"Domesticated."
I shouldn't push him. I know the rules. I know he is using me to destroy his father, just like I am using him to destroy Simon. But standing here in the dark, the adrenaline from the night making me reckless, I want to see how far the transparency rule actually goes.
Malcolm doesn't smile. He doesn't offer a sarcastic comeback.
He takes a half-step closer. The physical space between us vanishes. I have to tilt my head back to maintain eye contact.
"If I were domesticated," he says, his voice dropping to a low, rough murmur, "I would have let you keep your apartment. Iwould have hired a lawyer to sue Simon for your company, and I would have stayed in the shadows."
My pulse stutters. The air in my lungs starts to feel too thin.
"But you didn't," I whisper.
"No. I didn't." His eyes drop to my mouth again, lingering there for a second too long. "I brought you into my house. I put my grandmother’s ring on your finger. And I just spent the last hour imagining what would happen if I took you back to the penthouse and locked the door."
A hot, heavy flush spreads across my chest, burning all the way up to my cheeks.
He isn't playing the game right now. The cameras are gone. Simon is gone. This isn't a performance for the elite of Chicago. This is a confession, delivered with the cold, terrifying precision of a threat.
I open my mouth to respond, to say something witty and defensive, to remind him of the contract.
"Malcolm."
The voice cuts through the tension like a knife.
Malcolm’s gaze snaps up, the vulnerability vanishing instantly, replaced by a wall of absolute ice. He doesn't step away from me, but the shift in his posture is violent. He turns his head slowly.
I look past his shoulder.
Standing ten feet away, flanked by two men who look entirely too comfortable in their expensive suits, is Preston Vance.
He looks exactly like the photos I saw in the society pages, only older, and infinitely more dangerous. He has Simon’s jawline, but none of Simon’s weakness. His silver hair is perfectly styled.He is holding a glass of scotch, and he is looking at me like I am an insect that just crawled onto his dining table.
"Father," Malcolm says. His voice is dead. There is no inflection. No emotion.
"I was told you were here." Preston takes a slow sip of his drink, his eyes never leaving my face. "I assumed it was a mistake. You despise galas. And yet, here you are. Making a spectacle."
"I am supporting the arts," Malcolm replies smoothly.
Preston lets out a short, humorless laugh. He takes a step closer, waving off his two guards. They stay back, but their eyes remain fixed on Malcolm.
"You are making a point," Preston corrects him. He finally shifts his gaze from me to his oldest son. "Simon came to me twenty minutes ago. He was quite distressed. He told me a rather absurd story about you and his former... business associate."
"Fiancée," I correct him.
The word hangs in the air.
Preston’s eyes snap back to me. The sheer force of his glare is suffocating. I understand why Simon is so terrified of him. Preston Vance doesn't need to raise his voice to make you feel like you are about to be erased from existence.
"Excuse me?" Preston says softly.
My heart is hammering against my ribs, but I force my spine to straighten. I press my thumb against the side of my index finger, anchoring myself to the pain.
"I wasn't his business associate," I say, keeping my voice steady. "I was his fiancée. Until he stole my company and locked me out of the building."
Preston stares at me for a long, agonizing moment. Then, he looks at Malcolm.
"You brought a stray into the museum to embarrass your brother," Preston says, dismissing me entirely. "It’s petty, Malcolm. Even for you. I expect this kind of emotional theater from Simon, but you are supposed to be the rational one."
