Chapter Seven

TWO AND HALF YEARS AGO

Five years ago, I made the kind of mistake that doesn’t leave you in the shape of a scar. It lingers like something buried beneath the surface, waiting, silent and forgotten until one wrong step detonates it.

His name was Théo Duchamp. He was French, magnetic, and perfectly groomed. The kind of man who could charm entire rooms without trying. He worked in luxury event management, which was another way of saying he lived off appearances, whispered secrets, and social debt. He told me he loved me. He called me his future. He traced those words against my skin like prayers. But what he really wanted was a seat at my father’s table and the keys to my Bugatti Chiron Super Sport.

The truth emerged the way truths usually do…with timing that cut and details that bled. There were emails. Misfired messages. Financial requests that arrived dressed as endearments. A few carefully placed investments that would have entangled him into Aquila for life if I hadn’t caught them in time. He had studied me like a route. Every word of affection was strategy. Every touch, an intention. What he wanted was not my heart. It was my name, my power, my father’s empire. And I was just the beautiful vessel that carried it.

I didn’t cry. I never do. But something quiet and trusting broke in me that day. It did not shatter loudly. It simply collapsed inward, folding into a silence I never invited back. My father had been furious, more at himself than at Théo, and even more at the world for thinking it could reach into our lives and take something that belonged to him.

Angelica, of course, found pleasure in it. She wore sympathy like a designer shawl and let her satisfaction slip out in polite little slivers.

“Men like that only go for women who confuse admiration with love,” she had said once, her tone syrupy, her eyes sharp.

I had smiled. I always smile. But I never forget.

So when my father proposed the alliance with the Varyn family years later, I said yes.

Niklath Varyn stepped into my life exactly one week after that conversation, and from the moment he spoke, he unraveled everything I thought I understood about control.

And now, we have been married for six months. I wake to the soft hiss of water behind the bathroom door. The bed still smells of him. My thighs are sore in ways I do not resent. The silk sheets are tangled around my legs, and the dim morning light is curling through the blinds in slow, golden lines. The sound of the shower is steady, and the steam from it creeps beneath the door like an invitation made only for me.

He emerges a moment later, towering and barefoot, wrapped in a towel that clings low around his hips. His body is soaked in heat and dominance, each step a reminder of his height and how broad he is across the shoulders so thick with strength. His chest is bronzed and still damp, muscles defined and powerful, the silver-black wolf tattoo stretched across his right pectoral seeming almost alive in the morning light. The armband ink circling his left bicep moves as he flexes, ancient and intricate, a symbol of rank and legacy. My eyes drop, helplessly, to the sharp lines of his V-cut, to the trail that disappears beneath the towel, and I feel my thighs clench in response. I’m already aching for him, already wet, and he hasn’t even looked at me yet.

I watch him from the bed without speaking. He doesn’t notice at first. Or maybe he does and simply lets me look.

He walks into the closet, a space lined with Italian wood and mirrored drawers. From the bed, I can see the reflection of his back in the full length panel, the broad expanse of it, the thin scars he never speaks of, the way his muscles move when he reaches for a shirt.

He selects a crisp white one. Smooths it open with practiced ease.

He lived in Tokyo for six years before we met. I can see it in the way he folds his cuff, in the minimalism of his habits. The restraint. The quiet intensity. The discipline. It never leaves him.

I watch him dress slowly, and I know I should move, I have meetings, projections to finalise, a review with the Italian port directors at ten but I remain where I am, caught somewhere between breath and want.

“You’re awake,” he says without turning.

“I’m watching you steal my favourite cufflinks.”

“They’re technically mine. I bought them.”

“For my father.”

He glances over his shoulder, mouth curving into a smile that should be illegal. “And you stole them from him. So technically, I’m just reclaiming stolen property.”

I sit up and pull the sheet to my chest, but not far enough to hide the fact that I’m still naked beneath it. “You have a meeting in an hour.”

“I’m aware.”

“And the Nordeck contract needs both our signatures before noon.”

He buttons the shirt halfway and walks toward me. He places one hand on the headboard, the other trailing lazily across my collarbone. I feel the heat of him before he even touches me properly.

“Say please, and I’ll sign anything you want.”

“You’re not allowed to flirt with me before caffeine.”

He lowers his head, his mouth brushing my neck. “That’s not flirting. That’s negotiation.”

I tilt my chin to the side as his lips move lower, grazing the space just beneath my ear. “You’re impossible.”

“I can smell your arousal Mia,” he says as his hand slips beneath the sheet, between my thighs. My breath catches instantly, my body arching into his touch.

“Niklath…”

“Tell me you want me to stop.”

I don’t. I never do. But I press my hand against his chest, barely resisting, knowing the moment is already lost. “We have fifteen minutes.”

He leans in, kisses me with a quiet ferocity, and murmurs against my mouth, “I only need ten.”

And then I am lost to him again, tangled in limbs and heat, the clock forgotten. We move like people who have found something they never expected and refuse to let it slip away.

Later, I dress first.

He watches from the bed, legs stretched, shirt now fully buttoned but untucked, his eyes on me like he’s memorising every detail. When I turn to apply my lipstick, I see him in the mirror. His posture is still, but the look in his eyes is not.

He has not touched his phone.

“You’re staring,” I say as I fix the curve of my collar.

He says nothing for a minute before breaking his silence, “Angelica called me yesterday.”

My spine straightens. I turn, slowly. “Oh?”

He smirks. “She asked if we’re attending the Rivella Foundation gala next weekend.”

“And what did you say?”

He holds my gaze with that piercing stare. “I said it depends on you.”

I shake my head. “I imagine she’s hoping you will be attending alone.”

He stands and walks toward me. His footsteps are unhurried, but the air around him tightens.

“I don’t like how she looks at me,” he says gruffly.

“You don’t like women looking at you?” I say teasingly.

“I don’t like her looking at me like I’m not already taken.”

I say nothing. The pulse in my throat skips. He is standing close now, his hand coming to rest at my waist.

“I’m not going anywhere, Mia,” he whispers near my ear. “No matter what your sister thinks.”

He has never told me he loves me. But sometimes, he doesn’t need to.