like you were the crown jewels. Remember that part, too."
After she hung up, Chloe's advice was the only lifeline she had. She ran a bath so hot it steamed the mirrors, sinking into the water until the shame felt slightly less sticky on her skin.
The silence from Wayne was a living thing in her apartment, growing louder with every passing hour.
Then, at 4 PM, it broke.
Her phone buzzed on the sink ledge.
Tonight. 8 PM. The Estate. We need to talk. The car will come. - WC
A summons. Not a call. Not a furious text. A calm, cold command to report to the throne room. The fear was back, but under it, a spark of defiance ignited. She would not go to him looking broken.
She dressed for battle. Not in a gown, but in her own kind of armor.
Dark wash jeans, so soft they felt like butter but fit like they were painted on, lovingly outlining the full curve of her hips and the round swell of her backside. A simple, sleeveless black crop top that gripped the swell of her breasts without apology. A classic, faded denim jacket over it. Black, sleek ankle boots with a heel just high enough to click with authority. Minimalist gold hoops in her ears, a thin chain at her throat. A tiny Gucci denim bag slung crossbody.
At her mirror, she pulled her hair back into a severe, sleek ponytail, but softened it by tugging a few dark, glossy curls free to frame her face. Her makeup was light, natural, her brows sharp. The only color was on her lips a rosy, shiny gloss that smelled faintly of blueberries.
She looked in the mirror. She looked like herself. Confident. Sexy. Unbroken.
The estate at night was a fortress of shadows and light. She was not taken to the grand, cold dining hall, but to a smaller, wood-paneled library with a table set for two. A fire crackled in the hearth.
Wayne stood before it, silhouetted by the flames. He'd discarded his suit jacket. A crisp white shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms, was tucked into dark trousers. He looked powerful, and utterly weary. The icy control was there, but it was thin, stretched taut.
The staff disappeared, closing the double doors.
"Sit," he said, his voice not loud, but filling the quiet room.
She sat, back straight, placing her small bag on the empty chair beside her.
He didn't sit. He turned from the fire, his gaze sweeping over her. It was a clinical assessment, but it stalled for a half-second on the jeans, on the strip of bare midriff between her crop top and waistband, on her glossed lips. His jaw tightened.
"Last night," he began, his tone devoid of emotion, "was a masterclass in poor risk management. The dress, while visually striking, was a liability in an uncontrolled environment. You transformed a strategic asset your public image into a depreciating liability. The blog's valuation of our union has dropped an estimated fifteen percent in public sentiment since those photos surfaced."
He spoke like he was reviewing a quarterly report. Each word was a precise, cold stone dropped onto her head.
The defiance in her hardened into anger. "I'm not a stock portfolio, Wayne. I'm a person. I had a bad night."
"You are my person," he corrected, his voice sharpening. "Your bad nights are now my liabilities. Your body, your behavior, is part of the Collins trust. You cannot afford 'bad nights.'" The word 'body' lingered in the air, charged.
"So that's it?" she shot back, standing up now, her boots silent on the thick rug. "I'm just a living, breathing part of your 'trust'? A womb for your heirs and a mannequin for your public? Is this the gilded cage? Where I get scolded like a child for having a drink?"
"It is the reality you chose!" he fired back, his own volume rising, the calm shattered. He took a step toward her. Then another. "You think I wanted this? You think I wanted to see you like that? To have to..." He cut himself off, raking a hand through his hair, the gesture uncharacteristically agitated.
"To have to what?" she challenged, her heart hammering.
He was close now. Too close. She could see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes, dark with a storm she couldn't name. "To have to wonder if some faceless man in a club was putting his hands on what's mine !" The word exploded from him, raw and possessive. "To hear that voice on your phone and feel like my world was tilting off its axis! I was scared , Ariyah!"
The admission hung between them, stark and shocking. His rage wasn't just about image. It was terror. A primal, possessive fear of losing her.
The anger seeped out of her, leaving her shaky. He was breathing heavily, his chest rising and falling near hers.
"I didn't ask for a jailer," she whispered.
"And I didn't ask for a heart attack," he growled, but the heat had shifted. It was no longer cold fury. It was something else, something that made the air between them thick and hard to breathe.
His eyes dropped to her mouth, to the berry-shiny gloss. He raised his hand slowly, as if to touch her, to maybe wipe the gloss away or pull her closer. His fingertips came within a breath of the denim covering her arm. She felt the heat radiating from him, and a violent, unbidden shiver of pure need rocked through her core, making her breath catch.
He saw it. His eyes flared, turning midnight dark. He froze, his hand hovering, his knuckles white with the effort of not closing the distance. A low sound, almost a groan, escaped him before he clamped it down.
Abruptly, he dropped his hand and took a full step back, putting cold, safe space between them. His voice was rough gravel. "No more clubs. No more nights where I don't know where you are or who you're with. Your freedom exists within the security I provide. That is not negotiable."
It was a decree. But it was also a desperate offer of protection.
She just nodded, unable to speak, her body still humming from his nearness.
"The car will take you home," he said, turning back toward the fire, dismissing her.
She turned and walked to the door, feeling his gaze like a physical weight on her back, on the denim hugging her hips, on the sway that was innate to her walk. She didn't look back.
As she moved down the hall, her steps steady, she heard it. A low, choked, utterly masculine groan of frustration and want, muffled by the closed library doors.
From the doorway, where he'd watched her until she vanished, Wayne Collins leaned his forehead against the cool wood of the frame. He looked down at the unmistakable, aching bulge straining against the fine wool of his trousers, a testament to the woman who had just left. He closed his eyes, his voice a tortured whisper to the empty, silent hall.
"She will be the death of me."
Outside, settling into the back of the car, Ariyah leaned her head back. She wasn't thinking about blogs or uncles. She was remembering the raw fear in his eyes, the heat of his body so close to hers, the shattered control in his groan.
He wasn't just her business partner. He was a man at war with himself. And for the first time, she held a weapon he couldn't defend against: his own desperate want for her.
The engagement was no longer a cold transaction. It was a powder keg. And she was holding the match.