ZAYAN 'S POV
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The hall hums with money. Crystal chandeliers scatter light across the room, every surface polished to gleam, every laugh dipped in arrogance. Power isn't spoken here—it's performed.
I step through the crowd as Adam. Not Tavarian, not heir, not predator carrying a dynasty on his shoulders. Just Adam—Falconridge's shadow, dressed in a tailored suit and silence sharper than any smile.
The air is thick with money and perfume. Every suit in the room is tailored to kill, every smile sharpened to a deal. Men pretending to be wolves. Women pretending they aren't watching.
But wolves don't announce themselves. They let the silence bend around them.
Eyes flick toward me, curious but unknowing. That's the beauty of clean names—they slip in like they've always belonged.
Marcus Veynar stands at the center, surrounded by men who orbit him like lesser stars. He looks exactly how I pictured him: broad smile, eyes that measure instead of greet, a man who doesn't talk to strangers unless he can taste the profit.
I wait until his gaze brushes me. A pause. That's all I need.
It's subtle—the slight dip of his chin, the flick of his gaze to a man beside him. A signal. Seconds later, one of his aides approaches.
"Mr. Adam?" The tone is respectful, already careful. "Mr. Veynar would like to speak with you."
Perfect.
I let the space between us collapse slowly, not rushing, not needy. Timing is everything. When I reach him, I offer only what he can't resist—confidence that doesn't ask for permission.
"Marcus Veynar," I say, voice even, steady. "Adam. Falconridge Holdings."
The name lands clean, sharp. His smile flickers, not in doubt, but recognition. He's heard it already—Izar made sure of that. The whispers were planted weeks ago.
Veynar extends his hand. "Falconridge. Interesting. New blood." His grip is firm, testing. "I don't remember seeing you in these circles before."
"That's intentional," I reply, meeting his stare without blinking. "Noise drowns leverage. I don't move with the crowd—I let them notice when it's too late."
His smile grows. He likes the answer. Men like Veynar admire danger only when it's wrapped in restraint.
A waiter glides by, offering glasses of amber liquor. Veynar takes one, then gestures for me to do the same.
I glance at the tray, then shake my head once. "I don't drink at galas. Not when the room is full of men who'd love to see me distracted."
His eyebrows lift, amused. "Paranoid."
"Prepared," I correct, smooth but cutting. "Paranoia wastes energy. Preparation controls the field."
Veynar studies me, and in that pause, I know I've shifted from stranger to interest. He lowers his glass slightly, eyes sharp with the thrill of recognition—this isn't another eager guest begging for a handshake. This is someone who understands leverage the way he does.
"Falconridge," he repeats, tasting the name. "Private equity? Or something more… ambitious?"
"Ambition disguised as equity," I say, letting a shadow of a smirk curve my mouth. "Falconridge doesn't chase profit. We hunt positioning. Profit is a side effect."
He chuckles, low, leaning closer. "I like the sound of that."
I let the silence stretch, then tilt my head slightly. "You should. Because positioning decides who holds the knife—and who doesn't even know it's there."
The weight of the words lands. Veynar studies me like he's just discovered fire in a world of candles.
The lie breathes between us. Falconridge feels alive, flawless. The ledgers Izar and I built, the transactions buried in digital history, the board members who don't exist but look like they do—Veynar can pull every thread, and he'll find nothing but strength. That's the trap.
And already, I can see it in his eyes. He wants in.
Veynar doesn't let me go after that first strike of words. He turns slightly, angling his body so the men around him can't listen in. His smile is polite, but his eyes sharpen, weighing me, testing how far he can push.
"Falconridge," he says again, savoring it like it's a rare wine. "I've been hearing the name in whispers. Nobody seems to know much, which usually means smoke. And yet—" he gestures lightly at me, "—you stand here like you've been in the game longer than half the room."
I meet his gaze, steady. "Whispers are the best introduction. They arrive before you do, and by the time you step in, the room is already listening."
That earns me a laugh—genuine, short, impressed. "You talk like a man who doesn't waste words."
