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The word—mine—should feel cold and possessive, like the arrangement we began with, but his eyes are warm and his touch is soft. Moments like this, and last night in bed when he held me close and looked at me like I was the only thing in the world that mattered, I almost believe this is more than our contracted agreement.
“Demolition is scheduled for Tuesday.” I force my voice to remain professional as his hand slides higher. “Nine a.m. The crew will be on site by seven. I’ve coordinated with the foreman, and I’ve arranged for a final walk-through on Monday evening to ensure the property is vacant.”
“Efficient.” His approval washes over me, heady as wine. “See? This is why I promoted you. Not just because you’re…”—he gestures vaguely at my body that he owns—“but because you’re capable. Because you make me look good.”
“Is that why you married me, too?” I can’t help the edge in my voice, the insecurity that leaks out, despite my best intentions. “Because I make you look good?”
His hand stills on my thigh, his expression shuttering. In an instant, the warmth vanishes, replaced by the cold distance that terrified me when we met. “Sophia,” he says quietly. “Don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Don’t push me.” He removes his hand entirely, standing and moving to his side of the desk. “This is not the first time we’ve had to go over this. By now, I’d thought the recurring sting on your ass would have taught you. I don’t tolerate being questioned for the sake of your insecurities.”
My insecurities?
His words sting, wielding the very insecurities he created by forcing me into this marriage. I’m about to snap back—and likely ruin my ability to sit comfortably this evening—when the door opens.
“Your afternoon pick-me-up,” Melanie purrs with a sultry voice, gliding into the room with a cup of coffee in her hands. She crosses the room, her eyes fixed on Vance as if I’m not present. Her hips sway as she rounds the desk to his side, only further drawing my attention to her skirt. It’s tight and short, ending inches above mid-thigh. The scant piece of fabric is more suitable for a night of dancing than any respectable office. But this isn’t a respectable office. This is The Ashford Group, and Melanie has clearly learned that her job security depends on factors that have very little to do with her administrative skills.
Her dark eyes flit to me for a moment, and I watch her with a hostility I can’t quite suppress as she brushes against him to set down the cup.
“Careful,” Vance instructs as the hot liquid sloshes dangerously close to the rim. He takes the cup before she can spill it, but something about the way he handles her so patiently makes an unexpected knot form in my chest.
Her hand catches the stack of files on his desk as she releases the cup, sending them cascading to the floor in a flutter of paper. “Oh no,” she gasps, her hand flying to her mouth in a gesture that’s entirely too theatrical. “I’m so clumsy. Let me get them.”
She bends over, and the already obscene skirt rides up even higher, exposing that she is bare underneath, blatantly putting every bit of her on display.
The air in the office turns to ice in my lungs. This isn’t flirtatious. She’s bent at the waist with the confidence of someone who knows this particular view has been appreciated before. It’s the move of a woman who’s been in his bed and wants to be back there.
The rustle of papers she’s supposedly gathering is overexaggerated to ensure she draws his attention. His eyes on the folder on his desk, Vance says nothing. But he has to see. It’s impossible to miss. And the fact that he doesn’t overtly look—that he doesn’t need to—speaks volumes. He’s seen it before.
My hands clench into fists in my lap so hard that my nails dig into my palms. I want to drag her up by her short black hair and remind her who wears his ring. But I don’t. I can’t. Vance would hate an outburst like that.
Lifting the cup, his expression neutral, Vance dismisses her, “Thank you, Melanie. That will be all.”
“Of course, Mr. Ashford.” She straightens slowly, placing the files on his desk and smoothing her skirt with a satisfied smirk in my direction. This wasn’t only about wanting him to see. This was about making sure I know she still has him. She exits with a sway of her hips, the door clicking shut behind her, and the silence that follows is heavy with everything I didn’t say.
Vance sips his coffee, his attention moving from the files on his desk back to me. “Where were we?”
“The demolition,” I manage, my voice clipped yet professional. I force myself to look at the folder in my lap instead of him. He didn’t give Melanie what she’d clearly been trying to provoke, and I should have been grateful for that. Instead, I’m unsettled by the actions of a man I can only assume has already seen everything she was offering. “Tuesday next week. I’ll be there for photos. Push the ‘happy Ashford family’ narrative.”
He stares at me, confusion flickering across his features at the sudden shift in my demeanor. “Sophia—”
“The permits are in order. The contractors are lined up. The PR team has drafted the press release.” I gather my files, futilely trying to hold it together. “Is there anything else you need from me, Mr. Ashford?”
“What’s with the attitude?” he asks, his expression hardening. “I know you, sweetheart. You’re angry.”
“I’m not angry.”
“No?” His eyebrow lifts as he leans back in his chair, watching me with unnerving calm. “Then explain why you went from sitting in my office, looking at me like you wanted to climb into my lap, to addressing me like I’m a stranger in the span of a few minutes.”
I say nothing, because how can I say what I’m thinking? You let her bend over in the middle of your office, with her whole fucking pussy on display. Then you dismissed her with a thank you while I’m sitting here wondering if you compare us when you’re inside me. If I say it out loud, I have to admit that I’m jealous, that I care, and no matter how hard I’ve fought it, I’m falling for him.
His gaze remains fixed on mine, as he runs a hand through his hair, frustration evident in every line of his body. “Sophia.”
“Nothing’s wrong,” I lie, pushing from my chair and walking toward the door. “I’m busy. I have actual work to do.”
I pause, my hand on the handle and one foot over the threshold with my heart hammering against my ribs. For a moment, I consider turning around. Tell him that I’m scared, that I don’t know how to trust him, and sometimes I can’t shake the knowledge that our marriage is nothing more than a fancy contract to make his blackmail legal. I contemplate admitting that I’m falling for him, and that the idea of him being with someone else makes me want to scream.
