POV: First Person (Julian)

The Thorne Corporation headquarters was a monument to ego. Fifty stories of steel piercing the London sky.

I walked through the lobby wearing a suit that cost more than most people's cars-a three-piece navy blue bespoke number that emphasized the width of my shoulders. Kai walked a step behind me, carrying a silver briefcase.

Security didn't stop me. They stared. The rumors had spread. The Ghost was back.

I took the private elevator to the top floor. The doors slid open to reveal the boardroom. Glass walls, a mahogany table long enough to land a plane on, and twelve old men and women who controlled the British economy.

At the head of the table sat my father, Lord Alistair. To his right, Harrison.

Harrison looked tired. Dark circles bruised his eyes. Good.

"You can't be in here," Harrison stood up, his voice cracking. "Security!"

"Sit down, Harrison," I said, my voice calm, projecting effortlessly across the room. "You look pathetic."

I walked to the other end of the table. A heavy-set man, Mr. Henderson, was sitting in my chair.

I didn't say a word. I just looked at him. I let the silence stretch, let the predator's intent leak out of me. Henderson, a man who had broken unions and toppled governments, swallowed hard. He grabbed his papers and scrambled to a side chair.

I sat down. I placed my feet on the mahogany table, crossing my ankles.

"So," I smiled, looking around the terrified faces. "Who wants to tell me why our stock dropped 3% this morning? Or shall we discuss the 'Obsidian Lotus' accounts?"

The temperature in the room dropped ten degrees.

My father's face went white. "How...?"

Kai stepped forward and slammed the silver briefcase onto the table. He opened it. It wasn't money. It was stacks of paper. Logs. Transcripts. Bank transfers.

"I have evidence of embezzlement, bribery of three MPs, and illegal arms dealings in Sudan," I lied. Well, partially lied. I had the embezzlement proof; the rest was a bluff. But fear makes people believe anything.

"If I release this to the press," I continued, checking my watch, "Thorne Corp stock becomes worthless by lunch. You all go to prison. Harrison here..." I pointed a finger at my brother, "probably gets shanked in the showers."

"What do you want, Julian?" my father rasped. He looked old suddenly. Defeated.

"I want the CEO position," I said. "Effective immediately."

"And?"

"And I want the Sterling merger to go through." I locked eyes with Harrison. "But not with Harrison. With me."

Harrison slammed his fist on the table. "She's mine! You can't just take her!"

"She was never yours, brother. You were just holding her place." I stood up, buttoning my jacket. "You have twenty-four hours to draft the paperwork. Or I burn this company to the ground."

I walked out. I didn't look back. Winners never do.

CHAPTER 8:

The Sterling Gallery in Mayfair was my kingdom. Here, I wasn't a pawn. I was the Queen.

I was supervising the installation of a new avant-garde exhibit-massive, twisted metal sculptures that looked like frozen explosions. It fit my mood.

"Isolde."

The voice came from the entrance. I didn't need to turn around to know who it was. My body reacted before my brain did. My pulse spiked, heat flushing through my veins.

Julian.

I turned slowly. He was leaning against a pristine white wall, looking like a dark stain on my perfect canvas. He wore a navy suit that fit him criminally well. His eyes were scanning me, undressing me.

I was wearing a simple cream cashmere sweater and a pencil skirt, my hair in a messy bun. I wasn't dressed for battle, but I raised my chin anyway.

"You're making a habit of invading my personal space, Julian."

"I like your space," he said, pushing off the wall and walking toward me. He moved like a panther-silent, predatory. "It smells like you."

"What do you want?"

"I just came from a board meeting. I'm the new CEO of Thorne Corp."

I blinked. "That's impossible. Alistair would never..."

"Alistair didn't have a choice. I held a gun to the company's head." He stopped in front of me, close enough that I had to crane my neck to look at him. He was so tall. So overwhelming.

"And there's a change in the merger agreement," he said softly.

My stomach dropped. "What change?"

"Harrison is out. I'm taking his place."

"In the company?"

"In the marriage."

The world spun. I took a step back, bumping into a sculpture. "You think you can just trade me? Like a... like a horse?"