"I don't waste anything."
It hits the mark. His grin shifts into something closer to respect. He takes another slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving mine.
"You know," he says, lowering his voice, "I usually don't take interest in new names. They vanish too quickly. But Falconridge—" he pauses, studying me, "—feels different. You feel different."
"That's because I don't need to be here," I answer quietly. "I chose to be. That's the difference between survival and positioning. One fights to stay. The other decides when to arrive."
There's a beat of silence. Then he chuckles, shaking his head like he's both amused and slightly unsettled. That's good. Men like Veynar should never feel entirely comfortable.
He leans closer, dropping the host act. "We should talk properly. Not here. Too much noise. Come to my office tomorrow. Noon. Private."
The offer lands like bait. Direct. Quick. He's testing me, impatient to know more, to peel back layers. Most men would jump at the invitation—this is Marcus Veynar, gatekeeper to Damien himself. But eagerness kills.
I let the silence stretch between us just long enough for him to feel it. Then I tilt my head, voice calm, even.
"Tomorrow won't work."
The change is instant. His smile falters, just slightly, before he masks it with another sip of his drink. "Too busy?"
"Too focused." My tone is deliberate, not dismissive. "Meetings are useful when they serve a purpose. Tonight's enough for now. You've seen Falconridge. You've seen me. That's all that matters until the timing is right."
He studies me hard, eyes narrowing, as if he's trying to decide whether I'm arrogant or disciplined. I don't give him the answer. I let the silence do the work.
Finally, his lips twitch into a slow smile. "You're not like the rest of them."
"That's why Falconridge will last longer than the rest of them," I return smoothly.
And there it is—the flicker in his eyes. Obsession. He wants more now, because I didn't give it. He's used to people clawing for his attention, to men bending at the knee for a seat at the table. And here I am—refusing him, not out of disrespect but out of control. That makes me untouchable in his eyes.
Veynar shifts his glass, finally breaking eye contact with a short laugh. "Alright, Adam. Play it your way. But don't make me wait too long. I don't like waiting."
"Nobody does," I reply, voice low, "but the right game always demands it."
He exhales sharply, amused, and turns back to his orbit of men. But I catch it—the way his gaze lingers on me one last time, curious, hungry. He'll think about me long after tonight ends. That's the hook.
I step away, blending back into the gala's noise, but my pulse is steady. Adam is alive. Falconridge is breathing. And Marcus Veynar? He's already chasing.
The gala air is heavier when I leave than when I arrived. Perfume, cigar smoke, the faint aftertaste of money still clinging to the marble halls. Marcus Veynar is laughing with some hedge-fund wolves when I approach, but the moment he sees me, the sound drops a pitch. His smile turns sharper, like he doesn't want to admit I've already taken a piece of his attention with me.
"Adam." He lifts his glass slightly, that host's grin nailed back into place.
I return it with the barest nod. "Veynar. Enjoy your night."
Short. Clean. No excess. Because the less I give, the more he wants. His eyes track me until the last second, and when I step past the threshold of that ballroom, I already know he'll replay our words until morning.
Outside, the night is cold enough to bite. The car is waiting, sleek black paint swallowing the streetlights. I slide into the back, and the door shuts with a thud that feels like sealing the game in place.
Izar glances at me in the rearview as the engine hums to life. His voice is quiet, but it carries weight. "How'd it go?"
I let out a breath, my eyes fixed on the blur of lights as the car pulls away. "He's hooked. Veynar doesn't know it yet, but he's already leaning toward Falconridge. The way he looked at me—it wasn't casual. It was calculation mixed with curiosity. That's obsession in its first stage."
Izar nods once, eyes back on the road. "You didn't accept his offer?"
"No." My voice is deliberate, measured. "If I had, I'd be just another name waiting at his door tomorrow. But refusing him?" I pause, the corner of my mouth tightening into something sharp. "That makes him chase. Men like Veynar don't respect what's easy. They respect what unsettles them. Tonight, Adam unsettled him."
