Chapter 31 Temporary Joy

Chapter 31 Temporary Joy
Cillian’s hand slipped into mine secretly inside the elevator. The past few days felt like a dream I didn’t want to wake up from. Ever since we came home from London, he had been the perfect husband — soft kisses, warm hands, gentle words that melted every fear I carried. He was thoughtful, caring… and actually staying faithful to everything he promised me.

His thumb brushed my knuckles, and then he slid his hand down my skirt. Heat crawled up my spine so fast I almost dropped dead inside the elevator.

The elevator dinged, and I bit my lip to stop myself from giggling like a teenager with a crush. My husband was being sinful again.

He pulled his hand away instantly, switching back into “professional CEO mode.” That was the deal — no touching with people around. No slipping hands under skirts. No flirting. Basically, no fun.

Cillian threw one last dangerous glance at me before entering his glass-walled office.

“Someone seems very smitten,” Arman said, rolling his office chair into his cubicle and peeking over his monitor like a gossiping aunt.

I quickly pressed my finger to my lips, telling him to shut up.

Maria popped her head out right after. “So how was your not-so-fake honeymoon?”

Peace was illegal in this world. The gossip would haunt me anywhere I went, but at least Maria and Arman made the chaos fun.

“It was… so-so,” I lied.

“Liar,” Arman shot back.

My cheeks heated up, and I wished the office floor would swallow me whole.

Before they could grill me more, the intercom buzzed. I stood up straight like a student called to recite.

Cillian was wearing glasses.

Lord help me.

My heart revived itself, came back from the dead, and started beating like it was in a marathon. I tried to act properly. Like a professional. Like someone who didn’t ride her CEO-husband this morning.

But he didn’t make it easy. His navy-blue suit hugged him perfectly. His eyes looked bluer. His whole existence was illegal.

“Stop staring with your fuck-me face, wife,” he muttered the moment I walked in. His eyes dragged slowly from my legs up to my lips.

He walked toward me and placed a hand on my butt.

I slapped it right away. “Cillian. What did I tell you? Keep it cool in the office!”

“How can I, when you’re wearing this skirt? And didn’t I tell you to wear the red one?”

He dipped into my neck, smiling, and pulled me closer. His lips brushed mine softly — slow, warm, dragging — a kiss that lifted my heels off the floor and sent me floating.

“Dinner?” he breathed.

“Hmm.” I smiled like an idiot. This man’s kiss wasn’t just a kiss. It was a threat. A promise. A preview of what my legs would become later — weak.

“What time will we leave?” he asked, voice low. His finger slid over my nipple through my blouse, subtle but strong enough to make my breath skip.

“That depends.”

“On what?”

“On whether you think you can tell me what to wear and what to do.”

His smile softened — the kind that punched straight into my heart. He hadn’t given me that smile in so long. It reminded me of the first night we met.

“Forgive me,” he whispered, kissing me again, slower this time. “I just wanted you to wear my favorite outfit so I could admire my wife in it.” His lips dragged down my neck like he couldn't stop himself. “I didn’t mean to offend.”

“Do you really have to be so abrasive with me?” I whispered, his teeth gently brushing my jaw.

“Abrasive is who I am.”

No shit. Sherlock.
Cillian had always been rough around the edges. Never gentle by default. Somehow I crossed time and space only to find the exact version of him I hated and learned to adore.

He was born to rule.
And I was born to chase him.

“The man I shared the sheets with this morning was gentle, sweet, and loving,” I teased, sliding my hand up his shoulder.

“I’m not just a man, Sloane,” he said with a dramatic pout. “Call me husband.”

I laughed because he looked so cute I could cry.

He stared at me, waiting for my answer.

“I guess I’ll decline dinner, Sir,” I said.

His eyes narrowed. “Why?”

“This Cillian King Montgomery — the prick of a CEO — doesn’t interest me. Not even a little.”

His smirk turned dark. “Did you just call me a prick, wife?”

His eyes were pure mischief, tempting me to jump into his arms and let him ruin me.

I leaned forward and gave him a soft kiss. “Tell my husband I want to leave for dinner at seven.”

“Hm.” He savored my kiss like he was tasting something he wanted more of.

I turned to leave — only for him to pull me back and twist me into his chest, stealing one more kiss before letting me go.

“Oh, and Sir,” I added, pointing down, “zip your pants. They’re… bulging.”

His face froze.
I giggled and strutted away as he groaned behind me in pain.

By the time I got back to my desk, Arman was already sitting there, waiting.

“How did it go?” he asked, pretending to type nonsense on my keyboard.

I wanted to laugh. He reminded me so much of Lydia — my lady-in-waiting in my first life — always desperate to hear the details of my encounters with King Cillian.

Arman’s antics made me miss her a little less.

“Did you make him beg?” he asked.

“I’m so bad at this,” I sighed just as Maria leaned into my cubicle.

“Bad at what? Did you do something wrong?” she asked, worried.

I made a face. “I suck at playing hard to get.”

Maria smirked. “Aren’t we all?”

Arman stood up dramatically. “Speak for yourself.”

“Is either of you going to work today?” I asked, turning on my computer.

“So? Tell us,” they said, completely ignoring me.

“We’re having dinner tonight,” I said, acting casual.

Arman gasped. “WHAT ARE YOU WEARING?”

“This?” I pointed at my outfit.

“No. Absolutely not,” Maria said, her voice jumping with excitement. “We are making sure you wear something insanely hot.”

I groaned. I wasn’t a sexy-dress girl. I lived long enough to appreciate “less is more.” Modern times didn’t change me at all. My style remained simple and elegant.

“Girl, loosen up. This isn’t the ’60s,” Arman said.

Oh, I lived before that, I thought.

Back when people walked instead of taking taxis.
Back when owning a horse meant you were rich.
Back when buying a home brought security instead of worrying about stocks and markets.

Time kept changing — and somehow I stayed the same.

“I don’t know… this outfit seems okay. It’s just dinner.”

“And Elvis Presley is still alive,” Maria muttered, scrolling on her phone. “We got you.”

“What about that red dress?” Arman pointed at her screen.

“Perfect.”

No.
Why did I feel like something was about to go wrong?

Happiness for me always felt temporary.
Joy was fleeting.
And trouble liked to lurk around the corner.