Page 22

When we step outside, the cold air blows across my face. I shrug out of my suit jacket and drape it over her bare shoulders, the warmth from my body still lingering in the fabric, before she can protest. She glances at it, then up at me, as my hand settles on her back again to guide her toward the car.

“Thank you,” she whispers, tightening the jacket around her as we walk toward the sedan waiting at the curb, the black bodywork gleaming beneath the streetlights. I open the rear door for her. She pauses, some internal war playing out across her face, before she turns away and slides inside. I follow, closing the door behind us, sealing me and my new bride in the quiet darkness together.

The city moves beyond the tinted windows as the driver pulls away from the curb, Chicago becoming a blur of headlights, illuminated buildings, and dark stretches of the lake beyond. Sophia sits beside me in silence, her posture rigid and hands folded tightly in her lap.

She’s wrapped in my jacket, swallowed by the dark fabric, and there’s something strangely satisfying about seeing her like that. Not because she looks small or weak. Because she doesn’t. Even frightened, Sophia Bennett—Sophia Ashford, now—has an infuriating ability to hold herself together.

I lean back against the leather seat, watching the city slide past.

My immediate problem is solved. The signatures on our marriage certificate are dry. By tomorrow, the world will see Mrs. Vance Ashford standing beside me, and the board will have no reason to question the legitimacy of our marriage or the future of the empire.

My father would be satisfied. That thought should be enough, but it isn’t. Because as I look at the woman beside me, I realize something I hadn’t accounted for when I chose her.

I didn’t just find a wife; I found a challenge.

The car ride to the hotel is silent and suffocating. Vance sits beside me in the back of the sedan, his thigh pressed against mine and his hand resting possessively on my knee. The city lights of Chicago streak past the windows in blurred ribbons of gold and red, as I try to focus on my breathing to keep my heart from hammering its way out of my ribcage.

His penthouse would have been too intimate, I realize a few blocks into our drive. The hotel suite is strategic, neutral territory where he can claim his wife without the pretense of a shared home. It’s cold and practical, exactly the kind of calculation I expect from him.

The elevator ride to the top floor passes in a fog of mirrored walls and soft instrumental pop music. Vance slides the key card into the door with a soft click that sounds like a gunshot. The door swings open into a space that feels less like a hotel room and more like a private residence designed by someone with an unlimited budget. Cream-colored walls, rich walnut paneling, and understated furnishings create an atmosphere of quiet luxury, while recessed lighting casts a warm glow across the polished hardwood floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the far wall, offering a breathtaking view of Lake Michigan glittering beneath the Chicago skyline.

A marble bar gleams beneath pendant lights, its crystal decanters and neatly arranged bottles looking more decorative than used. Beyond the main sitting area, an open doorway reveals a bedroom dominated by an enormous, upholstered bed dressed in crisp white linens, layered with a charcoal cashmere throw and an absurd number of pillows. Everything is immaculate, elegant, and impersonal; the kind of luxury designed to make you feel important without ever making you feel at home.

“Champagne?” Vance asks, moving toward the bar.

“No.” My voice is steady even though my hands are shaking.

“Suit yourself.” He pops the cork and pours himself a glass, drinking it in a single swallow before setting the flute down on the sideboard with a delicate clink. When he turns to me, he’s tugging at the knot of his tie to loosen it. Rolling up his sleeves, baring forearms corded with muscle, he tips his head. “Come here, sweetheart.”

I stay rooted in place. “You don’t need to… Can’t we treat this like everything else? An obligation.”

Something dark flickers in his eyes that makes my breath hitch. He crosses the space between us, his hand rising when he reaches me, his fingers tracing the line of my jaw with deceptive gentleness. “You think you can just endure this? You think you can lie there like a corpse and I’ll be satisfied?”

“I don’t care what satisfies you,” I spit, flipping the light switch. The room plunges into darkness, except for the ambient glow of the city through the windows.

He laughs, a dark rumble that vibrates through my bones. “Oh, sweetheart. You will care. By the time I’m finished with you tonight, you’ll care very much.”

His hands move to the zipper of my dress, finding the pull at my side. He draws it down slowly, the sound of metal teeth separating impossibly loud in the quiet room. The silk loosens around my torso, and I catch the bodice before it falls, holding it to my chest out of instinct.

“Let go,” he commands.

I clutch the gown with white knuckles, my heart hammering so hard I can feel it in my throat.

Vance’s eyes narrow. He reaches around me, his chest pressing against my back. His hand covers mine where it grips the dress, peeling my fingers away one by one, before pushing it down my hips. It pools at my feet in a whisper of silk, leaving me in nothing but the white lace lingerie I was fitted for at the boutique.

“I want to see what I own,” he murmurs into my ear, turning the lights back on. The room floods with warm, golden light, revealing me dressed in fabric so sheer it might as well be transparent.

He steps back, his gaze roaming over me with heated intensity as he memorizes my body. I feel every inch of his inspection as a physical touch, from my collarbones to the swell of my breasts, to the curve of my waist, and settling on the flare of my hips. His eyes linger on the scar on my left hip from a childhood fall, the freckles scattered across my shoulders, and the pulse fluttering wildly at the base of my throat.

“Fucking beautiful,” he muses with a roughness to his voice that wasn’t there before. “Even more so than I imagined.”

“Stop looking at me like that,” I whisper.

“Like what?”

“Like you’re… hungry.”

“But I am hungry, Sophia.” He smiles, slow and devastating. “I’ve been starving for this since the first time you walked into my boardroom thinking you could challenge me. You argued every point, pushed every boundary, and looked me straight in the eye when everyone else in the room knew better.”