Chapter 16 Strings and Spotlights.
Chloe’s POV.
I stared at the glowing screen for another heartbeat, Margaret’s elegant M burning behind my eyes, then deleted the message and slid the phone into the pocket of my blazer. Without looking at Liam, I walked straight past him into the bedroom. The air felt thick and charged with everything we were not saying.
He followed a step behind, the heat of his body brushing my back. “Chloe.” His voice was low and careful, just like the way someone speaks when they know the ground is mined.
“Not tonight,” I said flatly, not turning around. I kicked off my heels, shrugged out of the blazer and climbed into the enormous bed fully dressed. The sheets were cold against my skin and I pulled the duvet up to my chin like armor.
For a long moment, he stood in the doorway, shirt hanging open, belt dangling loose and watching me. I could feel the weight of his stare, the questions he wasn’t asking and the hunger he wasn’t acting on. Then the light in the hallway clicked off. I heard the soft thud of cushions as he settled on the couch for the first time since Paris. The distance between us had never felt wider.
Sleep didn’t come. I lay rigid until the sky outside turned the color of weak coffee, then slipped from the bed, padded barefoot to the kitchen, and powered on the spare burner I kept hidden behind the protein powder.
Olivia answered on the first ring. “Tell me you’re safe.” “I’m breathing,” I whispered. “Margaret just threatened Mia again. Please, Olivia, I need you to trace the blocked number that sent the photo and cross-check every payment or movement linked to yesterday’s spa trip.
I need to know if Liam was part of it.” “Already on it,” she said. “Also, the patent story is everywhere. Stock’s swinging like a drunk on ice. Liam’s PR team is pushing the ‘disgruntled ex-employee planted fake documents’ line and scrubbing the worst posts. Give it twelve hours and half the internet will believe it was a hoax.”
“Let them,” I said. “I have bigger problems.” By the time Liam emerged from the living room at six-thirty, hair tousled, eyes bloodshot from calls that had clearly lasted all night, I was dressed in a charcoal pencil skirt and silk blouse, hair in a sleek knot, armor back in place.
He stopped in the doorway, taking me in. “The Vanity Fair shoot is at eleven,” he said, voice rough. “Rooftop in SoHo. We give them the fairy tale; we buy breathing room. The world sees us happy, the board backs off and Margaret loses momentum.”
I met his gaze in the mirror while I fastened an earring. “Fine. But the photographer is Olivia’s friend Lena. She’s bringing me something. You don’t ask what.”
His jaw flexed, but he nodded once. The rooftop was a dream of white marble and winter sunlight. A stylist draped me in a backless silk gown the color of fresh cream, the fabric clinging to every curve before spilling into a short train.
Liam wore black Tom Ford, the cut so perfect it looked painted on. The crew cooed over us like we were actual royalty.
Between shots, he was the perfect fiancé: palm resting possessively at the small of my back, lips brushing my temple and murmuring compliments loud enough for the assistants to hear. Cameras flashed and hashtags multiplied.
The moment Lena called for a wardrobe change, Liam followed me into the private dressing trailer and locked the door.
The second the lock clicked, he had me pinned against the full-length mirror, one hand braced beside my head, while the other was sliding up the slit in my gown. His fingers found bare skin above my stocking and kept going.
“So had it been that I didn’t come up with that fake contract yesterday,” he growled against my ear, “you were going to leave me for Voss. Say it.”
I twisted, grabbed a fistful of his hair and yanked his head back hard enough to make him hiss. Then I crushed my mouth to his, biting his lower lip until I tasted copper. When I pulled away, his pupils were blown wide.
“I still might,” I breathed.
Something feral flashed across his face. He lifted me onto the vanity in one motion, makeup brushes clattering to the floor. My legs wrapped around his waist on instinct. The silk gown bunched at my hips as he shoved it higher.
There was no gentleness this time. His belt buckle clinked, and his zipper rasped and then he was inside me in one brutal thrust that stole my breath. I arched, nails raking down the back of his neck, and he groaned into my throat.
He fucked me like he was trying to brand ownership into my bones: hard, fast, and punishing. The mirror rattled against the wall with every snap of his hips. My head fell back; he bit the exposed line of my throat and sucked a fresh mark just above the gown’s neckline where the camera would catch it later.
