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

The Whispers of the Syndicate

The fashion show was chaos-a mixture of art, noise, and power brokers exchanging whispers. Julian hated it. Too many people, too many distractions.

He guided Isolde through the crowd, never letting go of her waist. She felt perfect against him-sharp angles and soft curves, responding to his grip with a subtle, electric tension. She was a professional weapon, and he was the one holding the trigger.

"There," Isolde murmured, nodding toward a corner booth. "The man with the silver hair. That's Reginald Vance. He controls the majority of the Sterling debt."

Reginald Vance was a ghost-a financial fixer with hands in every shadowy enterprise in London. He was known to be a key lieutenant for the shadowy "Syndicate" that backed Lord Alistair.

Julian walked Isolde directly to his table.

"Mr. Vance," Julian greeted, his voice polite, yet dangerous. "Julian Thorne. And my fiancée, Isolde Sterling."

Vance's eyes-cold, reptilian-swept over Isolde's exposed figure before landing on Julian's scar. "I understood you were indisposed, Mr. Thorne."

"I took a short sabbatical. Turns out, death is overrated." Julian smiled, a hollow, terrifying expression. He didn't ask to sit; he pulled the chair out for Isolde, positioning her with her back to the wall, and took the seat next to her, completely surrounding her.

"My sincerest condolences for your brother," Vance continued smoothly. "Harrison is... a disappointment."

"A shame," Julian agreed, sipping a glass of water. "I wanted to kill him myself. Now, let's talk business. The Sterling debt. You hold twenty million in floating notes."

"They mature next month. With the instability, I may call them in early." Vance's voice was pure blackmail.

"If you do," Julian countered, leaning close, his voice a low threat. "I will call in the fifteen years of tax evasion you filed through your Macau shell corporation-the same one that operates the fighting pits I just escaped."

Vance's face didn't move, but his eyes narrowed to slits. Isolde's elbow twitched against Julian's ribs. She was taking everything in.

"Blackmail, Mr. Thorne? Crude."

"Survival, Mr. Vance. And a proposition. Sell me the Sterling debt for ten percent under market value, and I'll ensure the Macau file vanishes. If you don't, I will sell the full ledger to the Daily Mail before midnight, and you can explain Project Aether to Parliament from a jail cell."

Vance stared at him. The reference to 'Project Aether'-the hidden item from Jax's report-was a perfect, calculated strike. It showed Julian knew the Syndicate's deepest secrets.

After a long, agonizing silence, Vance nodded once, curtly. "My solicitor will be in touch tomorrow morning."

Julian stood up, pulling Isolde up with him. He didn't look at Vance again.

"You should get a gun license, Isolde," Julian whispered in her ear as they walked away. "The game just got real."