I broke. Hot cum spilled across her tongue and lips. She didn’t flinch. Just knelt there, still. Waiting.
I laughed, breathless. “Look at you,” I whispered. “You wear me so well.”
I sat on the edge of the bed and pulled her into my lap—not because she needed it, but because I wanted to feel her tremble against me.
Chapter 16
Julian
The low, steady hum of the injection molding machines was a symphony of efficiency. I found the sound calming—the sound of things being made, of plans becoming tangible. I’d been visiting this place since I was a toddler. My mother, Vivienne, would set me on a cleared workstation with a stack of blueprints to scribble on while she walked the floor. This factory wasn't just an asset; it was my nursery.
I walked the floor now with the weight of responsibility. It was my job to make sure my family's wealth stretched on for another few centuries—or until the other 99% decided to eat the rich. I was maintaining a legacy, brick by brick.
I spotted a familiar face. “The seam alignment on the new dual-density line is perfect, Anya,” I said, stopping by a quality control station.
The woman looked up, startled, then broke into a proud smile. “Thank you, Julian. The new calibrator made all the difference.”
“Good. Tell your supervisor to put in for the team bonus. You caught the flaw in the prototype—that saved us six figures in recalls.”
I moved on, Quinn half a step behind me. This was the part I liked,the mechanics. The people who made the vision real. Theproblems here were material, logistical, and solvable. Not like the messy, human-shaped problem festering back at the hotel.
“You’re in a hurry today,” Quinn observed.
“I am,” I confirmed, pushing open the door to my onsite office. “Elara’s asleep back at the hotel. I want to be back before she wakes up.”
Quinn didn’t react, but I could feel his silent judgment. Julian Hale, rushing through a factory inspection for a woman.
“We have the investor call at three,” he reminded me.
“Reschedule it. Tell them I’m dealing with a supply chain crisis. It’s not a lie.” I leaned against the desk, crossing my arms. The adrenaline from finding her barefoot on that curb had settled into a cold, focused fury.
“What’s the real crisis?” Quinn asked.
“The crisis is that a spineless, entitled waste of carbon is still legally tethered to what’s mine.” I kept my voice even as I told Quinn everything… the dinner, the emerald necklace, the mistress’s grand entrance, and the old man’s decree.
Quinn absorbed this. “That seems… favorable to her.”
“It is. But the fact that Alastair Ashworth still breathes the same air is not. He grabbed her. Again. He told her there wouldn’t be a divorce. That she’shis.”
I had to unclench my teeth to continue. “I’m going to force the divorce,” I said, the plan crystallizing. “And then I’m going to ruin that family.”
I moved to the desk, pulling up the digital copy of the Ashworth-Esmé contract. I zoomed in on a dense subsection near the end.
“The morality clause,” I said, tapping the screen. “No party shall engage in conduct that brings the other into public disrepute, scandal, or ridicule. He didn’t read it.”
“Who reads the morality clause in a sex toy contract?” Quinn asked.
A grim smile touched my lips. “Cheating on your wife—the face of the brand—with a pregnant mistress? That’s a material breach. Once it’s made unavoidably public, the penalty is two million in liquidated damages. It won’t bankrupt them immediately, but the loss of our partnership will hit them for millions more. It’s a nice start. And I’ll take his wife in the deal. Nobody will blame her for leaving him after this.”
The elegance of it was beautiful. Using Alastair’s own predictable behavior to eviscerate him.
“I want proof,” I said to Quinn. “Photos. Timestamps. Evidence of the affair that a blind man couldn’t deny. Somebody at that dinner recorded what happened. Find it.”
Quinn gave a rare, imperceptible smile. “So, to be clear, your plan is to bankrupt the man and then marry his ex-wife.”
“That’s the short version.”
“Poetic,” he deadpanned.
