"You moved my brother," she snapped.
Declan looked up from his whiskey glass like she'd interrupted a spreadsheet. "Yes. He's now at Blackwood Medical. Full-time care. Private wing."
"You had no right!"
He stood, setting down the glass. "Actually, clause sixteen gives me every right."
"You could've told me first!"
"You were busy being offended by a kiss. I didn't want to overburden you."
She gasped. "Are you always this—this arrogant?"
He approached her slowly, predator calm. "Arrogant? No. Calculated? Always."
"I trusted you—"
"No, Hartley. You hired me to save your brother. I delivered."
There it was. The reminder she was just a transaction. An employee. A prop.
Except she wasn't. Not anymore.
"You're not God, Declan."
He gave a small smirk. "I don't believe in God. But I do believe in control."
Her stomach flipped. He wasn't just cold—he was addicted to power. To watch people squirm.
She took a deep breath. "Fine. You want control? Then let's play."
He arched a brow.
"Tomorrow, you're attending a board gala. You're bringing me. And I'm not showing up silent or scared. If I'm playing wife, I'm playing it on my terms."
His eyes lit up with amused danger. "Careful, Hartley. Confidence looks good on you. But don't confuse power with permission."
"Then revoke my permission."
A charged silence filled the room.
"Very well," he said smoothly. "But wear red. You're prettier when you're dangerous."
—-----
The Next Night: Blackwood Industries Annual Gala – Plaza Hotel
Hartley stepped out of the limo like a storm in heels.
Red velvet dress, slit to her thigh. Hair up. Diamond earrings on loan from Declan's private vault. But the most powerful thing she wore was her expression: fearless.
Declan stepped beside her, pausing as his eyes swept over her like flame to paper.
"I underestimated you."
She smiled sweetly. "You often will."
Inside, the ballroom was opulence on steroids: gold ceilings, a live quartet, and people so rich they probably had butlers for their butlers.
Whispers started the moment they walked in:
> "That's her—Westcott's wife."
"She's... stunning."
"Didn't she used to be poor?"
"I give it three months."
Hartley smiled wider. Let them talk. Let them burn.
A waiter approached. "Champagne, Mrs. Westcott?"
She took a flute. "Please. I need all the bubbles I can legally drink around these people."
Declan snorted beside her—a soft, almost human sound.
"Did you just laugh?" she asked, raising a brow.
"I think it was an allergic reaction."
"To what? Humor?"
"To a wife who isn't boring."
"Oh, I'm just getting started."
—-----
One Hour Later –
Hartley was feeling good. Confident. Balanced. Until Camilla sashayed in like she owned the building—and maybe even the state.
Tonight, she wore black silk and an expression that said, "I eat interns for breakfast."
Camilla spotted them and made a beeline.
"Declan," she purred. "You look handsome."
"Camilla." He nodded. "You look… different. Did you switch stylists or just personalities?"
Hartley choked on her champagne.
Camilla's smile twitched. "You must be Hartley, nice meeting you again. How's the acting career going?"
Camilla blinked innocently. "Oh, I'm not acting. I'm really this annoying."
Declan turned away quickly, hiding a laugh behind his drink.
Camilla narrowed her eyes. "It's cute. You think this will last."
Hartley smiled with all her teeth. "You think I care what you think. So many delusions in one dress."
For the first time, Camilla looked shaken. Just a flicker. But it was enough.
She turned on her heel and vanished into the crowd.
Declan leaned in. "You know, I almost feel bad for her."
"Don't. She wears bitterness like it's couture."
He chuckled. "You're a different woman than the one who showed up in my bed a week ago."
"Maybe I'm learning from the devil himself."
He looked at her for a long moment.
"You should know…" he said slowly, "Camilla's not just dangerous. She's strategic. She doesn't just want me. She wants to ruin me."
Hartley raised a brow. "So… what? I'm collateral damage?"
"Not if you play smarter than her."
"I didn't come here to play. I came to win."
---
Later That Night at Declan's Penthouse…..
The elevator opened in silence. Hartley stepped out first, shoes in hand, hair undone.
"That was… satisfying," she said, stretching. "Also exhausting. Can I charge your corporate card for emotional labor?"
Declan smirked. "You're getting too comfortable."
"Maybe. Or maybe I'm finally owning the part I was cast in."
She walked to the kitchen for water and heard him behind her. Closer than expected.
"Why are you really doing this?" he asked.
She turned. "You mean the contract?"
"No. The act. The fire. The fight. You could've stayed silent and safe."
She hesitated. "Because Leo needs me. But also… I need to matter. Somewhere. To someone. Even if it starts with pretending."
Declan's expression shifted—so briefly she barely caught it.
"Good night, Mr. Westcott."
She moved to walk past him.
Then his hand caught her wrist.
"I wasn't lying when I said I
don't believe in love," he said, low.
"And I wasn't lying when I said I didn't believe in you," she whispered.
She slipped free.
And left him standing in the dark.