FORTY

FORTY

We didn’t speak the entire ride back.

The silence between us was like fog—thick, dense, impossible to see through. Wesley kept his eyes on the road ahead, jaw tight, fingers tapping the wheel with that impossible stillness that always meant something inside him was unraveling.

When we finally stepped into the estate, I kept walking. Past the front doors, through the marble foyer, until the hallway narrowed and shadows grew tall on the walls.

Then I stopped.

“I’m not your pawn,” I said without turning around.

He didn’t respond. Just the sound of his shoes behind me, slow and deliberate.

I turned. “You used me.”

“Don’t start.”

“You made a show of it,” I hissed. “Like I was some trophy you stole off another man’s shelf. That kiss, the way you said I was yours—”

His eyes narrowed, sharp as a blade. “Would you rather I left you out of it? Let them think you still belong to him?”

“You could’ve said nothing.”

“You didn’t stop me.”

That made me flinch. I hated that he was right. I hated it more that a part of me had felt something in that moment. The heat of his lips near my skin. The possession in his voice. The way the room had gone still—like his words had drawn a line in blood and dared anyone to cross it.

“You said I was yours,” I whispered. “Was that for them? Or was that for you?”

His expression didn’t change, but something shifted in the air between us. He stepped closer, just once, closing the space like a pressure valve about to blow.

Then came his answer—low, calm, lethal.

“Did it bother you because it was fake—or because it wasn’t?”

My heart stuttered.

I opened my mouth, but nothing came out.

Because I didn’t know.

I wanted to scream at him, shove him, run, cry, anything—but all I did was stand there, staring at a man I couldn’t read anymore. A man who kept pulling me into his gravity just to watch me spin.

“You don’t get to twist this,” I said finally. “You dressed me up, paraded me around, kissed me like I was a brand you owned—”

“I didn’t hear you object.”

My hands clenched. “That’s not fair.”

He was closer now. Close enough that I could see the faint sheen of sweat at his collarbone. The way his pulse ticked in his neck. Calm as he looked, his body betrayed him. Every muscle was tight. Coiled.

“You want fair?” he said, voice dipping into something darker. “This isn’t a charity, Catrina. That was strategy. That was protection.”

“No,” I snapped. “That was ego.”

He didn’t deny it.

Just stepped closer.

And now he was inches away.

I could feel the heat radiating off him. Could smell the sharp mix of expensive cologne and adrenaline. My back hit the wall before I even realized I’d stepped back.

He didn’t touch me.

Didn’t have to.

His hands were braced on either side of the wall, caging me in with nothing but presence.

His breath ghosted over my cheek. “Tell me you didn’t like it.”

My voice caught in my throat.

“Tell me,” he said again, softer this time. “You didn’t feel a damn thing when I said you were mine.”

I hated him.

God, I hated how right he sounded.

My lungs burned.

“Does it matter?” I whispered.

His eyes dropped to my mouth. His own lips parted like he was about to say something else—something final.

But the words never came.

Neither of us moved. Neither of us breathed.

The hallway felt like it might collapse around us, the tension bending the walls inward.

He still didn’t touch me.

But I could feel him in every part of me.

And I couldn’t tell if I wanted him to back away—or close the distance completely.

He was close enough to kiss me.

But he didn’t.

And maybe that was worse.

His chest rose and fell with the same rhythm mine did—shallow, shaky, like we were both standing on a wire stretched too thin.

I could feel the wall behind me, cool against my spine. But in front of me, all I felt was him—heat, hunger, restraint. A barely contained storm wrapped in a tailored suit.

“You don’t get to act like I’m the one who crossed a line,” I said, quieter now. My voice trembled more than I meant it to. “You made me a symbol. And I let you.”

He blinked slowly, like he hadn’t expected me to admit that.

“Why?” he asked.

His voice wasn’t sharp anymore. It was low. Like velvet stretched over steel.

I hesitated. The answer pressed hard in my chest, but saying it felt like letting something out I wasn’t sure I could put back.

“Because part of me wanted to see if you meant it,” I whispered. “If you’d still look at me like I was yours when there wasn’t a room watching.”

His breath caught.

Just a flicker. A tell.

Then I felt it.

A shift.

He didn’t move his hands from the wall. Didn’t lean in. But the space between our bodies shrank like gravity decided it had waited long enough.

His hips brushed mine—subtle, unintentional maybe. But not soft. Not forgettable.

I felt him. All of him.

Hard. Undeniably aroused. And he made no move to hide it.

My breath snagged in my throat.

His voice dropped lower. “I’ve looked at you like that every damn day since the night I found you bleeding in my elevator.”

I shivered.

“I didn’t need an audience,” he added. “I needed you to see it.”

The words slid over my skin like silk and fire. I was shaking now, not from fear, but from the war inside me. Between memory and want. Between right and ruin.

His eyes searched mine, then flicked down again—to my lips, my throat, the neckline of the dress he chose.

He still hadn’t touched me.

But he didn’t need to.

I was already unraveling.

“You hate me,” he said softly.

“No,” I whispered. “I hate that I don’t.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw.

His hand moved.

Only slightly—trailing down the wall beside my shoulder, like he was resisting the urge to cup my face, or grip my waist, or pull me flush against him.

My voice cracked as I spoke. “You said it was a claim. That photo. That caption. Marco wants me back.”

Wesley’s eyes flared with something dangerous.

“Let him try.”

His hand clenched into a fist against the wall, just beside my head.

He was shaking now too.

His control—perfect, sculpted control—was starting to splinter at the edges.

And then he leaned in.

Not all the way.

Just enough for his forehead to press against mine.

That simple contact felt more intimate than anything he'd ever done.

“I’m trying not to touch you,” he said, his voice strained.

“Then don’t,” I whispered, even as my body leaned toward him without permission.

It wasn’t a challenge.

It was a plea.

Because if he did—if he kissed me, touched me, claimed me now—I wouldn’t stop him.

I couldn’t.

We stood there, tethered in silence, breathing the same air, thinking the same thoughts and pretending we weren’t.

And when he finally pulled back—slowly, reluctantly—I didn’t even try to stop the ache that filled me.

His eyes were still storm-dark.

But his voice was careful again. Controlled.

“Get some sleep,” he said. “We’ll talk more tomorrow.”

I nodded, mute.

He stepped away, finally.

The space between us rushed in like cold air. I almost staggered from the loss.

I waited until his footsteps faded down the hall before I exhaled.

And only then—when I moved toward my bedroom and began pulling off the black dress—did I feel it.

A tiny prick at the seam near my hip.

Curious, I turned the dress inside out.

And there, stitched into the lining—barely visible—was a small, metallic sliver the size of a pill.

A tracker.

The air left my lungs.