"No," Julian said. He reached out, his hand wrapping around the nape of my neck, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind my ear. The touch was electric, possessive. "I'm not trading you, Isolde. I'm claiming you."

"I'm not a prize to be claimed!" I hissed, though I didn't pull away. I couldn't. His touch was hypnotic.

"Aren't you?" He leaned down, his lips brushing against my ear. "You were going to marry a man you loathed for the sake of your family's shipping lanes. You sold yourself long ago, sweetheart. I'm just upgrading the buyer."

Fury and arousal warred inside me. He was arrogant. Cruel.

"I hate you," I whispered, my voice trembling.

"Good," he murmured, his hand sliding from my neck down to my waist, pulling me flush against his hard body. I could feel the heat radiating off him, the sheer masculine power. "Hate is passion. Hate is fire. I can work with hate."

He looked at my lips. For a second, I thought he would kiss me right there, in front of the gallery staff. I wanted him to. God help me, I wanted him to ruin me.

Instead, he pulled back, a smirk playing on his lips.

"Pick a dress for Friday," he said, turning to leave. "We have a wedding to plan."

I stood there, trembling, watching him walk away. I should run. I should flee the country. But as I watched his broad back, a terrifying realization settled in my heart.

I didn't want to run. I wanted to see what he would do next.

Julian didn't ask me what to wear to the Viktor and Rolf show; he sent a stylist.

The dress was a lethal piece of architecture: midnight black velvet, custom-designed to look simple, yet cut with daring asymmetry. It featured a single, high slit that revealed the entire length of my left leg and a deep V-neck that plunged precariously low. The fabric was heavy, clinging to my curves and highlighting my figure-my waist, my hips, my everything-in a way that was undeniably expensive and overtly sexual.

"You look like a declaration of war," Julian murmured, appearing behind me as I finished clipping my diamond earrings.

We were in the private residence Julian had temporarily commandeered-a stark, modernist house overlooking Hyde Park.

"Isn't that the point?" I countered, meeting his eyes in the mirror. "We're staging a hostile takeover, not a debutante ball."

He stepped closer, placing his large, warm hands on my shoulders, his thumbs pressing into the sensitive spot near my collarbone. His touch was proprietary, dangerous. I watched my reflection-the Ice Queen and the Monster, a perfect, terrifying match.

"The goal is simple," he instructed, his voice low. "Don't just look like you're mine, Isolde. Look like you want to be mine. Look like I broke you, and you loved every second of it. The public needs to believe the passion is real, or they won't believe the merger."

He released me, then offered his arm.

The moment we stepped onto the red carpet at the Fashion Week venue, the flashbulbs exploded. It was a physical assault of light and noise.

I slipped naturally into my role. A cool smile, the perfect angle for the cameras. But Julian was the show.

He didn't smile. He looked at the cameras like they were a threat. He kept his hand tightly clamped around my waist-not guiding, but anchoring me. Every step we took was a public demonstration of his brute force.

Then, Harrison appeared. Flanked by reporters, he tried to rush us.

"Isolde, darling! What is the meaning of this? You know this is highly irregular! You are contractually obligated to the Thorne Corporation!"

Julian stopped, turning slowly. The sudden silence that fell over the press pack was deafening.

Julian didn't speak to Harrison. He spoke to me, his voice carrying just enough to be picked up by the nearest microphones.

"You're trembling," he whispered, leaning down. He brought his head close to mine, his lips brushing my earlobe, a gesture so intimate and suggestive it made my core clench. "Does my brother scare you, Isolde?"

"He bores me," I whispered back, playing my part.

Julian smirked-a genuine, wolfish expression of satisfaction. He leaned away, looked straight at Harrison, and then, slowly, deliberately, he bent his head and pressed his lips to my neck, right over my pulse point. He lingered, tasting my skin. The cameras went ballistic.

It was an act of raw, public possession. It was not a kiss; it was a brand.

"Get out of my sight, brother," Julian told Harrison, his voice cold as liquid nitrogen. "I'm busy."

Harrison looked destroyed. He stood there, sputtering, as Julian steered me, hip-to-hip, into the velvet ropes and the inner sanctum of the show