The man didn't raise his voice, and his tone stayed calm and soft, but the chaos instantly quieted down.

"Fra... Mr. Branwell." The uncle gripping Bellamy's arm instinctively let go and stepped back in panic.

Fraser Branwell.

The Branwell family's chosen heir.

A man nobody dared cross.

What was he doing here? And coming down from the second floor?

Mr. Hawkins Sr. narrowed his eyes. He knew Fraser and Bellamy had known each other since childhood-barely counted as childhood sweethearts. But wasn't Fraser in Amerden? How'd he suddenly show up here?

Still, no matter what, no one could take what he already laid claim to.

"Fraser, this really is a Hawkins family matter. I suppose your father-"

"Grandpa Hawkins, while I still call you that, maybe let this go."

Fraser's voice stayed flat. "Back when Thomas was alive, you were always trying to control him. Now he's barely gone, and you're already doing this? Are you trying to make him turn in his grave?"

The phrase "turn in his grave" cut through like a knife, striking deep in Mr. Hawkins's chest.

Slumping back into his chair, he looked stunned and defeated, flashes of past fights with his son running through his mind-especially those final pleadings before Thomas passed.

Mr. Hawkins Sr. gave up without another word, and the other elders, already too scared to speak after Fraser's entrance, beat a hasty retreat.

By the time everyone left, the sun had already started to set.

Bellamy curled up on the couch without saying a word. Dressed in black, she looked even thinner than usual. Her half-lowered eyes and drained expression made her look heartbreakingly fragile.

Fraser, who'd been all authority and chill just moments ago, softened instantly in front of her.

Carefully carrying over a bowl of warm soup, he sat beside her and coaxed gently, "Eat something, would you? You're so skinny now, your chin looks like it could poke holes."

Bellamy caught the faint scent of cooking smoke clinging to him, and her heart twisted.

This was Fraser-usually admired like royalty, aloof and untouchable. Now he had crossed half the world just to be here for her... and even cooked. Countless girls dreamed of getting that kind of treatment. But so what?

He wasn't doing any of this for her. He was here... for another woman.

Biting back the sourness rising in her chest, Bellamy took the bowl, downed the soup quickly, then gave him a small smile. "I'm fine now. Thanks for coming. I can take it from here. You should get going."

Fraser always had a naturally cold look. But when his eyes landed on her? There was gentleness there, clear as day.

Holding her jaw lightly, he asked, "Bellamy, why have you never once thought... that you could lean on me?"

Lean on him?

She stared blankly for a moment, then laughed coldly. "I never expected a free favor from you. Just be straight-what do you want? If I can manage it-"

Before she could finish, his kiss came crashing down-gentle and forceful all at once, sweeping her into something overwhelming.

Fraser kissed like a man who had snapped. Bellamy had nowhere to run, no way to fight back.

He lingered over her lips, not letting go. She opened her eyes slightly, catching his sharp side profile, and suddenly remembered the fear the Hawkins family showed toward him.

If she could really hold onto Fraser... Would she be able to lock down the Hawkins family forever?

Heart pounding, Bellamy shut her eyes tight and leaned into his kiss. Her trembling hand reached up to unbutton his shirt.

Her sudden surrender lit a fire neither of them could put out...

Once the storm had passed, Bellamy was limp in his arms, her eyes pink at the corners.

Fraser gently stroked her cheek, his voice impossibly tender. "I only want you."

His eyes darkened, and he leaned over for another kiss.

Surrounded by his warmth and whispers that felt like dreams, Bellamy's eyelids fluttered shut.

"I also want you," she whispered.

Six years later.

Inside the Branwell family's private club, everything reeked of luxury-designer gowns, polished shoes, glasses clinking, and not a single guest here wasn't a part of Cavelle City's elite.

Tonight was a big deal: the welcome-back party for Fraser, the younger son of the Branwell family, who had just returned from overseas and was officially taking over the company.

Bellamy nursed a glass of fruit wine as she curled up in one of the corners. One after another, young men tried to ask her for a dance, but every time she looked up and cracked a smile, they'd all awkwardly nod and scoot away.

Well, fled was more like it.

She wasn't just anyone-Bellamy had a rep. Ruthless, cunning, sharp-tongued, straight-up terrifying. No one in the business world thought she played nice.

She took over the Hawkins family business at twenty, dragged it out of the red, and somehow managed to survive in Cavelle City's brutal corporate climate, where nice guys didn't even make it past breakfast.

A woman like her? Definitely not someone average guys could handle. But let's be real-the reason most men steered clear of Bellamy had a name: Fraser.

The Hawkins company might've still had a heartbeat, but not thanks to some miracle move of hers-it was because she belonged to Fraser.

For six years, he'd been half a world away, but every time she needed him, he showed up, no question, no delay.

Even if she was just Fraser's "secret" lover-or whatever label people wanted to slap on that-no guy in their right mind dared mess with her.

A few rounds of drinking in, Fraser finally showed.

As soon as he walked in, all eyes were on him-hard to blame them.

Loaded and easy on the eyes? Deadly combo.

He was in a sleek black suit that hugged every line of his tall frame just right. Strong, composed, with that quiet power that caught your attention without even trying.

His features were sharp, his eyes deep-set, lips thin and pressed-he didn't need to say a word to radiate that 'hands-off' allure.

