The Temptation of Control
The outfit felt more substantial than it ought to have. Every inch of the silky material that adhered to my body was expertly crafted, as though it were intended to shape me into a different person. Someone who was a part of Damian Wolfe's universe.
I didn't.
But here I was, facing his penthouse's gilded mirror, my reflection revealing the internal conflict I was experiencing.
The gala. I would have to pretend that I wasn't just another piece in the billionaire's game by standing next to him and playing the part of his wife on another occasion.
"Stop fidgeting."
His authoritative, low voice broke the stillness.
Damian was leaning against the doorway, observing me with those enigmatic blue eyes when I turned around. In his fitted black suit, he appeared flawless, with every part of him powerful, in control, and incredibly deadly.
His slow, methodical look dragged over me. It was like a touch to me.
The atmosphere between us grew very dense.
I added, "You’re staring," and I detested how my voice grew softer.
He didn't dispute it. "It’s hard not to."
I forced myself to ignore my heartbeat as I swallowed. "I assume you didn’t come here just to admire your work."
His lips formed a ghost of a sneer. "No. To remind you of the regulations, I arrived.
Regulations. Naturally.
I raised my chin. "I'll venture a guess. Don't make you look foolish. When it's required, smile. Don't I say anything?"
The distance between us dwindled as he moved closer. "Something like that." His featherlight yet firm fingers brushed my wrist. "And, Lyra…" He spoke in a low, almost menacing tone. "Don’t let them think they can touch what’s mine."
I felt a gloomy sensation in my chest. "I’m not yours."
His hold tightened just enough to cause my breath to catch. "Aren’t you?"
I didn't respond.
Because I was afraid of the truth.
The gala was a dazzling display of money and influence. The exquisitely attired audience was bathed in golden light from crystal chandeliers that dripped from the ceiling. The air was filled with the clinking of glasses, courteous discussions, and laughter.
It didn't matter, though.
Not with the man next to me making me hyper-aware.
As we walked in, Damian's palm lightly touched my lower back, making a nonverbal assertion and warning anyone who tried to stare at me for too long. I should have been offended. Rather, it chilled me to the bone.
He whispered, "Smile," as his lips touched my ear's shell. "They’re watching."
Yes, I did. since it was the anticipated outcome.
But every look and every whisper weighed heavily on me.
The wife of Damian Wolfe.
It was Damian Wolfe's.
I couldn't decide which title I detested the most.
A waiter came over with champagne. Damian grabbed the glass before I could reach for it.
I scowled. "Are you seriously controlling what I drink now?"
He had an annoying sneer. "No. All I want to do is give you things myself.
I wanted to yell at him and let him know that I didn't need his help.
However, as he gave me the glass, his fingers touched mine.
Words felt pointless all of a sudden.
Damian posed a threat in numerous ways. However, this? The worst of it was this.
The fact that he was able to control me without using force. The way my rage was destroyed by a single touch.
I ignored the knowing expression in his eyes and took a sip.
I was so frantic to put some distance between us that I remarked, "You should go speak to some of your business partners,"
"I’d rather stay here."
"Damian—"
"Stay close to me, Lyra."
There was no request.
However, someone came up to us before I could argue.
He was a tall, self-assured man with sharp features and a smile that stopped short of his eyes.
The man said, "Damian Wolfe," in a silky voice. "Still making the rest of us look bad, I see."
Damian maintained a comfortable stance, but his eyes were piercing. "Jameson."
Jameson. I knew the name. One of Damian's rivals. A man who was as charming as he was merciless in business.
His eyes flitted to me, his face shining with curiosity. "And this must be your lovely wife."
He said it in a way that I detested. As if I were just another acquisition of Damian's.
He was not corrected by Damian.
Jameson held out his hand. "A pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Wolfe."
Before I could answer, Damian said something.
"I don’t share," he murmured calmly, his hand barely tightening enough around my waist for Jameson to see.
Jameson laughed, obviously amused. "Still as possessive as ever."
Damian's eyes did not meet his smile. "Only with things that belong to me."
I ought to have retreated. I ought to have reminded him that I wasn't his.
But I hesitated because of the way Jameson was staring at me as if I were a trophy.
I therefore allowed Damian to hold me.
For the time being.
The night dragged on. Conversations became hazy. Damian never left my side, never left my side. His presence was overwhelming and mesmerizing.
Then it took place.
A dance.
It was unexpected. I didn't think he would grab my hand and usher me onto the dance floor.
Abruptly, though, I found myself in his arms.
The landscape faded into a whirl of shadow and gold as the music surged around us.
He whispered, "You hate this," as his warm breath touched my ear.
"I do," I said.
He grinned. "And yet, you’re still here."
Hating how correct he was, I took a deep breath. "I didn’t have a choice."
"You always have a choice, Lyra." Slowly and deliberately, his fingertips followed the contour of my spine. "You just don’t want to admit that you want this."
I tensed up. "You’re insufferable."
"And yet, you’re still in my arms."
He's a jerk.
The worst thing? He was correct.
Because there was something about him that made it impossible to leave, no matter what—the lies, the control, the games.
The song came to an end. He didn't let go, though.
Not immediately.
We stood there for a single second, trapped in something too perilous to identify.
Then the moment was broken by a voice.
"Damian."
My blood raced cold as I turned.
Wolfe, Victoria.
The mother of Damian.
She watched us with cold amusement from the edge of the dance floor.
She said, "Such a beautiful performance," in a steely, silky voice. "But I do hope you remember that this is a business event, not a love story."
Beside me, Damian stiffened.
Victoria's eyes darted to me, evaluating, judging. Then she grinned.
"I think it’s time we had a little chat, don’t you, dear?"
Suddenly, the space felt cramped.
And I was confident of one thing as I looked into the icy, cunning eyes of the woman who had assisted my father in getting away—
I wasn't prepared to play this game.