Izar's lips twitch into the faintest smirk. "Calculated."
"Always." I lean back into the leather, watching the city smear past the glass. "Veynar thinks he's inviting Adam into his circle. But Adam doesn't join circles. He builds the fire around them and waits for the wood to burn. By the time he realizes he's inside, the smoke will already be in his lungs."
The hum of the car fills the silence. My pulse is steady, but beneath it, the weight of memory pushes against my ribs—Damien's name is a wound I've learned to keep open. I let it ache because the ache keeps me sharp.
Izar breaks the silence again, his tone careful. "So what's the next step?"
I close my eyes for a second, running through the map of possibilities—the meetings, the subtle pushes, the shadows Veynar will throw. I know every move before it happens. But I also know the body needs rest as much as the mind needs war.
My answer is simple. "Sleep."
Izar raises a brow in the mirror, but he doesn't argue. He knows I don't waste words.
I sink deeper into the seat, the city lights fading behind us. For a moment, I let the sharp edges of strategy soften, just enough for another thought to break through—the one I never say aloud.
Her.
The way her fire burns against my control. The way her voice slips through the noise when I should be thinking only of blood and vengeance.
She's the distraction I should despise, the crack in the armor I swore I wouldn't carry. And yet—when the night goes quiet, she's the one sound I hear.
I drag in a breath, steady, letting the thought settle instead of fighting it. Damien will come. Veynar will lead me to him. And when that day arrives, there will be nothing left of their empire but ash and silence.
But tonight? Tonight, I close my eyes, and even in the dark, she follows me.
____________________________________
ARSHILA'S POV
The bathroom steam follows me out, towel knotted tight around me. My hair drips cold trails down my back, and I almost laugh at how rare this is—me walking around like this.
Normally, I wouldn't risk it. Normally, I lock myself up in the bathroom until I'm fully dressed because… yeah, no way I'm letting him see skin. Not when he looks at me like I'm a nuisance he has to tolerate. Not when I'm convinced half the time he hates me.
But he isn't here.
And when he isn't here, I can do whatever the fuck I want.
I slip into my room, pull on a t shirt and pants, nothing special. Just enough to stop feeling naked. But when I step back out, the silence in his room hooks me. My eyes go straight to his bed.
Big. Dark sheets. Always perfectly made, like soldiers tucked it in with rulers.
That's where he sleeps. Zayan. The bastard who runs the world like it bends just for him. That's where he closes those sharp, cruel eyes and just… rests.
What does that even look like? Him asleep.
Does he lie flat, like control even follows him into dreams? Or does he turn on his side, one arm heavy over the pillow, mouth relaxed, all the sharp edges softened? I can't picture it. And I hate that I want to.
I stand there too long, staring, until my brain does something reckless: I climb on.
At first it's just a test—I sit on the edge, press my hand into the mattress. But then I bounce.
Oh. Oh, fuck.
The bed catches me, soft and deep, like it's made to ruin me. I fall back with a laugh that sounds too loud in the empty room. This isn't a bed—it's heaven disguised as furniture. I get it now. I get why he can wake up looking like sin wrapped in silk.
I roll onto my back, arms spread, staring at the ceiling. The sheets smell like him. That faint, expensive-clean scent that clings to his shirts, his presence. My stomach flips because I'm stupid enough to inhale deeper, like that'll help. It doesn't. It's worse.
And because my brain's a traitor, it goes there.
What if he was here? What if I wasn't alone in this bed?
What if he climbed in behind me, that chest pressing into my back, his hand sliding low, slow, claiming? Or—fuck—what if he didn't even bother with slow? What if he pinned me down, mouth on mine, that weight keeping me trapped until I forgot how to breathe?
God.
My thighs press together without me telling them to.
And then it hits harder. He hates me. Or at least, I tell myself he does. The glares, the clipped words, the control. He doesn't want me—at least not in the way I keep imagining. But that thought doesn't kill the fire. It makes it burn hotter.
Because what if he did?
What if all that sharpness, all that restraint, snapped? What if the man who keeps me at arm's length suddenly decided I wasn't off-limits?
