The organ music started. It was a low rumble that Blaire felt in the soles of her feet.

Her body was vibrating. Not shivering-vibrating. Like a plucked guitar string that wouldn't stop humming.

They were standing in the vestibule. The heavy double doors to the nave were still closed. Just Blaire, Declan, and Barrett.

Declan looked down at her. He frowned.

Without asking, he reached out and grabbed the edge of her veil. He adjusted it, his knuckles grazing her bare shoulder. His touch was rough, efficient. Possessive.

Blaire flinched.

"Don't touch me," she hissed under her breath. "Just because I agreed to this doesn't mean you own me. Don't think you can swallow my company just because you put a ring on my finger."

Declan let out a short, dry laugh.

"You have no leverage, Blaire," he said softly. "You have nothing. Even the dignity you're clinging to right now? I'm the one giving it to you."

Blaire wanted to slap him. Her palm itched with the need to wipe that arrogant look off his face.

"Smile," Barrett whispered frantically from her other side. "Blaire, please. For the cameras."

She looked at her brother. He looked pathetic. He was willing to sell her to the devil to keep the lights on.

A sudden pressure on her jaw forced her head up.

Declan's fingers were digging into her skin, forcing her to look at him. His eyes were an impossible shade of blue. Dark ocean water. Cold. Deep. Dangerous.

"Listen to me," he said, his voice dropping an octave. "If you embarrass me out there... if you trip, if you cry, if you look like a victim... you will regret it. Do you understand?"

It was a threat. Plain and simple.

Something hot flared in her chest. Anger. It was better than fear.

She jerked her chin out of his grip.

"I don't trip," she spat. "If you play your part, I'll play mine. I'll be the perfect Mrs. Singleton. Just don't expect me to like it."

The doors groaned open.

Light hit them. A wall of it.

Flashbulbs popped like gunfire. Pop-pop-pop-pop.

Hundreds of faces turned toward them in the pews. A sea of strangers.

Then, the ripple started.

It began in the front row and washed backward. Eyes widened. Mouths dropped. Whispers erupted like a swarm of angry bees.

That's not Jeffery.

Is that Declan?

What happened?

The noise was deafening.

Blaire stepped forward. Or she tried to. Her legs felt like jelly.

Declan's arm was a steel bar under her hand. He didn't wait for her. He moved.

He practically dragged her the first three steps until her feet remembered how to walk.

"Chin up," he muttered, staring straight ahead. "Walk like you own the place."

Blaire forced her spine straight. She thought of Jeffery running away. She thought of him in Paris with some nameless woman.

I hate you, she thought, matching her steps to the organ music. I hate you, Jeffery.

The hate was fuel. It burned hot and clean.

They passed the pews. She saw the women. The socialites who usually looked at her with envy were now looking at Declan. They looked hungry. They looked terrified.

Jeffery was a boy. Declan was a man. A dangerous, wealthy, powerful man.

Blaire realized with a jolt that she had just traded a Honda for a Ferrari. A Ferrari with no brakes that might kill her, but a Ferrari nonetheless.

They reached the altar.

Usually, the groom waits. Usually, the father hands the bride over.

Declan didn't wait. He reached out and took her hand from Barrett before they even stopped moving. He pulled her up the last step, claiming her.

The Bishop looked confused. He blinked, looking from Declan to Harrison in the front row.

Harrison gave a sharp nod.

The Bishop cleared his throat. He looked nervous. Good.

"Dearly beloved," he began, his voice shaky. He skipped the preamble. He skipped the anecdotes about how the couple met. He went straight to the vows.

Smart man.

"Do you, Declan Singleton, take this woman..."

"I do," Declan said.

His voice boomed through the microphone. It was deep, resonant, and absolutely devoid of hesitation. He stared right at her when he said it. It didn't sound like a vow. It sounded like a sentencing.

"And do you, Blaire English..."

Her throat was sandpaper. The silence stretched. One second. Two.

Declan's grip on her hand tightened. A warning.

"I do," she rasped.

The best man-Declan's CFO, a man she didn't know-stepped forward with a ring.

Blaire looked down.

It wasn't the ring Jeffery had bought. That was a tasteful, three-carat oval cut.

This was... ancient.

It was a massive emerald-cut diamond, flanked by sapphires, set in heavy platinum. It looked like something a queen would wear to an execution.

Declan took her left hand. He slid the ring onto her finger.

It slid over her knuckle. Past the joint. And settled at the base.

It fit perfectly.

Blaire froze. She looked up at him, confusion warring with panic.

How?

How did he have a ring? How did he know her size? This wasn't a temporary ring. This was sized for her.

"Declan," she started to whisper.

He didn't let her speak. He grabbed both of her hands, pulling her a step closer, invading her personal space.

The Bishop closed his book. He looked relieved it was over.

"By the power vested in me... I now pronounce you husband and wife."

He paused.

"You may kiss the bride."

Blaire's stomach dropped to her toes.

She looked at Declan's mouth. It was a hard line.

She expected a peck on the cheek. A polite, dry press of lips for the cameras.

