THIRTEEN

The room stayed quiet long after the kiss. Long after Wesley pulled back like nothing had happened. My heart was still racing, skin tingling where his lips had touched me. I didn’t dare move. David was the first to break the silence.

He reached for the wine bottle with a calmness that felt fake. Poured himself a drink, sipped, then leaned back in his chair with that same smirk that had been glued to his face all night.

“You really expect anyone to believe this marriage isn’t just a move against Marco?” he asked, voice smooth, almost amused. “Come on, Wes. We all know what this is.”

I stiffened, glancing at Wesley, waiting for some kind of reaction. But he didn’t even blink.

David kept going, riding the high of his own smugness. “You’re playing a good game. I’ll give you that. The girl’s beautiful, and yeah, the whole forbidden thing adds flair, but we both know she’s just leverage. Pretty leverage.”

Something twisted low in my stomach, and I couldn’t tell if it was anger or something worse. I was sitting right there, and they were talking about me like I was a trophy. An object. A weapon.

Wesley finally leaned back in his chair, completely relaxed, like David’s words barely registered.

“Is that what you think?” he asked, voice low and calm. “Or are you just hoping to watch?”

David’s smirk faded just slightly.

Wesley tilted his head, eyes locked on him. “I’ve heard things about you, David. Things involving... preferences. You like to sit back and enjoy the show, don’t you?”

David raised a brow but didn’t deny it. He even let out a quiet laugh, like Wesley had just told a private joke.

The air changed. Heavier. Tighter.

I watched them, trying to piece it all together. Wesley’s kiss. David’s words. The way Wesley’s hand had stayed on my waist a second too long. It was like I’d stepped into a play mid-scene and no one handed me a script.

Was this real? Was it a warning? A game?

I didn’t know what role I was supposed to play.

And the worst part was, a small part of me—one I didn’t want to admit existed—was waiting to find out.

Wesley didn’t say a word.

He stood slowly, smooth and silent, like this was something he did every day. Like we weren’t sitting in the middle of a half-eaten dinner, with wine still in our glasses and another man at the table.

I didn’t look up at him, but I felt the weight of him behind me again. It was heavier now. Intentional.

Then I felt his fingers on my skin.

He didn’t touch me like someone rushing through the moment. He touched me like he had all the time in the world. Like he was in control of everything—the room, the air, my breathing.

His hands slid over my shoulders, and then slowly, he eased the straps of the dress down my arms. No warning. No hesitation.

Just sure.

The cool air kissed my skin, and I felt my body react before my brain could catch up. Goosebumps rose along my arms. My breath caught in my throat.

I should’ve stopped him. Should’ve said something. But I didn’t.

Because in that moment, I didn’t know how.

David didn’t speak. Didn’t shift. Didn’t look away. He just watched—eyes fixed on the way Wesley moved, the way my dress slipped lower. He was frozen, caught somewhere between uncomfortable and undeniably turned on.

Then Wesley did something I didn’t expect—he didn’t return to his seat at the head of the table.

He sat beside me.

Calm, calculated, and completely composed.

His knee brushed mine under the table as he unbuttoned the top of his shirt. Slowly. Then his fingers dropped to his belt. The soft sound of the buckle coming undone made my pulse spike.

He didn’t look at me as he did it.

Then he reached for my hand.

Firm. Possessive. Controlled.

He pulled it toward him, slowly dragging it across the front of his chest, down over the buttons. His skin was warm beneath the fabric. Hard. Tense.

He guided my fingers lower—toward the open belt, toward the waistband of his pants.

David still hadn’t moved.

Just watched. Breathing slower now, jaw clenched. Eyes flicking between us like he couldn’t decide whether to stay or get the hell out.

But me?

I was stuck somewhere in between.

Frozen by Wesley’s dominance. Drowning in my own confusion.

And terrified by how much of me didn’t want to stop it.

Wesley stopped right around his waist, my hand resting just above the open edge of his pants, fingers barely grazing his skin. I could feel the heat radiating off him. Smooth, taut skin. The kind that spoke of control and precision. The kind of body you didn’t accidentally have—it was maintained, honed, perfected. His shirt hung open now, exposing a slice of muscle and a V-line that made my mouth go dry.

He turned to David then, his tone casual, but sharp enough to cut glass.

“Enjoying the show?”

David said nothing.

He didn’t flinch. Didn’t look away. But the muscles in his jaw were tight now, his mouth a thin line. The smirk was gone. Whatever confidence he’d walked in with was slipping fast.

I wasn’t sure what was happening anymore. My brain was all static. I could barely hear over the rush of blood in my ears. I could still feel Wesley’s grip on my wrist, steady, guiding, like he was making a point and I was part of it.

Part of me wanted to pull away.

Another part wanted to see what he would do if I didn’t.

Just as Wesley began to push my hand a little further, the tension breaking into something else entirely, David stood abruptly. The chair scraped back hard against the floor.

“This is fucking ridiculous,” he muttered, voice clipped and low. He grabbed his coat off the back of the chair, not bothering to look at either of us again.

He walked out without waiting for a response.

The door slammed behind him.

Wesley let go of my hand immediately. No ceremony. No parting touch.

He rose, adjusted his shirt slowly, button by button. His expression didn’t shift once. He rolled his cuffs back into place, like nothing had happened. Like we hadn’t just dragged an entire dinner into the gutter and called it a performance.

“You can finish the food if you want,” he said quietly, not even glancing at me.

Then he turned and walked out the same way he always did—like nothing and no one ever touched him.

I sat there, gown halfway off, skin still flushed, heart pounding so loud I could feel it in my throat.

And for the life of me, I couldn’t understand why I hadn’t stopped any of it.

Or why part of me hadn’t even wanted to.