The realization hits with unexpected force. Elena Lawrence—Elena Sharov—is standing in my office at two in the morning, jealous over women who meant nothing, who never came close to what she is.
Something dark and possessive unfurls in my chest.
“You’re jealous,” I say quietly.
“I’m angry.”
“You’re both.” I move around the desk, closing the distance. “You’re angry that I had a life before you. That other women existed. That you’re not the first.”
“Stop—”
“You are the first, Elena. The first one who matters. The first one I married. The first one I kept.” I’m closer now,watching her pulse jump in her throat. “Every other woman was temporary. Forgettable. You’re permanent.”
“That doesn’t make it better,” she whispers. “That makes it worse.”
“Why?”
“I hate what you’ve done, what you represent, how you’ve taken everything from me. I should be relieved that this is just—just a transaction. That you don’t actually want me beyond ownership.”
“Who said I don’t want you?”
Her breath catches. “You sleep on the couch. You barely touch me. You maintain this careful distance like—”
“Like I’m exercising restraint,” I interrupt. “Like I’m giving you time to adjust before I take what’s mine. Like I’m trying to be patient when patience isn’t something I’m good at.”
I’m directly in front of her now. Close enough to see her pupils dilate, to smell the faint scent of soap from her evening shower, to feel the heat radiating off her skin.
“I don’t want your patience,” she says, voice shaking. “I don’t want anything from you.”
“Liar.”
“I’m not—”
“You are.” I reach out, grip her chin, force her to meet my eyes. “You want me to want you. Want proof that this isn’t just strategy, that you matter beyond legal contracts and territorial alliances. You’re jealous because you think other women had something you don’t. When the truth is the opposite.”
“That’s not—”
“Prove it, then. Push me away. Tell me to leave and mean it.”
She stares at me, fury and confusion warring across her face. Her hands come up, press against my chest. For a moment I think she’ll actually do it—actually shove me back and end this.
She doesn’t push. Just rests her palms there, feeling my heartbeat, her breathing rapid and uneven.
“I hate you,” she whispers.
“I know.” I release her chin, only to tangle my hand in her hair instead. “Hate me all you want. It changes nothing.”
The tension snaps.
I don’t know who moves first. Doesn’t matter. My mouth is on hers, hard and demanding, swallowing her gasp. Her hands fist in my shirt instead of pushing away, pulling me closer even as she makes a sound that might be protest.
I back her against the desk, hands on her waist, lifting her onto it with one motion. She gasps into my mouth but doesn’t fight, doesn’t push away. Her legs part automatically, letting me step between them.
I pull back just enough to look at her. Her lips are swollen, hair mussed from my hands, the robe gaping open to reveal the nightgown underneath. She’s breathing hard, eyes bright with something that isn’t fear.
“Last chance,” I tell her. “Tell me no and I’ll walk away.”
Her jaw sets. Defiant even now.