My skin prickles. I picture him above me, sheets pushed down, hair mussed, that perfect control stripped raw. His hand gripping my wrist, his mouth rougher than it should be. And the way he'd look at me—not like he hates me, but like I was the only fucking thing in the world that could quiet him down.
"Shit," I whisper into his pillow, biting it like it'll stop me from making a sound.
The truth is disgusting. I want the man who I swear doesn't want me. I want the one who probably thinks of me as an annoyance, a responsibility, maybe even a mistake.
And yet here I am. Lying in his bed. Breathing him in. Imagining what it'd feel like to be ruined by someone who might never even want to touch me.
I laugh into the sheets, but it sounds shaky, almost desperate. "I'm fucked."
And I am. Because I know the second he walks in, all of this will disappear. I'll shove it down, act normal, act annoyed, act like I don't care. But right now, with him gone and his bed swallowing me whole, I let myself admit it.
I want him.
Even if he hates me.
Especially if he hates me.
The bed swallows me whole, but I can't stay still. My eyes keep roaming, tracing every corner of this stupidly massive room.
It's ridiculous. The walls stretch forever, high ceilings like some palace out of a glossy magazine, glass swallowing half the space like he needed everyone to know—look at me, I'm untouchable. Even the light feels expensive, like it refuses to shine anywhere else but here.
Show-off. Cocky, arrogant bastard. He's flexing without saying a word. I can buy silence, I can buy space, I can buy the air you breathe. That's what this room screams.
And it should annoy me. It does. But it also… works. God help me, it works.
My gaze snags on the couch.
Not the sleek lines of leather, not the cold neatness of the cushions. No. The shirt.
Just sitting there, quiet, like it's waiting for me. Not crumpled, not tossed. Just placed. White. Half-sleeve. Loose fit. Not the ironed-to-death, boardroom kind of shirt. Softer. Easier.
I grin. Oh, this is dangerous.
I climb off the bed, padding across the floor until I'm standing over it like I've just discovered buried treasure. My hand hovers for a second before I give in and grab it.
Soft. Softer than it has any right to be. My fingers sink into it and then—fuck it—I lift it to my face.
The scent hits me like a punch.
I stumble a step back, clutching the fabric, almost dizzy.
Oh my god.
Clean. Sharp. Rich. Expensive in a way you can't fake. But underneath—warmth. Him. That mix of spice and skin and something darker that lingers. The smell of him fills my lungs, and it's unfair. Unfair because this? This alone could put me on my knees.
If this is what he actually smells like when he's close—fuck. No wonder I can't think straight when he's near me. No wonder my stomach flips when he leans too close. His scent alone is a weapon.
I bury my face deeper in the shirt, shameless. Like a full-on creep.
And I laugh. Out loud.
"Hehehehe."
I sound deranged, and I don't care.
I inhale again, greedy, and the grin stretching my face feels wild. I'm so far gone. If he walked in now, I'd combust. No coming back from that. But instead of stopping, instead of putting the damn thing down, I do the worst thing imaginable.
I put it on.
The fabric slips over me like water, cool at first, then warm, hugging in the wrong places, hanging loose everywhere else. Oversized enough that it skims my thighs, covers me just enough to be dangerous. I button it, slow, every click echoing in the silence, every one of them daring him in my head: look at me, look at what I stole.
And then I catch sight of myself in the mirror.
Oh. Oh, fuck.
I freeze, staring at the reflection like it's not even me. The shirt swallows me whole, the hem brushing low enough to tease, the sleeves loose enough to make me look small. And the scent—it's everywhere, wrapping around me, turning the air thick.
And then—I laugh.
Not a cute giggle. Not some shy little chuckle. No. Loud. Barking. Full-on lunatic laughter.
Because holy fucking shit—I look like his.
I look like the aftermath of something filthy, like I just rolled out of his bed after he ruined me. Hair damp, no pants, drowning in his shirt like I belong in it. The image is so hot, so wrong, so much, I can't stop laughing.