Honestly, if anyone embodied pure sex appeal, it was Fraser.

Then he looked in her direction.

The second their eyes met, Bellamy casually took a sip of her wine, then ran her tongue over the rim of her lips to catch a drop.

Fraser froze where he was, throat moving with a small gulp he didn't even seem aware of.

She had on a crimson floor-length dress that skimmed just above her ankles. Her bare shoulders and porcelain collarbones glinted under the lights-both innocent and seductively bold.

Normally she didn't wear makeup, but tonight her lips were a striking red, matching that dress in a way that was way too intentional.

Six years had passed, and his Bellamy wasn't the same girl who used to cry in his arms like the world was ending.

She had grown into herself-bolder, more dangerous, impossible not to notice.

He'd shown her exactly how to transform from a fragile kitten into a quiet killer dressed in silk and smiles.

Then came the speech. Fraser took the mic from the host and kept it short and sharp.

"Thanks for coming tonight. From this moment on, I'm officially stepping in as President of Branwell Corporation. I'll see you all on the battlefield-go easy on me, will you?"

His voice was low, clean, and hit the ears like velvet and steel. Made your skin tingle whether you liked it or not.

It made Bellamy flash back to those nights where his whispers dug way too deep into her bones.

She suddenly felt a little warm all over. Topping off the last of her drink, she tilted her head back and drank it all down.

Then, out of the corner of her eye, she caught Fraser chatting up some gorgeous woman.

The woman was in a white mermaid dress-graceful, glowing, with lips all shiny and pink. Like, the kind of lips that made people wanna lean in and take a bite.

Bellamy narrowed her eyes and slammed her glass down with a dull thud.

The girls nearby flinched, clearly spooked.

She gave them a soft apologetic smile, then turned and strutted toward Fraser, heels clicking confidently.

Halfway there, she suddenly stopped, twisted on her heel, and walked right back the way she came.

What was she doing just now? Trying to stake her claim? Warn other women to stay away from Fraser?

What a joke. She didn't have the right. Not anymore. They were done, or at least she'd already decided to be.

Six years she'd spent tangled up with Fraser. The Hawkins family business was steady now, everything she'd ever fought for-he gave it all to her. And now that he was finally back in the country, ready to take on the world, she wasn't about to drag him down with messy loose ends.

She'd promised herself she'd walk away clean-and she wasn't going to be the name people whispered about in his story from here on.

Bellamy rubbed the corner of her eye, head down, and when she looked up, someone stood right in front of her. They almost bumped.

She took a small step back and found herself face to face with Marianne Blake, poised and graceful like always.

"Bellamy, you really shouldn't be here," Marianne said, her tone soft but her words cutting sharp. "Fraser's already done more than enough for you. He's back, and he's finally stepping up to lead the Branwell Group. This is his time. He deserves someone who truly fits him-like Lydia Grant. You ought to know your place by now, don't you think?"

Marianne's dark purple gown made her look stunningly dignified. She was in her early forties, but she looked barely thirty, like time itself was giving her special treatment. Her beauty was still breathtaking, a timeless charm.

Bellamy stared at the face that so closely mirrored her own-too similar, in fact. Instantly, all that softness and hesitation inside her vanished.

She let out a faint, detached laugh. "Lydia might be high-born and polished, but that doesn't mean she's the perfect match for Fraser. If she really were, then how do you explain your own existence? As far as I know, you weren't exactly some silver-spoon debutante either. And yet-weren't you the one who became Mrs. Branwell?"

Marianne's face paled.

Bellamy's smile turned sharp as she stepped right past her, the sway of her dress almost mocking.

Marianne snapped out of her daze and caught Bellamy's arm, desperation sneaking into her voice. "Bellamy, don't go over to Fraser. Please, I'm begging you. Just don't."

Bellamy calmly uncurled her fingers one by one and turned back, her tone cool with a hint of smugness. "Mrs. Branwell, even if I don't go to him, he's already on his way to me. Don't believe me? Just look-you'll see."

Marianne's eyes widened in disbelief as Bellamy gave a tiny nod toward the ballroom.

Then she leaned close, voice low and razor-sharp by her ear. "He's already in deep. Did you think I'd let him walk away that easily?"

She felt Marianne freeze. Oh, that felt good.

Fraser hadn't even made it all the way to them yet, but Bellamy went ahead and met him halfway, slipping her arm through his smoothly, tilting her head with an innocent grin.

"You finished your speech-why'd you take so long to come find me? I've been waiting forever to dance with you!"

Fraser smiled slightly, gently patting her hand on his arm before turning to Marianne. "Marianne, didn't Dad say you weren't feeling well? Shouldn't you be resting at home? There's really no need for you to be here tonight."

Marianne shed her colder demeanor and answered with warmth, "Oh, I'm fine. Your father just fusses too much. Today's such a huge day for you-there's no way I'd miss it."

Right then, Arthur Branwell walked up, slipping an arm around his wife. His glance toward Bellamy held a flash of something like resignation, but he addressed his son.

"Fraser, a lot of the older folks came tonight. Be sure to go talk to them. You'll be needing their support down the road."

Fraser nodded lightly, then took Bellamy's hand and led her straight to the dance floor.