The words slice through me, but instead of fury, it ignites something darker. Our mouths are suddenly so close, breaths colliding, anger and heat knotting between us like a live wire. For a split second, I almost close the distance.
Almost.
Her pupils are blown wide, her chest rising fast, her lips parting as if she’s waiting for me to do it. The world shrinks down to this—her mouth, my hand on her throat, the promise of destruction if either of us moves an inch.
But I don’t.
I pull back first, slowly, deliberately, like a man in complete control. My face shutters cold again, calculated, untouchable.
“Careful, wife,” I murmur, finally releasing her. “Don’t mistake defiance for power. It won’t end well.”
The air between us is still charged, sharp as broken glass, but eventually the fire dims enough that we can breathe without tearing into each other. She presses her back harder into the wall, as if to ground herself, then finally speaks.
“I’m not quitting the clinic,” she says, her voice steady despite everything that just passed between us. “It’s important to me.”
I narrow my eyes. “Why? You don’t need the money. You don’t need the hassle. Why were you even working there?”
I expect a lie, an excuse. Instead, she lifts her chin, that proud defiance softening just enough for honesty to slip through.
“Because I’m saving for medical school,” she says quietly. “I had to quit after one year. I’ve been working every hour I can, putting money aside so I can go back.”
For a moment, I’m silent. The admission hits harder than I thought it would. I study her face—no mockery, no manipulation. Just truth.
I lean back slightly, my brows pulling together. “Medical school.” A beat. “I can pay for it.”
Her eyes flash, fierce again, but not with the same fire as before. Something rawer, more fragile.
“No,” she says immediately, shaking her head. “I’ve never taken money from anyone. I don’t want to start now just because I suddenly have a rich husband.”
Her voice softens then, the edge bleeding away, leaving something that twists deep in my chest.
“This is important to me,” she whispers. “Please.”
Her “please” lingers in the air between us, softer than anything she’s said all night. I don’t know what the hell happens, but something in my chest shifts, loosens, melts against my will.
I drag a hand down my jaw, trying to mask it with indifference, but the words slip out before I can stop them.
“Fine,” I say at last, my voice low, steady. “You can go to the clinic.”
Her brows lift, surprised, almost suspicious.
“But not without an escort,” I add firmly. “Wherever you go, you don’t step outside this house without my men. That’s not negotiable.”
For a beat, she just stares at me, like she’s trying to figure out if I’m tricking her. Then she nods slowly.
“Okay,” she murmurs. “If that’s the price, I’ll take it.”
Something eases inside me—strangely, dangerously. I don’t tell her that. I just lean back, keeping my expression cool, hiding the fact that her voice, that single word, almost feels like victory.
“Go get changed out of that dress,” I tell her finally, my voice sharper than I intend. The sight of her in white—mine, but not mine—does something I don’t want to name.
She presses her lips together, hesitates like she might argue, then turns and disappears into the bedroom.
I exhale through my nose, slow and controlled, and head into my office.
It’s a compact room tucked into the suite, lined with dark wood and a steel desk. The glow from the monitors washes over me as I sink into the chair. On the screens, the world divides neatly into grids of moving pieces. A courtyard. A driveway. A hall.
And then her.