I spin once, the hem flaring around my thighs, and my grin feels manic. The mirror mocks me with the truth—I don't just want this. I crave it.
And the thoughts get worse. Dirtier.
What if he walked in right now? What if he saw me in his shirt, grinning like I wanted him to eat me alive? Would he smirk? Would he say nothing and just stalk closer, slow and heavy, until the silence broke me?
Would he rip it off me? Or worse—would he leave it on? Push me back against the mirror, pin my wrists, mouth rough on my throat, shirt riding up while I couldn't breathe for wanting more?
My laugh cracks into something shaky, my thighs pressing together.
"Oh, fuck," I whisper, but I'm still grinning like a psycho.
Because I can't stop.
I'm in his shirt. I smell like him. And I don't want to take it off.
The mirror won't shut up.
I stand there, buttoned up in his shirt like it's a crime scene I walked straight into, grinning like I've officially lost my mind. And, okay—full disclosure—I'm not naked under this.
Pants. T-shirt. Full armor. My thighs aren't flashing. I didn't strip. I'm not that reckless. But god, the way this shirt falls on me, the way it hangs like a secret I shouldn't have—it makes me feel like I'm sinning anyway.
I lift the collar again, drag the fabric over my nose, and inhale like an addict. The scent hasn't faded; it's stronger now, warmed by my skin. Expensive, clean, masculine. A little sharp. And when it sinks into me, I swear I feel it low, way beneath my pants, like my body doesn't give a fuck about reason.
"God," I mutter, pressing the heel of my hand to my forehead. "You're pathetic."
And then my phone buzzes.
I freeze, still holding his shirt like I've been caught red-handed—even though it's just a notification, not him actually walking in. But my heart doesn't care. It slams against my ribs like a guilty kid hiding stolen candy.
Another buzz. Group chat.
I groan and flop down onto the couch, sinking into the cushions with all the dramatics of someone dying. My phone lights up, and I swipe it open.
Ifrah: Guys. He dumped me. Like actually dumped me. I'm free. I'm dying. Someone bring alcohol before I eat his LinkedIn photo.
I snort so hard I choke, hand flying up to cover my mouth. Ifrah, queen of half-relationships, finally got clipped. Of course she's already half joking about it.
Shaiza's typing bubble pops up. I know it's gonna be reckless before I even see the text.
Shaiza: Babe, please. "Dumped" is such an ugly word. Call it "released back into the wild."
My laugh rips out of me, loud and completely unhinged. I kick my legs on the couch, nearly falling sideways.
Ifrah: Wild?? Girl, I'm feral. He literally told me "we want different things" while looking at my boobs. I swear he wanted the SAME THINGS five minutes earlier.
Me, out loud: "Oh my fucking god."
Shaiza: Okay but hot. At least he went out with titty-eye contact. Respect.
I lose it. Proper, full-body laughter. My stomach aches, my chest hurts, and tears sting the corners of my eyes. I curl into myself, phone clutched like it's life support, wheezing because this is what they do to me—chaos, filth, no filters.
I type through the laughter, fingers slipping on the screen:
Me: You sluts. I'm screaming. Ifrah, next time date a man with an IQ higher than room temp, please. We're tired.
Ifrah: Where do you expect me to find a genius? By the water cooler?
Shaiza: By the printer. Men are at their hottest when they don't know how to unjam paper.
And that's it. That kills me. I'm doubled over on the couch, face buried in his shirt like it's going to muffle my insane laughter. Except—it doesn't. Now I'm laughing and breathing him in, and the mix is so wrong, so stupidly hot, it makes me dizzy.
I flop back against the cushions, hair falling in my face, grinning like I'm high. And maybe I am. Not on drugs, not on booze, but on them—my girls tearing up my phone with filth—and him, without even being here, messing me up by existing in fabric, in scent, in the air I can't stop stealing.
And the truth hits, hard and stupid:
I'm the one in his shirt, laughing like a lunatic into it, while my friends spiral over their fuck-ups. And somehow, I might be the most fucked up one of all.