Then she saw his eyes.

There was a flash of something in them. Something feral.

He didn't lean in gently. He lunged.

His hand clamped onto the back of her neck. His thumb dug into the soft, sensitive skin behind her ear, holding her in place.

Blaire gasped.

Before she could exhale, his mouth crushed onto hers.

It wasn't a kiss. It was a collision.

His lips were hot and hard. He didn't ask for permission; he took it. She tried to keep her mouth shut, to keep her teeth clenched as a barrier, but he nipped her lower lip. Not gently. He bit her.

She gasped in pain, her mouth opening.

He took the opening instantly. His tongue swept into her mouth, deep and demanding, tasting her like he was starving.

A collective gasp went through the church. Then, the sound of a thousand camera shutters clicking at once. Click-click-click-click.

It was obscene. They were on the altar, in front of God and her grandmother, and he was kissing her like they were in a dark alley.

Blaire brought her hands up to his chest to push him away. She shoved against the black wool of his tuxedo.

It was like pushing a brick wall. He didn't move an inch.

Instead, his other arm snaked around her waist. He yanked her against him, eliminating the air between them. Her hips slammed into his.

He was hard.

His thighs were rock solid against hers, and she could feel the heat radiating off him through the layers of silk and wool. He pressed her into his groin, a vulgar, possessive claim that made her knees buckle.

Her brain short-circuited.

The smell of him-sandalwood, expensive scotch, and pure male aggression-filled her nose.

He held the kiss for ten seconds. Ten eternities.

When he finally pulled back, her lips felt swollen. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

She stared up at him, dazed, her chest heaving.

Declan's eyes were dark, the pupils blown wide. He looked satisfied. Like a cat that had just eaten the canary.

He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear again.

"Is that too much for you, Mrs. Singleton?" he whispered. His voice was rough. Mocking.

Heat flooded her face. She wanted to scream. She wanted to slap him.

But the crowd erupted into applause.

Declan turned to them, keeping her hand trapped in his. He raised their joined hands in the air, a victory salute.

He looked like a king. Blaire felt like a spoil of war.

"Walk," he commanded under his breath.

They started down the aisle. Her legs were shaking so badly she had to lean on him. He took her weight easily, his arm like an iron band around her waist.

They burst out of the heavy church doors and into the blinding midday sun of Fifth Avenue.

The noise was physical. A roar.

Police barricades held back a mob of onlookers and paparazzi.

"Mr. Singleton! Mr. Singleton!"

"Why the switch?"

"Ms. English! Is this a hostile takeover?"

"Was Jeffery fired?"

Microphones were shoved in their faces.

Declan stopped on the top step. He looked out at the chaos with bored indifference. The crowd quieted down, intimidated by his sheer presence.

A reporter from the Times shouted, "Declan! Why did you step in? Is this a business arrangement?"

Declan looked at the camera. He pulled her tighter against his side, his fingers digging into her hip.

"Because," he said, his voice carrying over the noise, "I couldn't stand the thought of her belonging to anyone else."

Blaire's head snapped up.

He said it with such conviction. For a split second, her heart skipped a beat.

Then she remembered who he was. A liar. A shark.

He guided her down the stairs and into the back of a waiting Rolls Royce Phantom. The heavy door thudded shut, sealing out the noise.

Silence. Instant, cold silence.

The moment the door closed, Declan released her. He didn't just let go; he recoiled. He slid to the far side of the leather bench seat, putting as much distance between them as possible.

The mask fell.

The passion, the possessiveness, the heat-it all vanished.

He pulled out his iPhone and started typing furiously. His face was a blank slate.

Blaire sat there, stunned. Her lips were still tingling from his bite. Her body was still humming from the contact. And he was checking his email.

She felt dirty. Used.

She raised the back of her hand to her mouth and wiped her lips hard, trying to scrub off the taste of him.

"Don't," Declan said. He didn't look up from his phone.

"Don't what?" she snapped.

"Don't rub your mouth raw. We're going to a reception, not the ER. You need to look perfect."

He reached into his breast pocket and pulled out a white linen handkerchief. He held it out to her without looking at her.

"Here."

Blaire stared at the handkerchief. She wanted to throw it in his face.

Instead, she snatched it from his hand. She crumpled it in her fist, her nails digging into her palms.

"You're despicable," she whispered.

"I'm your husband," he corrected, scrolling through a message. "Get used to the difference."

The car turned onto Fifth Avenue, heading toward The Pierre.

"Where are we going after the reception?" she asked, her voice hollow. "I assume I'm going back to my apartment to pack?"

Declan finally looked up. His eyes were cold again.

"No," he said. "You're moving into my penthouse on Central Park West. Tonight."

"I am not," she argued. "We can maintain separate residences. It's a fake marriage, Declan."

"It's a real marriage, Blaire," he said softly. "With real assets and real public scrutiny. You are moving in. Tonight. Prepare yourself."

He went back to his phone.

Blaire looked out the window as the city blurred by. She felt like a prisoner being transferred to a maximum-security facility.

