The Laurent case file.
I don’t even remember reaching for it.
I drop it instantly, like it just burned through my skin.
“Fine.”
I snatch my glass and finish the vodka in one swallow. It scorches down my throat, but not enough to quiet anything.
Sylvester steps closer, voice low. “Is this really about punishing Henri Laurent…or Vivian?”
My jaw flexes.
“I’m punishing the name,” I bite out.
But the second the words leave my mouth, she flashes through my mind—Vivian Laurent in all her contradictions. That stubborn chin raised like she thinks she can challenge me. The slight tremor in her voice when she tries to hide fear. The blaze in her eyes when she forgets she’s supposed to be fragile.
I blink hard, shoving the image away like it’s an inconvenience.
A distraction.
A problem I refuse to acknowledge.
“I’m punishing the family,” I repeat, colder this time, even though she’s still there behind my eyelids, refusing to disappear.
As I drive home later that evening, my head is full of thoughts I refuse to indulge.
Vivian. Vivian. Vivian.
It’s been days since our wedding, and we’ve barely exchanged more than a glare and a few clipped words. Every time our eyes meet, she’s defiant, furious, stubborn as a storm. It makes me laugh—little minx. She’s fire in flesh, and I haven’t even begun to scorch her.
I arrive at the penthouse, press the elevator button, and wait. When the doors slide open—and I freeze.
A party is raging in my own home. My carefully maintained sanctuary of glass, steel, and absolute control has been invaded. Socialites swarm the space, champagne glasses in hand, skirts swirling, collars tight, smiles bright and practiced. Some of the women I recognize from charity events and galas, their names whispered like currency; the men are familiar too—deal-makers, influencers, opportunists who think proximity to me equals power.
Laughter ricochets off the walls. Music pulses from speakers I didn’t authorize. Waiters weave through the crowd, balancing trays of caviar and crystal flutes, while a cluster of the braver ones toast in my direction as if I were just another guest.
And in the middle of it all, the nerve—someone has set up a small dance floor. High heels click against my polished marble, syncing with the low thrum of bass. Women sway like they’re auditioning for the devil; men lean too close, their cologne and arrogance thick in the air. They flirt, they laugh, they touch—like my penthouse is some public lounge instead of the one place in this world that belongs only to me.
Then the crowd parts.
And Vivian steps through.
Red dress. Tight, sinful, soft satin that hugs every curve like it was stitched directly onto her skin. I get an instant hard-on—violent and inconvenient—because of course she picks tonight to look like a walking temptation.
Her hips sway like she knows exactly what she’s doing to me. Like she planned it. There’s a bold, challenging smile on her face, and a wine flute dangling from her fingers as she glides toward me with deliberate grace.
She doesn’t stop walking until her body is pressed against mine—breasts flush to my chest, hips aligned, breath warm. She loops her arms around my neck like she owns the right to touch me like this. And then she tilts her face up, lashes lowered in a look that would melt a weaker man.
“Why do you look so shocked, husband?”
Her voice is sweet venom. My hands twitch at my sides.
“What is this, Vivian?”
She shrugs, all innocent mischief and calculated rebellion.
“Just thought I’d throw a little party. You know…what a good wife would do. Uphold our reputation.” Her smile sharpens. “We wouldn’t want people thinking there’s an issue in our marriage, do we?”
