Their first official public outing as husband and wife was deliberately low-key: a quiet Italian restaurant on the riverfront, tucked between high-rises and tourist traps. No red carpet, no photographers tipped off—just candlelight, linen napkins, and the soft clink of wine glasses from other tables. Raymond had chosen it for the privacy: dim corners, high-backed booths, a back entrance Marcus could monitor.
Alicia wore a simple emerald-green dress—knee-length, fitted at the waist, the first piece from the stylist Raymond had quietly arranged. It wasn't flashy, but the color made her freckles stand out like constellations and her eyes look darker, deeper. She felt exposed in it, but the way Raymond's gaze lingered when she stepped out of the bedroom had steadied her nerves.
They sat side by side in the booth instead of across—his arm draped casually along the back, fingers brushing her bare shoulder every time he leaned in to speak. The conversation flowed easy: her first impressions of the penthouse ("It still feels like a hotel"), his teasing about her toenail polish ("Burgundy again?"), shared laughter over the waiter's overly dramatic wine presentation.
For the first hour, it felt almost normal.
Then Raymond's posture changed.
He had been mid-sentence—something about Caleb's latest text from Australia—when his eyes flicked toward the bar. A man in a dark blazer sat alone, nursing a club soda, phone angled just so. Nothing obvious. But Raymond's jaw tightened.
Alicia noticed. "What is it?"
Raymond kept his voice low, smile still in place for anyone watching. "Don't look. Guy at the bar, twelve o'clock. Dark blazer, short beard. He's been watching us since we sat down."
She resisted the urge to turn. "Victor?"
"Probably one of his people. PI, most likely. Victor's not subtle when he's testing."
Alicia's stomach tightened. She forced a small laugh, as if he'd told a joke. "So this is what married life looks like? Bodyguards and spies?"
Raymond's hand slid from the booth back to the nape of her neck—firm, possessive. His thumb stroked the sensitive skin there once, twice.
"He's not getting near you," he said quietly. The words were calm, but the edge beneath them was steel. "Not tonight. Not ever."
She met his eyes. The candlelight caught the gold flecks in his irises, turned them almost feral.
"You sound possessive," she whispered.
"I am." No apology. No hesitation. His fingers tightened just enough to make her pulse jump. "You're mine now. Contract or not. And I don't share what's mine with anyone who wants to hurt you—or use you against me."
The air between them thickened.
Alicia swallowed. Heat pooled low in her belly—not fear, but something darker, hotter. She leaned in, lips brushing his ear.
"Then show me," she murmured. "Right here. Let him watch."
Raymond's breath hitched. His free hand found her thigh under the table—slid up slowly, stopping just beneath the hem of her dress. His palm was warm, heavy, possessive. He didn't go higher. Just rested there, claiming.
"Careful," he warned, voice rough. "You keep talking like that and we won't make it through dessert."
She smiled—small, defiant. "Maybe I don't want dessert."
His thumb traced a slow circle on her inner thigh. Her breath caught.
The man at the bar shifted—phone lowered slightly, eyes flicking their way again.
Raymond noticed. His hand tightened on her thigh—almost painful, deliciously so.
"He's still watching," Raymond said against her mouth. "Let him see how little I care about his games."
He kissed her then—slow, deep, unhurried. Not a quick peck for show. A claiming kiss. Tongue sliding against hers, hand cupping the back of her head to angle her exactly how he wanted. She melted into it, fingers curling into his shirt, body arching toward him instinctively.
When they parted, her lips were swollen, cheeks flushed. The man at the bar looked away—quickly, awkwardly.
Raymond's smile was slow. Dangerous. Satisfied.
"Better?" he asked, voice low.
Alicia laughed breathlessly. "Much."
He signaled for the check. "We're leaving. Now."
They didn't wait for change.
Marcus had the car idling at the back entrance. As they slid into the backseat, Raymond pulled Alicia onto his lap—straddling him, dress riding up her thighs. The partition was up; the windows tinted.
His hands gripped her hips, hard enough to bruise.
"You okay?" he asked again—this time softer, checking.
She nodded, forehead against his. "I'm okay. Because you're here."
He kissed her again—fiercer this time. Hands sliding under her dress, palms cupping her ass, pulling her tighter against the hard ridge of him.
"Mine," he growled against her lips.
"Yours," she whispered back.
The car pulled away from the curb, gliding into the night.
Behind them, the man in the dark blazer watched them leave—phone already to his ear.
Victor would hear about this.
And Raymond didn't care.
Because tonight—tonight—he had made one thing crystal clear.
Alicia was not just part of the contract.
She was his.
And no one would touch what was his.