POV: HER
He doesn't kiss me.
That's how I know I've won the first round.
Men like Adrian Blackwood don't resist because they're moral they resist because they're afraid of what wanting something will cost them. And right now, he wants me badly enough to be careful.
Careful men make mistakes.
The penthouse feels different when we return. Tighter. Charged. Like the walls heard the lies we told at dinner and are waiting to see which one of us breaks first.
I take off my heels slowly, deliberately, right there in the entryway.
He watches.
Of course he does.
"You did well tonight," he says, loosening his tie. "The board liked you."
"I didn't do it for them."
"I know," he replies. "That's the problem."
I smile to myself and walk past him toward the kitchen. I pour a glass of water—no alcohol. I need my head clear.
He follows.
"You're enjoying this," he says.
I turn, leaning against the counter. "You say that like it's an accusation."
"You're enjoying pushing me."
"Yes."
No hesitation. No shame.
Something dark flickers across his face. "That won't end the way you think."
I tilt my head. "Neither will underestimating me."
We stand there, staring each other down, two predators circling the same kill.
"Why marriage?" he asks suddenly. "Why not exposure? Lawsuits? Public ruin?"
I consider him for a moment.
Because this is the question that matters.
"Because pain should be intimate," I say quietly. "And I wanted you close enough to feel it."
His jaw tightens.
"Then why didn't you take the master bedroom?" he asks.
Ah.
There it is.
I straighten. "Because I don't need proximity to control you."
"Liar."
I step forward until there's barely air between us.
"You want honesty?" I whisper. "Fine. I didn't take the master bedroom because if I slept beside you, I'd either kill you… or forget why I came."
Silence crashes between us.
His breathing changes.
Mine does too.
"You're playing a dangerous game," he murmurs.
"I learned from the best."
For a moment just one I see it. The man beneath the armor. The exhaustion. The loneliness. The weight of everything he's buried to survive.
It almost softens me.
Almost.
I step back.
"Good night, husband," I say lightly, turning toward my room.
Behind me, his voice drops.
"You don't know what you've chained yourself to."
I pause at the door.
"I do," I reply without turning. "I chose it."
Inside my room, I lock the door and lean against it, exhaling slowly.
My hands are steady.
My heart is not.
Because the truth I didn't tell him the one I don't plan to tell anyone is this:
Revenge was supposed to be cold.
But wanting him?
That was never part of the plan.
And plans are dangerous when they start to unravel.