Ryan moved with a lightning-fast, predatory grace. He stepped directly in front of Sloane, his broad shoulders acting as a physical shield. He caught Emily’s wrists mid-air, holding her back while Sloane cowered behind him.
"That’s enough," Ryan snapped, his tone biting. He looked at Emily with a look of bored authority. "There’s no need for this scandal, Emily. Lower your voice before the guests start arriving. You’re overreacting."
"Overreacting?" Emily’s voice was a jagged whisper, her body straining against his hold. "You are protecting her? You are with her on our wedding morning?"
"I told you, Emily," Ryan said, his voice dropping into that terrifyingly calm register. "I love you. You are the woman who will lead my household. But I want Sloane, too. She provides something different. There is no reason I shouldn't have you both. It is a perfectly functional arrangement."
"You’re a monster," Emily spat.
Ryan didn't argue. He spun her around, pinning her back against the heavy oak door. He lowered his head, his mouth capturing hers in a hard, punishing kiss. Emily’s eyes widened, her hands trapped, but as his tongue swept into her mouth, she tasted it.
She tasted Sloane. The lingering, copper-sweet tang of the woman he had just protected.
A violent wave of nausea surged through her. With a guttural sound of revulsion, Emily found the strength to shove him back. Her hands hit his chest with a heavy thud.
"Disgusting!" she shrieked, her voice breaking. "You are absolutely disgusting!"
She turned and fled, her silk robe fluttering behind her like a tattered flag. She ran blindly down the long, carpeted corridor of the hotel, ignoring the confused glances of the staff. She reached her suite, slammed the door, and collapsed on the bathroom floor.
The cold tile was the only thing that felt real. She crawled toward the toilet and vomited, her body physically rejecting the betrayal. She sat there for what felt like hours, shivering against the porcelain, her mind a chaotic storm.
The bathroom door creaked open.
Ryan walked in. He didn't look angry anymore; he looked almost tender. He knelt on the floor beside her, his hands reaching out to brush the damp hair from her forehead.
"Emily," he murmured, his voice a low, soothing hum. "My beautiful, stubborn Emily."
"Leave me alone," she whispered, though she didn't have the strength to push him away.
"I won't," he said. He reached down and gathered her into his arms, lifting her from the bathroom floor as if she weighed nothing. He took her to the large, steam-filled walk-in shower.
He turned on the water, letting the warm spray soak through his expensive shirt and her silk robe. He was incredibly gentle, his hands carefully peeling the wet silk from her skin. He used a soft cloth to wash away the traces of the morning, his touch tender and slow. The warmth of the water and the steady,rhythmic movement of his hands began to dull the sharp edges of her pain. He didn't speak; he just held her under the spray, letting the steam wrap around them until she stopped shivering.
When they were dry, he carried her to the king-sized bed, laying her down against the cool, crisp linens. He moved over her, his weight a familiar, grounding pressure.
"You are the center of my world, Emily," he whispered, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin of her ear. "The only woman who truly matters. I love you."
As he moved over her, the room seemed to shrink until there was only the heat of their bodies. Ryan leaned down, his eyes dark and heavy with a focus that made her heart hammer against her ribs. When he finally joined their bodies, the first slow, deep press of him entering her felt like an anchor being dropped into a turbulent sea.
Emily let out a sharp, shattered gasp, her back arching off the mattress. Ryan groaned, a low, guttural sound of raw satisfaction that vibrated through her chest. He began to move with a steady, commanding rhythm, his hands gripping her waist, pulling her flush against him.
"I love you," he repeated, his voice thick with a passion that Emily allowed herself to drown in. She felt the heavy beat of his heart against her chest, the scent of his expensive cologne mixing with the salt of her skin.
Ryan seemed to lose himself in the friction, his movements becoming more urgent, more demanding. He buried his face in the crook of her neck, his breath hot and ragged. "You’re the love of my life, Emily," he muttered, sounding almost delirious with the pleasure of it.
He increased the pace, his body driving into hers with a fierce, relentless energy. Emily’s breath came in short, jagged hitches, her fingers tangling in his hair, then digging into hisbroad shoulders. She felt the world around her start to blur, the betrayal and the image of Sloane in the groom's suite being pushed further and further away by the sheer, overwhelming sensory overload.
She got lost in the heat, in the sound of her own name being breathed against her skin, and in the desperate, beautiful lie he was telling her with every motion. She needed to feel this. She needed to believe that this—this intensity, this fire—was the truth, and everything else was just a shadow.
When the end finally came, it was a blinding, all-consuming release that left her shaking in his arms, her vision swimming as she clung to him.
***
Later, as the fire died down and the distant sound of the wedding quartet began to tune their instruments in the ballroom below, Emily lay in the quiet room.
She realized the horrifying truth: she loved him. She was addicted to the power he wielded and the morsels of his attention he threw her way. She would rather have the fragments of his heart—even if they were shared, even if they were tainted—than have nothing at all. She couldn't go back to her old life. She couldn't be a nobody again.
Emily stood up and walked to the mirror. Her face was pale, but her eyes were hard. She dried her eyes, her movements precise and mechanical.
