The penthouse suite of the Hôtel Plaza Athénée smelled of white lilies, expensive vintage Cristal, and the suffocating scent of a trap being sprung. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, the Eiffel Tower shimmered against the obsidian Parisian sky, a billion sparks of light mocking the coldness beginning to settle in Dolphine Serial's marrow.
They were "The Serials" now. The reigning Miss Canada and the tech-industrialist titan. The union had been dubbed the "Wedding of the Millennium" by every tabloid from Toronto to Tokyo. After three years of George pursuing her—three years of him standing in the shadows of her red carpets, three years of him sending bouquets that could fill a football stadium, and three years of her making him wait—she had finally granted him the ultimate prize. Herself.
Dolphine took a slow sip of the heavy Bordeaux they'd shared during their private dinner on the balcony. She felt a pleasant, fuzzy warmth behind her eyes—a delicious tipsiness that made her movements fluid, like silk sliding over glass.
"Paris suits us, don't you think?" she murmured, her voice a sultry velvet hum.
George didn't answer immediately. He stood by the fireplace, his tuxedo jacket discarded on a velvet chaise lounge, his white shirt unbuttoned at the collar. In the dim, amber glow of the room, he looked like a predator carved from marble. His eyes—those dark, intense eyes that had spent years looking at her with nothing but puppy-like devotion—were fixed on her. But tonight, the puppy was gone. There was something sharper there. Something jagged.
Dolphine didn't mind. She liked the hunger. She was Miss Canada; she was used to men looking at her as if they wanted to consume her. She set her glass down on the mahogany table with a soft clink and stood up, the movement causing her dress to shimmer.
It was a masterpiece of French couture—a "see-through" gown made of hand-stitched Chantilly lace and strategically placed crystals that did more to highlight her curves than hide them. It was a dress designed for a wedding night. It was a dress designed to make a man lose his mind.
She walked toward him, her hips swaying with a practiced, regal grace. "You've been so quiet since we left the reception, George," she teased, stopping just a foot away from him. The scent of her Chanel perfume drifted between them, heavy and provocative. "The great George Serial, finally silenced by the woman of his dreams? What do you want to do now, my husband? The night is young, and the bed is waiting."
George's gaze traveled slowly—excruciatingly slowly—from the tips of her silver heels up the length of her toned legs, lingering on the sheer lace at her hips, before finally meeting her eyes. His expression remained unreadable, a mask of stone.
"Whatever you feel like doing, Dolphine," he said, his voice strangely hollow. "This is your night. You've always been the one in control, haven't you? Why stop now?"
Dolphine let out a soft, melodic laugh. She took his words as a challenge, a plea for a performance. She reached back, her fingers finding the delicate silk ties at her nape. With a slow, rhythmic pull, the lace began to loosen.
She watched him. She wanted to see the moment his composure broke. She watched his Adam's apple bob as he swallowed. She saw the way his fingers gripped the edge of the mantelpiece until his knuckles turned white. He was looking at her with predatory intensity—an obsession so thick it felt like a physical weight in the room.
The dress slid down her shoulders, pooling at her waist before she stepped out of it completely, standing before him in nothing but the romantic glow of the Parisian moon and the dying embers of the fire. She was a vision of perfection—ivory skin, cascading dark hair, and the confidence of a woman who knew she was unmatched.
She stepped into his personal space, her bare feet silent on the plush carpet. She reached up, her manicured fingers grazing the hair at the nape of his neck, drawing his face down toward hers. She leaned in, her lips hovering mere millimeters from his, her breath warm against his skin. She expected him to growl, to sweep her up, to finally claim the woman he had spent a thousand days begging for.
But George didn't move. He didn't wrap his arms around her. He didn't close the gap.
Instead, he took a step back. A cold, deliberate step into the shadows, leaving her reaching for empty air.
The silence that followed was deafening. The "tipsy" warmth in Dolphine's veins turned to ice-water in a heartbeat. She stood there, exposed and beautiful, as George reached into his pocket and pulled out a silk handkerchief, calmly wiping the spot on his neck where her fingers had touched him.
"Is that it?" he asked, his voice dripping with a sudden, venomous clarity.
Dolphine blinked, her brow furrowed in genuine confusion. "George? What are you—"
"You think a bit of lace and a practiced pout are enough to erase three years of humiliation, Dolphine?" He stepped forward now, but the heat in his eyes wasn't passion—it was a terrifying, jubilant cruelty. "I don't want any of this. And I will never give it to you, 'Beauty.'"
He laughed then—a short, jagged sound that didn't reach his eyes.
"You've spent years making me wait in the rain while you flirted with camera lenses. You made me beg for ten minutes of your time as if you were a goddess and I was a peasant. You enjoyed the power, didn't you? You loved seeing the 'Relentless George Serial' on his knees."
He leaned in close, his shadow towering over her, his voice a lethal whisper that sliced through the romantic decor of the suite.
"Welcome home, my Queen. You haven't entered a marriage; you've entered a lion's den. Did you truly believe I'd ever touch you? That I would ever satisfy the hunger I'm going to make you feel? From this moment on, you are a ghost in my house. I will give you the diamonds, the titles, and the front-row seats—but I will never give you me. You will live in my home, you will wear my name, and you will starve for my touch until you learn what it feels like to be the one begging. Look at yourself, Dolphine. You're standing there naked, and I have never felt more disgusted."
He turned his back on her, walking toward the door of the secondary bedroom with a chilling indifference.
"Don't bother waiting up. The bed is yours. The loneliness, however? That belongs to both of us now."