Zara was drowning.
Not in the champagne she sipped, not in the velvet luxury of Aiden's estate, but in the way he held the remote to her body like it was his personal symphony. And he played her with cruel precision.
Every vibration made her bite back a gasp. Every hum from inside her core reminded her that she was his—owned, watched, humiliated.
Camille, meanwhile, was doing what she did best—clinging to Aiden like a vine, whispering in his ear, brushing imaginary lint from his sleeve, her red lips curling with every passive-aggressive jab she aimed at Zara.
> "He still says my name sometimes," Camille said, loud enough for Zara to hear.
"Especially when he's mad. Isn't that right, Aiden?"
Zara felt her knuckles whiten around the glass.
> "That's cute," she said coolly. "I've heard dying things make noise too. Doesn't mean they're alive."
Camille blinked. Aiden smirked.
And then—
Click.
The pulse inside her spiked to brutal.
Zara clenched her thighs, eyes fluttering for half a second before she steadied herself.
> "Excuse me," she whispered, stepping away, desperate to breathe, desperate to stop shaking.
She didn't make it far before Aiden caught her. Not harshly — just enough to own her space.
> "You're not allowed to leave when you're being punished," he murmured.
"Unless I say so."
> "Camille is touching you like I'm invisible," she hissed.
> "And you're dripping like a ruined little thing in front of my enemies," he replied.
"You think I don't see how wet you are, princess? Think I can't smell it on you?"
Zara gasped.
Aiden pressed closer. His lips brushed her temple, soft as silk and twice as dangerous.
> "Don't pretend you don't like being ruined."
Then he stepped back — left her shaking and aching and still buzzing.
---
They arrived at the gala with the air of royalty.
And Zara? She wasn't walking in as Aiden's wife.
She was strutting in as a queen who remembered her crown.
Her dress clung to her body like sin. The silk was deep emerald, backless, with a slit up to the heavens. The faint shimmer of her collar caught the chandelier light, daring anyone to ask what it meant.
She stuck to Aiden's side for all of two minutes… until she saw Camille again.
This time, the woman was on his arm like she'd never left it. Laughing. Whispering. Glancing at Zara with that damn smug look.
So Zara walked away.
Straight into the lions' den — a circle of wealthy investors sipping bourbon and swapping stories.
And she lit up the room.
Her laugh was magic. Her eyes sparkled. She touched arms lightly, leaned in closer when they spoke. She made men forget their wives — forget everything but her lips and the curve of her waist.
> "You're stunning," one of them said, his voice thick with lust.
"What does your husband do again?"
Zara smiled slowly. "He breaks rules."
> "And you?" he asked, gaze sweeping over her.
"What do you do?"
> "I survive them."
She felt the boldness rising like wildfire in her chest. She plucked a business card from one man's breast pocket and tucked it into her clutch with a wink.
Another leaned in, phone in hand.
> "If you ever consider investments or side ventures," he said, tapping his screen, "I'd love to talk privately."
Zara took his phone, entered her number slowly, and handed it back.
> "Only if you play nice," she purred.
> "And if I don't?"
She leaned in close, her lips near his ear.
> "Then I'll make you beg."
Their laughter wrapped around her like confidence incarnate. Another investor joined in.
> "There's a tech summit in Milan next month. I have an extra pass."
> "Milan sounds tempting," she said, brushing imaginary dust from his sleeve — just as Camille had done to Aiden earlier.
> "Don't let Mr. Knight hear that," the first one teased.
> "Oh, he's watching," Zara replied with a sweet smile.
"I like it when he watches."
She turned her head — and there he was.
Aiden. Across the room.
Watching. Fuming. Possessive fury in every tight line of his body.
Good.
She raised her glass to him and took a slow sip.
Let him burn.
---