Page 34 of Vance

“Like you’re the only thing in the world that truly frightens him.”

A brittle laugh rises from my lungs. “Vance Ashford isn’t afraid of anything.”

“Everyone is frightened of something,” Cora states softly. “Roman was afraid of dying with nothing but money to mark his existence.” She pauses. “Vance is worried he’s exactly like his father. That he’ll destroy everything he touches. Including you.”

The waiter arrives to clear our plates, and Cora sits back, her mask of composure sliding into place perfectly. We make small talk through dessert—about Kierra’s classes and an upcoming charity gala—and I keep my expression pleasant, answering when expected and letting the conversation carry us through the rest of the meal.

The Mercedes glides through the darkened streets, the city lights blurring across the tinted window. I stare out of it, watching the world pass by in a dreamlike haze as Cora’s words replay in my head.

Is it possible?

The question haunts me, persistent and unwelcome. Is it possible to be happy in this gilded cage? To find contentment in a marriage built on coercion and blackmail? To love a man who is cold and heartless? A man who pushes me to surrender in ways I never thought I could or would ever want to.

My thoughts drift to Melanie’s hand on his shoulder and the jealousy that burned through me like acid. I shouldn’t care. I shouldn’t feel anything for him beyond resentment and the reluctant pleasure he forces from my body. But I do. I care that he might want someone else. I care that he sees me as a possession, rather than a partner. I care that he doesn’t believe in love.

The car pulls up to the penthouse building. I thank the driver and step into the lobby, my heels clicking against the floor as I cross to our private elevator. The ride is endless, my reflection staring back at me from the mirrored walls—a woman I barely recognize in clothes that cost more than my monthly rent used to be.

When I enter the penthouse, it’s dark and empty. I head straight to the bedroom and strip off my dress and lingerie—the version Vance wants me to be. I stand naked in front of the mirror and study the marks he’s left on me—faint bruises on my hips from his fingers, teeth marks on my inner thighs, and his handprints on my ass. My body responds to the memories of their placement even as my mind rebels.

I hate him. But I want him.

I fear him. But I crave him.

I pull on one of his shirts—an expensive dress shirt that still smells of him—and climb between the cool sheets of our vast, empty bed. I stare at the ceiling, waiting for sleep that doesn’t come. It never does, not anymore. Not since I became a prisoner in a loveless marriage that might—just might—be becoming something else.

My phone buzzes on the nightstand. I reach for it, expecting a text from Kierra or an email from work.

Instead, it’s Vance.

VANCE

Meeting’s running late. Don’t wait up.

I stare at the message, reading the subtext between the sparse words. He’s letting me know, acknowledging my existence even in his absence. It’s a small thing—a crumb of consideration from a man who takes what he wants from me without asking—but it feels significant. It feels like every bit of what Cora thinks we could be. What I think we could be.

Be careful.

I hit send before I can stop myself, the words far too tender—too wifely—for this arrangement. I wait for his response, a mocking reply that he doesn’t need my concern because he is invincible and above the petty worries of lesser mortals.

But none comes.

The Sterling is one of the few places in Chicago where I can enjoy a drink without being interrupted every thirty seconds by someone wanting something from me. The clientele understand discretion, and the staff understands silence.

Instead of drinking my bourbon, I swirl the liquor beneath the amber lights of the bar, watching it move in the glass as I turn it slowly between my fingers. There is something almost hypnotic about the way the liquid catches the light before disappearing again into shadow. Normally, I find a drink here to be calming, but tonight, my thoughts are flooded with the persistent, unwelcome distraction of my new wife.

After pulling out my phone, I send her a quick text.

Meeting’s running late. Don’t wait up.

The barstool beside me groans under new weight. “Drinking alone, brother?” Beckett lazily drawls as he finally takes his place beside me. “Shouldn’t you be at home, playing house with your newest acquisition?”

“She’s not an acquisition.” I take a sip, mulling what Sophia actually is, as the amber liquid burns down my throat. “She’s strategic and, for all our livelihoods, a fucking necessity.”

Baldwin slides into the empty stool beside me, mirroring his twin on my left, right down to the mischievous grin. “That necessary strategy you’re fucking is costing us a fortune. We could be starting demolition on the South Side by now. Instead, we’re waiting for your wife to draw them out with fresh-baked cookies.”

I set my glass down with a rough clink, causing the bartender to turn. “The plan is proceeding, and at most we’ve pushed the timeline by a few days. Everything is fine.”

“Is it? Because, like Baldwin said, we should be starting demolition by now,” Kaden adds, but there is no mistaking the accusation underneath it when he slides onto the stool beside Beckett. I lift my gaze from my glass to find him watching me, his expression hard and impatient.