The laughter is still echoing in my ribs when I hear it.
Footsteps.
Not hesitant. Not light. Heavy. Even. Sharp.
I freeze mid-snort, my phone slipping from my hand onto the couch with a soft thud. My pulse spikes into my throat. Please don't. Please not him. Please—
The door swings open. Wide. No knock. No pause.
And there he is.
Adam Zayan fucking Tavarian.
In a suit that looks like sin stitched together. Black tailored sharp enough to cut glass, Black shirt clean and crisp, tie done like a blade at his throat. His jaw shadowed, his hair brushed back, and god, that face—how is someone allowed to look that beautiful and that dangerous at once?
I stop breathing.
And he just stands there. Staring.
My skin crawls hot, goosebumps chasing down my arms. His gaze drops—slow, deliberate. From my face… to my body… to the shirt on me.
His shirt.
My stomach bottoms out.
I forgot.
I'm still wearing it.
I bolt up from the couch like I can undo the whole scene if I just move fast enough. My throat is dry, my hands twitch at my sides.
"Uhh—I…I—"
He shuts the door behind him, silent, steady. Each step closer feels like a countdown, like the air itself folds around him and waits. He stops in front of me.
His voice is low. Controlled. "What are you doing wearing this?"
My chest caves. My mouth runs ahead of my brain. "I—I was cold."
The way his brow arches—it's brutal. A blade sliding under my skin.
"Cold." The word drips off his tongue like he's repeating something he doesn't buy for a second.
"Yes!" My voice cracks, too high. "I—I just showered and it was freezing in here and I didn't want to—catch pneumonia or something—"
He tilts his head, eyes locked on me like he's peeling me apart. Then, softly, almost amused:
"You're pathetic."
The words hit harder than they should. My face flames, my stomach knots. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." His gaze dips down my body, slow, and I swear my knees almost buckle. "Pathetic. A creep. A little thief dressing herself in things that don't belong to her."
Heat slams into my chest, sharp and violent. "I am not a creep—"
"You are." Calm. So calm it makes me shake. "Standing here in my shirt like you've been caught red-handed. Like a pervert trying to play innocent."
Anger flares so hot it burns through my embarrassment. "Fuck you. You don't get to call me—"
"Take it off."
The command slices through me.
My mouth drops open. "What?"
His tone doesn't rise. Doesn't waver. "Take. It. Off."
"Here?" My voice squeaks, then I catch myself, try to steady it. "You can't be serious—"
"Yes. Here. In front of me."
I stare at him, disbelief tangled with fury. "You've officially lost your fucking mind."
His eyes flicker, cool and unbothered. "Do it."
My pulse is racing out of my skin, but my mouth—god, my mouth won't stop. "What if I'm naked under it?"
The tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth, gone before I can catch it. His answer slices clean:
"I don't care. Take it off. I won't look at you."
"You—you smug, arrogant bastard," I snap, my fingers already fumbling at the buttons because somehow he always wins. "Control freak. Asshole. Dictator. Sick little tyrant—"
One button. Two. Three. My hands are shaking, my face burning.
The shirt slips open. My t-shirt underneath clings to me, and for a split second, his eyes flick down.
"You're not naked," he says flatly, like he just proved a point.
"Fuck you." I rip the shirt off, ball it up, and hurl it at him with everything I've got. "There. Happy?"
It smacks his chest, slides down the perfect lines of his suit, and lands at his shoes.
He doesn't blink. Doesn't move fast.
His voice, calm as ever: "Pick it up."
My jaw drops. "Are you out of your mind? I just—"
"Pick it up." His tone doesn't rise. It doesn't need to. The weight behind it is worse.
"Un-fucking-believable." I mutter, loud enough to sting. "Goddamn control freak. Prick. Smug bastard."
But my hand betrays me, picks it up from the floor. I storm past him, slam it down on the couch exactly where I found it, my chest heaving.
"Happy now?" My voice is venom, shaky and hot.
His silence presses into me like a hand at my throat. Heavy. Dominant. Still.