The ballroom at The Pierre was a golden cage. Crystal chandeliers, thousands of white roses, and enough champagne to drown a navy.

Blaire stood in the bridal suite bathroom, staring at herself.

Her mother, Eleanor, stood behind her. She wasn't hugging her. She was fixing a stray curl on her head.

"You look pale," she criticized. "Pinch your cheeks. We need color."

"Mom," Blaire said, her voice flat. "Jeffery left me."

"And Declan saved us," her mother snapped. "Do you have any idea how lucky we are? The Singleton capital injection is already pending. Your father is breathing for the first time in months."

"I'm not a business asset, Mom. I'm your daughter."

Eleanor paused. For a second, Blaire thought she might soften.

"You are an English," her mother said firmly. "Act like it. Now go out there and make your husband happy."

She turned and left.

Blaire let out a shaky breath. She grabbed her red lipstick-her war paint-and applied a fresh coat. She looked like a killer. Good.

She walked back out. Declan was waiting near the entrance. He was surrounded by board members, holding a tumbler of scotch. He looked relaxed. Powerful.

Blaire walked toward him.

Before she reached him, a woman intercepted him.

Fiona Witt.

She was wearing a silver dress that was barely legal. She was beautiful, rich, and had been trying to claw her way into Declan's bed for three years.

She placed a hand on Declan's forearm. She leaned in close, her chest brushing his arm.

"Declan," she purred. "What a... surprise today was. You, playing the hero? It's so unlike you."

Blaire stopped. A knot of jealousy tightened in her stomach. Not because she wanted Declan, but because Fiona was disrespecting her. Disrespecting her position.

She started to turn away. She didn't want to deal with this.

Declan's hand shot out.

He didn't look at her, but he caught her wrist as she tried to pass. His grip was iron.

He yanked her to his side. His arm went around her waist, clamping her against his hip.

"Fiona," Declan said, his voice bored. He used his free hand to peel Fiona's fingers off his sleeve like she was a piece of lint. "Have you met my wife?"

Fiona's smile faltered.

"Blaire," she said, her tone dripping with acid. "Congrats. Though I hear second choices are... disappointing."

"Careful," Declan said. His voice dropped. It wasn't loud, but it was lethal. "You are speaking to Mrs. Singleton. If you disrespect her, you disrespect me. And you know what happens to people who disrespect me."

Fiona went pale. She swallowed hard, took a step back, and disappeared into the crowd.

Blaire looked up at Declan, shocked.

He looked down at her. "Don't wander off," he muttered. "You're my shield against these vultures."

"Is that all I am?" she asked.

"For now."

The DJ's voice boomed. "Ladies and gentlemen, please clear the floor for Mr. and Mrs. Singleton's first dance!"

Declan took her glass of champagne and set it on a passing tray.

"Showtime," he said.

He led her to the center of the floor. He placed one hand on her waist and took her other hand.

The music started. A classic waltz.

Declan moved with surprising grace. He led her effortlessly, his body guiding hers.

His hand on her back was hot. His fingers splayed wide, touching bare skin. Every time he pulled her closer, she felt the hardness of his chest.

"You're tense," he murmured.

"I'm dancing with the enemy," she replied.

"I'm not your enemy, Blaire. I'm your savior."

"You're an opportunist."

"Same thing."

She tried to step out of rhythm, just to annoy him. To prove she had some control.

He corrected her instantly. He spun her out and yanked her back in, dipping her low.

Her hair swept the floor. His face was inches from hers.

"In the boardroom, you can argue," he whispered, his eyes locked on her lips. "In the bedroom, you can fight. But on the dance floor? You follow me."

Her breath hitched. The double entendre hung in the air, heavy and thick.

He pulled her upright.

Barrett appeared at the edge of the dance floor as the song ended. He looked anxious.

"Declan," Barrett started. "About the restructuring of the Asian division..."

Declan didn't even look at him.

"Not tonight, Barrett," Declan said coldly. "It's my wedding night. I'm not discussing business."

"But-"

"Go away," Declan said.

Barrett retreated.

Blaire stared at Declan. He had just dismissed her brother-the CEO-like a servant. And strangely... she liked it. Barrett had been weak today. Declan was strong.

"Let's go," Declan said abruptly.

"The cake hasn't been cut," she said.

"I don't care about the cake."

He grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the exit. The crowd cheered, thinking they were eager lovers rushing off to consummate the marriage.

They reached the elevators.

Declan didn't wait. He swept her up into his arms, bridal style.

"Declan!" she shrieked, grabbing his neck instinctively.

"Shut up," he grunted, carrying her into the elevator.

The doors closed. The noise of the party vanished.

It was just them. In a small metal box.

She could feel his heart beating against her side. It was steady. Slow.

"Put me down," she said.

"Save your energy," he said, looking straight ahead at the floor numbers. "It's going to be a long night."

Her stomach did a flip.

"What does that mean?" she whispered.

He didn't answer.

The elevator opened to the private garage. His driver was waiting.

They got in. The car pulled out, heading toward Central Park West. Toward his fortress. Toward the unknown.