Stella's POV
I saw a flash of surprise in Adam's eyes, followed by obvious displeasure. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly, but I knew him well enough to recognize signs of his annoyance.
*He's angry that I'm pretending not to know him. But what else could I do? I've worked so hard to earn my place here.*
"Miss Winston," he responded coolly, "the pleasure is mine."
The tension in the air was thick enough to cut. I maintained my professional smile, but inside I was a mess of conflicting emotions.
*What is he doing here? Has he come to see me?*
"Director," Adam suddenly said, his gaze never leaving me, "I think I'll stay here tonight."
My heart skipped a beat. *What? Is he punishing me for pretending not to know him?*
The director nearly jumped with excitement. "Of course, Mr. Lancaster! It's our honor! I'll arrange the best suite in the hotel. We must have a welcome dinner tonight—nothing too elaborate!"
"Acceptable," Adam nodded, then casually added, "Perhaps Miss Winston can show me to my room."
I felt my cheeks flush. "I'm afraid that's not possible," I said quickly. "I have costume designs to complete for tomorrow's shoot."
*Adam, why are you doing this? You know how important this job is to me.*
Adam turned to the director, his expression unreadable. "Director, does Miss Winston have time?"
"Of course she does!" the director exclaimed loudly, giving me a warning look that said *don't you dare refuse*. "Stella, please escort Mr. Lancaster to his suite. And you'll attend the dinner tonight too!"
I wanted to protest, but the director's expression left no room for refusal. Adam made a subtle gesture to Taylor, who nodded and stepped back, leaving me as Adam's only escort.
"Please lead the way, Miss Winston," Adam said, his voice carrying that dangerous tone I knew well.
With no choice, I moved behind his wheelchair and began pushing him toward the hotel, acutely aware of dozens of eyes following our departure.
\---
Adam's POV
I watched Stella fumble with the keycard to the presidential suite, her fingers trembling just enough to betray her nerves.
The door clicked shut behind us, and I didn't waste a second—my hand shot out, clamping around her wrist, yanking her onto my lap with a force that brooked no argument.
She landed in a sprawl, legs straddling my wheelchair, her sharp gasp filling the air as her wide eyes locked onto mine. Before she could protest, I crushed my lips against hers, one hand sliding to the back of her neck, pinning her in place, while the other gripped her waist, fingers digging into the soft curve there.
Her body jolted, but I deepened the kiss, my tongue claiming her mouth with a hunger I'd kept leashed too long. *This is what you get for pretending your husband's a stranger.*
For a heartbeat, she melted into it—her lips softening, her frame sinking against me, instinct overriding her defenses. My free hand roamed up her side, brushing the swell of her breast through her thin blouse, thumb grazing the hardened peak I could feel beneath.
A low growl rumbled in my chest as I pressed harder, cupping her fully, possessive and unyielding. Then lower—my fingers trailed down, slipping between her thighs, brushing her heat through the fabric of her skirt, teasing the edge of her panties with a deliberate stroke. She tensed, a muffled sound escaping into my mouth, and I tightened my hold, relishing the way she squirmed.
But then she stiffened, hands shoving at my chest, breaking the kiss. "Adam,"she panted, cheeks flushed, voice shaky, "we can't—not here—”
"Why not?"I demanded, my grip on her waist turning iron, pulling her tighter against me so she could feel every inch of my intent.
My hand stayed between her legs, fingers pressing against her warmth, daring her to push me away again. "I'm just greeting my wife. Or should I say, Miss Winston, who pretends she doesn't know me?”
She looked away, biting her lip, and I hated how it made me want to kiss her again. "You donated tens of thousands to the set a few days ago?"she asked, dodging the real question.
"Hundreds,"I corrected, voice clipped. *All because I couldn't stand seeing you shiver. Because your damn cough kept me up at night worrying.*
Her eyes widened. "Why the sudden interest in this production? I heard it was a private donation.”
I shrugged, casual as hell, even as my thumb traced a slow circle against her inner thigh, feeling the heat radiate through her clothes. "I had spare cash."*Because I wanted you comfortable. Because I can't stop thinking about you sick.*
"Miss Winston,"I said, emphasizing her maiden name with a dark edge, "you acted like I was a stranger before. Why so curious about my money now?”
She shifted on my lap, uneasy, her hips brushing against my hand in a way that sent a jolt through me. "I… I don't know how I'm supposed to act. How was I supposed to guess you'd show up wanting me to admit we're married—or keep pretending we're just… you know.”
*She thinks that little of me? After everything we've been through?* My fingers flexed against her, sliding higher, pressing firmly against her core through the fabric, and she sucked in a breath. "Just what?"I growled, voice dropping to a dangerous low.
She met my gaze at last, her expression a mix of defiance and vulnerability. "I don't know if you want me to play the wife or… or some mistress you keep on the side.”
Her words iced my blood. "Stella,"I said, slow and hard as steel, my hand stilling but not retreating, fingers splayed possessively over her breast now, squeezing just enough to make her flinch, "are you suggesting I'd want a mistress?”
*Does she really see our marriage as some convenient sham? A license for me to chase other women?* She didn't answer, but the flicker in her eyes—conflict, maybe jealousy—hit me like a punch. It pissed me off, but damn if it didn't feel good to see her care, even a little.
"Your silence speaks volumes, Mrs. Lancaster,"I said, voice cold as I kneaded her chest again, thumb flicking over her nipple through the cloth, watching her squirm. "Guess you're awfully generous with your husband.”
She wrenched free, slipping off my lap and standing, her sudden absence leaving my hands empty and my chest aching.
She crossed the room, flipping on the lights and cranking the heat, the hum filling the silence between us. "If there's nothing else, I should get back to work,"she murmured, already heading for the door.
*Stay. Explain yourself. Talk to me. Don't walk away like this.* I watched her go, fury boiling under my skin. I'd expected her to justify pretending I didn't exist, to apologize, to give me something. I was ready to forgive her, to understand her career concerns. Instead, she left without a backward glance.
I'd cut my Europe trip short, flown across the Atlantic, exposed myself to prying eyes—all to see her. And this was my reward? A cold exit?
The door clicked shut behind her, softer than a slam but louder than thunder in my ears.