Chapter 9 The Empty Bridal Suite
Maddie's POV
By midnight the guests had thinned, the band had packed up their instruments, and the garden looked like a fairy tale someone had carelessly abandoned. Fairy lights still twinkled in the trees, empty chairs sat in disarray, and half filled champagne flutes gleamed on scattered tables under the moonlight. My feet throbbed inside the crystal embellished heels I had worn all day, my cheeks ached from hours of forced smiling, and the weight of the entire exhausting day pressed down on me like an invisible burden I could no longer carry.
Ben found me near the fountain, slightly drunk, his tie hanging loose and crooked, laughing loudly with a cluster of his friends. The sound of their voices felt distant, as if I were watching the scene from underwater.
“There’s my wife,” he announced with exaggerated pride, slinging a heavy arm around my shoulders. The word wife hit me like a slap, sharp and unwelcome. His friends cheered and raised their glasses, oblivious to the way my body stiffened beneath his touch.
I endured another round of photographs, flashes popping in the dim light, another glass of champagne pressed into my hand that I did not want. Then Ben leaned in close, his breath hot and sour against my ear.
“I’m heading out with the guys,” he said, the words slurring just enough to reveal how much he had drunk. “Private after party at the club. Need to blow off some steam.”
I blinked, a confusing rush of relief and disbelief flooding through me. “You’re leaving? It’s our wedding night.” I had to say it so his friends won't suspect it's all fake.
He laughed, the sound low and bitter, cutting straight through the night air. “Come on, babe. We both know this isn’t that kind of marriage.” His hand slid down my back and squeezed my ass, possessive and crude in front of his friends. “But a man has needs. And since my lovely wife made it crystal clear she’s not interested in fulfilling them…” He shrugged, already turning away as if I were an afterthought. “Don’t wait up.”
His friends whooped and hollered, dragging him toward the waiting cars lined up along the gravel drive. I stood frozen by the fountain, the cool spray misting my skin as I watched the red taillights disappear into the darkness. Relief washed over me first, powerful and dizzying. Tonight, at least, I would not have to pretend with him. But humiliation followed close behind, hot and stinging. He had just announced to half his friends that our marriage was sexless before it had even properly begun, turning our arrangement into a public joke.
I slipped off my heels, the cool grass soothing against my aching soles as I carried them and padded barefoot across the silent marble floors of the sprawling house. The staff had vanished hours ago; only a few security lights glowed dimly in the vast hallways. The bridal suite waited on the second floor of the west wing, a ridiculous confection of romance that someone had clearly spent hours preparing for a couple deeply in love.
I pushed open the heavy door and stepped inside, shutting it behind me with a soft click. Leaning against it, I let out a shuddering breath. The room smelled overwhelmingly like a florist shop, heavy with the scent of hundreds of white roses. Petals had been scattered across the massive bed like fresh snow, candles flickered in glass holders on every surface, and a bucket of chilled champagne sat waiting on a silver stand. On the chaise lounge lay a negligee, white silk and delicate lace so sheer it was practically transparent, laid out like an invitation.
I laughed, the sound brittle and broken in the quiet room. All this effort, all this theatrical romance, for a marriage that's not even real.
I kicked the door closed harder than I intended, the bang echoing in the stillness.
Then I froze.
He was there.
Alexander stood at the far end of the room, half shrouded in shadow, his jacket discarded somewhere, shirt unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled up to reveal strong forearms. Moonlight poured through the French doors behind him, bathing his silhouette in silver and turning him into something almost mythic, dangerous and beautiful.
My heart slammed against my ribs so hard I could hear it in my ears. “How did you…”
“I own this house,” he said simply, his voice rough and low, like gravel under boots. “Every door opens for me.”
I should have screamed. Should have called for security. Should have done anything that made sense. Instead, my voice came out as a whisper. “You shouldn’t be here.”
“I know.” He took one slow step forward, then another, deliberate and unhurried, as if giving me every chance to stop him. “But I watched you marry my stepson today. I stood there in that church and let it happen.” His voice cracked on the last word, raw emotion breaking through the controlled facade he usually wore. “I can’t pretend anymore, Maddie. Not tonight.”
My back pressed against the door. There was nowhere to run. And deeper, more terrifying, no desire to.
Alexander stopped inches away, close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body, could smell the faint trace of his cologne mixed with the night air. His eyes were wild in the dim light, the gold flecks in them catching the moonlight and glowing like embers.
“I smelled him on you all day,” he said, the words low and dangerous, laced with something primal. “His hands. His mouth. And I wanted to rip him apart for touching what’s mine.”
The word mine sent a bolt of heat straight through me, pooling low in my belly.
“Alexander…”
“Tell me to leave,” he said, his voice raw and ragged, almost pleading. “Say the word, and I’ll go. I’ll walk out that door and let you have your year, your money, your freedom after. But if you don’t…” His hand lifted, hovering beside my cheek without quite touching, trembling with restraint. “If you don’t, I’m going to remind you who you really belong to.”
The air between us crackled with tension so thick I could barely breathe. My lips parted, but no sound came. I should tell him to go. Should protect the deal, my family, the careful plan that had brought me here. Should remember every reason this was wrong.
Instead, my tongue touched my lower lip, a small, unconscious movement.
And Alexander’s control shattered.
He closed the distance in a heartbeat, one large hand cupping my jaw with surprising gentleness, the other slamming against the door beside my head as his mouth crashed into mine.
The kiss was not gentle. It was hunger and desperation and months of denied wanting poured into one searing moment. His lips were firm and demanding, tasting faintly of whiskey and something darker. I felt the barely leashed violence in him, the possessiveness he had held back all day, now unleashed.
And God help me, I kissed him back like a woman drowning, clutching at his shirt, pulling him closer as if he were the only thing keeping me afloat. My fingers tangled in his hair, my body arching toward him without permission. Every reason I should stop dissolved under the heat of his mouth, the scrape of his stubble against my skin, the way his hand slid from my jaw to the back of my neck, holding me exactly where he wanted me.
This was madness. This was ruin.
And I did not care.
Not tonight.