I can't take it. I spin away, storm to my room, yank the door open so hard it rattles, and slam it shut behind me with a crack that shakes the air.
The words spill out before I can choke them back, whispered harsh into the dark:
"I fucking hate you."
I lean against the door, breath heaving, fists clenched. My heart doesn't stop pounding. My skin doesn't stop burning.
And the worst part?
I don't hate him.
I hate that I don't.
__________
Zayans pov
The door slam is still ringing in my ears.
Hard enough to rattle the frame. Hard enough to make the air shiver. She does that—storms out like she's trying to make the walls feel her temper. And I stand there, staring at that door like a fucking fool, with this grin tugging at my mouth.
Because I love it.
Every second of it.
Her voice, spitting curses like she wants to stab me with every syllable. Her face flushed, her eyes sparking like gasoline under fire. The way she hurled that shirt at me, like she wanted it to cut through me. She thinks it's anger. She thinks she's putting distance between us. But every time she snaps, she pulls me closer.
And when she was in my shirt—fuck.
She looked like mine. All mine. Like the fabric itself claimed her for me. And I didn't want her to take it off. I wanted to drag her down on that couch, pin her wrists, and make her keep it on while I ruined her underneath it.
But if I'd let her see that—if I'd given away just how much I wanted her—she would've run. She's still fighting, still trying to convince herself she hates me. And I can't let her win that war, not yet.
So I played the bastard. I made her strip it. I made her curse me until her throat was raw.and I was so confident that she is not naked underneath.
That's the only way this works.
If I want her, truly want her, I have to make her break on her own.
Not by begging. Not by asking. By forcing her to realize she can't escape me.
I tear my tie loose, strip the jacket off, head into the bathroom. My reflection stares back at me, sharp suit, sharp lines, controlled. But underneath, I'm burning.
I step into the shower, water crashing over me, steam filling the room. I close my eyes and it's her voice I hear. "Fuck you. Prick. Smug bastard." The way her lips shaped around every insult—god, I want to crush that mouth with mine, drink those curses down until all she has left is my name.
She doesn't get it—her fire is the thing that undoes me. That sharp tongue, that mouth that won't quit—I want to shut it with my lips, with my hands, with my C---.
I want to hear her spit fury and moans in the same breath. I want to own every word she's ever tried to use against me.
By the time I'm out, towel wrapped at my waist, I'm harder than I should be.
And then I see it.
The shirt.
Still on the couch. Exactly where she slammed it down, like she wanted to leave it as a scar.
I walk over, pick it up. My fingers stop.
It doesn't smell just like me anymore.
It smells like us.
Her skin. Her soap. Her heat. Blended into mine. And the second I press it to my face, it's fucking over. My lungs fill with her, my head spins, my body tightens like she's here.
I breathe her in again, deeper, greedy, addicted already.
She thought she was mocking me. Stealing what's mine. But she marked it. She marked me. This fabric is no longer mine alone—it's hers.
And in that moment, something vicious curls through me.
I slip it on. The cotton drapes over me, still faintly warm from her body. It clings to me like she's still in it, like she's wrapped around me. And I know—next time, I won't make her take it off.
Next time, I'll make her wear it the way I want her to.
Open. Loose. Nothing underneath. Her spread out on my bed, flushed and furious and begging without meaning to. My shirt clinging to her skin while I fuck every last ounce of hate out of her. Until she can't say my name without shaking.
That shirt won't just be fabric.
It'll be proof.
A claim.
A brand.
She'll look in the mirror after, see herself marked in me, and she'll know—whether she loves me or hates me—it doesn't matter. She belongs exactly where she is. Under me. With me. Mine.
I sit down, the shirt stretching across my chest, my hands clutching at the fabric like I could hold onto her through it.
She thinks she won this round, slamming her door, screaming she hates me. But she doesn't hate me. She hates that she doesn't.
And me? I'll make sure she never gets the chance to pretend otherwise again.
She's going to wear this shirt for me.
And when she does, she'll never forget it.