The game’s mine, always mine, and wanting her is a loss I won’t take.
I shut the water off with a violent twist. Step out. Don’t need a towel. The air in the bathroom is humid enough to drink. I grab it anyway and wipe the back of my neck. Everything else can drip dry.
I move in silence through the private wing, the tile cold under my feet.
My room is a study in restraint. Leather. Charcoal. Obsidian. The fire pit at the center glows low, just enough to throw shadows across the floor. The bed—four-poster, custom, built like a fortress—sits untouched.
I pull on black lounge pants. No shirt. No bullshit.
I sit on the edge of the bed and reach for my phone. It’s where I left it, screen-down on the nightstand beside the hidden fingerprint scanner.
I flip it over.
Isabella.Not Bella. Not “wife.” Just the name on the contract. Clean. Distant. The way it needs to stay.
I type.
ME:Be ready by 6 a.m. tomorrow. You’re needed at the office. Meetings start at seven sharp. No delays, no excuses. Wear something that says Director, not hostage. Don’t fuck this up.
It’s cold, clipped, every word a wall, laying out her job—make Alya’s first day smooth, no chaos, no excuses. My thumb hovers then hits send, the screen glowing harshly in the dark.
Read.
But no reply.
Of course.
I stare at the screen longer than I should. The fire pops behind me. One log shifts. Still no message back.
She saw it. She’s choosing silence.
Good.
That’s how it should be. Clear lines. No confusion.
I start typing again. Can’t help it.
ME:Your car’s in Garage One. Aston Martin. Matte gunmetal. Fingerprint ignition. Manual’s in the glove-box. GPS set to the office. Try not to crash.
Send.
Read.
Still nothing.
No sarcasm. No eye-roll emoji. Not even a “K.” Just dead air.
She’s either angry or playing a game.
And I’m an idiot for caring which.
I toss the phone onto the bed beside me and scrub a hand over my face. This is how mistakes happen. Emotional slippage. You fuck once, you walk away. You fuck twice without protection, and suddenly, you’re picturing her in your house, at your table, wearing your ring like she belongs.
I glance toward the hallway.
Her door’s down the corridor. Past the library. Past the untouched piano she pretends not to notice.
I could check on her. See if the message landed. Hear her say something biting. Watch the way her lips twitch when she’s trying not to smile.
