Page 25 of Vance

But as sleep pulls me under, dragged down by the weight of the day, I realize with a sinking heart that my body—traitorous and confused as it may be—might be seeking comfort from the very monster who claimed it.

And that is more terrifying than anything else that’s happened tonight.

The first light of dawn seeps through the heavy drapes, painting the hotel room in shades of pale gold and gray. It illuminates the wreckage of the night: my dress a pool of white silk on the polished floor, his clothes discarded with careless authority, and the sheets tangled around us, bearing the undeniable evidence of his possession. I am still cocooned in his arms, his body a furnace against my back, and his heavy, muscular leg thrown over mine, as his steady, warm exhales waft over my shoulder.

Every muscle in my body aches, and there’s a tender soreness between my thighs, a throbbing reminder of his size and stamina. But the worst pain isn’t physical; it’s the suffocating guilt sitting like an elephant on my chest. I hate him. I despise everything he represents and how he stripped me of my choices. My body, on the other hand, arched, begged, and shattered in his arms again and again. When I cried, it was in ecstasy, not anguish. I enjoyed what he gave me and craved more. And that betrayal, committed by my own flesh, is a far more intimate violation than anything he forced upon me.

I shift infinitesimally, trying to ease the pressure of his arm without waking him. His grip tightens instantly, a reflexive assertion of control. I lie still, a statue of resentment and self-loathing, listening to the city slowly come to life below us as his breathing changes, deepens, and then stops. I know he’s awake. I feel the subtle shift in his energy, the way his body goes from relaxed sleep to predatory stillness.

His hand moves from my waist, his fingers trailing up my side and tracing the curve of my ribs. The touch is light, but it sends a violent shudder through me. It’s not one of pleasure, but of revulsion and a terrifying, unwanted memory of how that same touch brought me to ecstasy just hours ago. I wrench myself away, dragging the blanket with me to cover my nakedness as I scramble to the far edge of the bed. Glaring at him over my shoulder, he looks utterly unbothered, a faint smirk playing on his lips as he watches me.

Even with that smug expression, he looks magnificent this early in the morning. Unfairly good. His dark hair is tousled, the normally styled locks hanging over his soft blue eyes. The sheet is pooled around his waist, revealing the deep V at his hips and the trail of hair drawing my eyes further down his body.

Sliding out of bed, I feel every bit of soreness I noted when I woke as I scan the room for my overnight bag. I find the battered canvas duffel near the door. Clutching the blanket tightly to my chest, I snatch the bag from the floor, stride past the bed, and into the bathroom, locking the door behind me.

My shower is scalding. I stand under the spray longer than necessary, futilely trying to scrub his touch from my skin. I dress quickly in a black sheath dress and a pair of black heels before pulling my slightly damp hair into a tight knot at the nape of my neck and applying a few sweeps of mascara.

When I emerge from the bathroom, Vance has risen from bed. He’s standing at the bar with his back to me, completely naked, pouring himself a glass of water. The muscles in his back and shoulders shift when he raises the glass, accentuating the marks I left down the length of his spine last night. The sight sends a fresh wave of heat up my neck and over my cheeks.

He finishes his water and sets it down with a soft clink before turning to face me. With every inch of him on display, he slowly closes the distance between us as his eyes rake over me. “This will not do.”

I follow his gaze to my slightly scuffed heels. “There’s nothing wrong with what I’m wearing.” The dress might be simple, but it’s well-fitted and professional. “Speaking of… Would you please cover yourself?”

He smirks, but ignores my small request for the basic courtesy of his modesty. Of which it appears he has none. “While you make that outfit look adequate, as my wife—and an Ashford—you will not be seen in such pedestrian attire. Your wardrobe is a reflection on me, and my family. I will not have it cheapened by outlet-mall bargains.”

The absolute nerve of this man.

I open my mouth to argue, but nothing comes out. As furious as I am, my words seem to vanish before I can give them a voice. Staring up at him, it’s as though I have forgotten how to form a single coherent thought. I close my mouth, and my jaw tightens as I struggle to find something—anything—to say.

My silence equates to a lack of argument—one I likely would not have won anyway—as he crosses the room and picks up his phone from the nightstand. His thumb glides across the screen before he lifts it to his ear. “Push the board meeting a couple of hours,” he instructs, his tone all-business. “Something’s come up.” He pauses as though he’s listening to the person on the other end. “No, just a personal matter. I’ll be in.” After ending the call, he tosses the phone onto the bed.

He turns back to face me, his gaze raking over me once more. “When I am dressed, we’ll get you something more appropriate to wear. Something more suitable for Mrs. Sophia Ashford.”

Vance takes a quick shower and dresses in a crisp white dress shirt under a well-tailored navy suit. After adjusting his cuff links and tightening his tie, he walks past me dismissively toward the door. I follow him out of the suite and down to the valet, where a sleek, black sports car awaits us. An obnoxious car that might as well be the Batmobile for how much it stands out. The drive through the city is a blur, and the silence between us is heavy. With his focus entirely on the road, he doesn’t speak or so much as glance in my direction. It’s as if last night never happened.

He pulls to a stop at the curb before a building of gleaming glass. There is no signage, just a discreet brass plaque beside a door. A valet materializes out of nowhere, opening my door with a deferential nod. By the time I manage to climb out of the car, Vance is on the sidewalk. He places his hand on the small of my back and guides me through the heavy glass door. Inside isn’t a clothing store, but a boutique that screams exclusivity and money.

The walls are a soft white, and the clothes are displayed like works of art, not crammed into overstuffed racks like a department store. It even smells expensive, light floral notes pumping through the air. I’ve only ever seen places like this in movies; it’s a world of wealth so extreme that it may as well be fictional.

“Mr. Ashford,” an impeccably dressed woman with a perfect smile croons when she approaches. “It is an absolute pleasure to see you again.”

Vance gives her a curt nod, his attention focused entirely on the displays. “She needs a new wardrobe.” His voice is clipped. “Business, social, and evening. Everything. Start from scratch.”

Her smile widens when her gaze flicks to me, giving me a quick, assessing glance to take in my current attire. “Of course, Mr. Ashford. We’d be delighted to assist…”

“Mrs. Ashford,” he answers for me before pulling out his phone and settling into a plush leather armchair in the center of the room. He turns his attention to me. “I’ll be watching, so please behave.”

Two assistants appear, their hands cool and professional, as they begin to measure every inch of me: my bust, my waist, my hips, my inseam, and my arm length. They measure things I didn’t even know needed measuring. I stand there, frozen, my arms outstretched, feeling like a mannequin being prepared for display.

“Silks that cling,” Vance instructs without glancing up from his phone. “Nothing that hides her curves. Necklines that plunge, but tastefully. I don’t want her to look cheap.”

The saleswoman nods, making notes on a tablet. “Of course, Mr. Ashford.”

“And lingerie,” he adds, his eyes finally lifting from his phone with a look that causes my skin to prickle. “The finest. I want my wife to feel the difference from the department store items she currently owns.”

Joke’s on him… The extent of my lingerie is an occasional matching set of bra and panties. Occasional being the key word.

“We just received new pieces from Paris that I think you’ll find quite… inspiring.”