“Mine,” he snarled, fingers digging into my thighs hard enough to bruise. “Say it.”
I clenched around him deliberately, watched his eyes roll back, and whispered, “Never.”
He came with a guttural sound, burying himself deep, pulsing hot inside me. I followed seconds later, biting his shoulder through the tux to muffle my cry.
When we could breathe again, he stayed inside me, forehead pressed to mine, both of us trembling. Slowly, he pulled out, fixed my lipstick with his thumb and tucked his cock away.
“You can fight me all you want, baby,” he said, voice hoarse. “You’re still wearing my ring even till tomorrow.”
After that, we changed our clothes and went for another shoot.
Lena slipped me the new burner and a tiny USB drive during the next wardrobe change, her fingers brushing mine in silent support.
Margaret arrived forty minutes later like a queen granting an audience. Pearls, a camel coat, and a smile sharp enough to cut glass. The crew melted for her; she air-kissed Liam and cooed about “family unity” for the spread.
She waited until the stylist stepped away, then crooked a manicured finger at me. “A private word, darling.”
The powder room smelled of orchids and money. Margaret shut the door with a soft click.
“I always knew you were clever,” she said, voice honey over poison. “But climbing into my grandson’s bed won’t make you an Astor. Walk away now with a generous settlement and save yourself the public humiliation when the truth comes out.”
I smiled, sweet as saccharine. “My love for your grandson can’t be bought, Margaret.” Then I leaned in. “But I do have a little surprise for you.”
I played the recording: her own voice threatening to pull my mother’s funding and to frame my father again. Her face drained of color so fast I thought she might faint.
She recovered quickly. “You think that frightens me? I have friends in places your little mind can’t imagine. One word and your mother’s machines mysteriously fail.”
My thumb had already hit record on the new burner in my pocket and I got her.
Margaret swept out to the showroom with a serene smile, kissing Liam’s cheek on her way to the backdrop. “Enjoy the spotlight while it lasts, darling,” she murmured to me as she passed.
The shoot wrapped at golden hour. Liam and I posed one final time: him behind me, arms around my waist, chin on my shoulder, both of us smiling like the world wasn’t on fire.
In the SUV home, he pulled me onto his lap the second the partition rose. His mouth found my neck, hand sliding under the silk again, seeking the heat he’d left earlier. I caught his wrist immediately.
“Not until I know whose side you’re really on,” I said quietly.
His whole body went rigid. The city lights streaked across his face, but he didn’t answer.
Back at the penthouse, I kicked off my heels and pulled the new burner from my clutch. Olivia had already sent a file. I opened it while Liam poured drinks I wasn’t going to touch.
The offshore account was opened three weeks ago in the Cayman Islands. Signatory: Brian Luis. My stomach dropped. Liam’s phone rang at the same moment. Brian’s name is on the screen. He answered on speaker, still in his tux, tie loose.
“Margaret just wired five million to an account in Chloe’s name,” Brian said, sounding panicked. “She’s framing her for blackmail. I’m trying to freeze it.”
Liam exploded. “Find the routing number now, Brian! Shut it down!”
I turned the burner so he could see Olivia’s proof. Brian’s name, his signature, his account.
The color drained from Liam’s face. He looked at me, then back at the phone. “Explain the offshore account, Brian.”
He went silent and then gave a cold, amused laugh. “You think you’re the only one who can play games, bestie? Margaret promised me the CEO when you finally crash. Chloe was always going to be the perfect fall guy. Enjoy the ride down.”
The line went dead. Liam stared at the phone like it had grown teeth. “I didn’t know,” he said, voice raw. “Chloe, I swear on my life, I didn’t know.”
My own phone buzzed on the marble counter. It was an unknown number that sent one new photo.
That's Mia tied to a wooden chair in a dim room, mouth gagged with silver duct tape, tears streaking her cheeks, and eyes wide with terror. The caption underneath made my blood stop.
Bring the girl to the Astor Estate tonight alone, or the little sister becomes a tragic accident. – M
The phone slipped from my fingers and shattered on the floor. Liam was across the room in two strides. He saw the screen and, for the first time since I’d met him, the untouchable Liam Astor looked genuinely and completely terrified.