Blaire woke up warm.

It was a heavy, comfortable warmth. She was wrapped around something solid. Her leg was thrown over a thick thigh. Her hand was resting on a hard, rhythmic chest.

She snuggled closer, burying her face in the crook of a neck that smelled like soap and man.

Wait.

Her eyes flew open.

She was draped over Declan like a starfish.

She gasped and scrambled backward, nearly falling off the mattress.

Declan was awake. He was lying on his back, one arm behind his head. He was watching her with amusement.

"Sleep well?" he drawled. His voice was rough with sleep. It sent a shiver down her spine.

"I... the bed is too small," she lied, her face burning.

"It's a California King, Blaire. You could land a plane on it."

He threw the covers back.

He was wearing boxer briefs. Just boxer briefs.

Blaire squeezed her eyes shut. "Put some clothes on!"

"It's my room," he said. She heard his footsteps moving toward the bathroom. "You have ten minutes. Breakfast is at eight."

Blaire waited until the bathroom door closed before she exhaled.

She got dressed in record time. A high-necked blouse and trousers. Armor.

She went out to the dining area.

Declan was sitting at the head of the table, reading the Wall Street Journal. He was dressed in a suit now, looking like the shark he was.

A plate of eggs and fruit was waiting for her.

She sat down.

"We need to talk," she said. "About boundaries."

Declan lowered the paper. He took a sip of black coffee.

"Go on."

"I want a separate room," she said. "And privacy. We don't need to... cohabitate like this."

"Blaire," he said, setting the cup down. "You need to understand the concept of 'joint assets'."

"I am not an asset."

"To the board, you are. And right now, the board is nervous. Jeffery's stunt made us look unstable. They want reassurance."

"What kind of reassurance?"

"An heir," he said simply.

Blaire choked on her water. "Excuse me?"

"Not immediately," he added, waving a hand. "But they need to believe we are a real couple. That we are... trying. If we sleep in separate rooms, the staff will talk. If the staff talks, the press talks. If the press talks, the stock drops."

"So I have to sleep in your bed to save the stock price?"

"Essentially."

He stood up and walked around the table. He stopped behind her chair. He placed his hands on the back of it, leaning down. She could feel his breath on her neck.

"Also," he whispered, "I solved your liquidity problem. The debt on the English Tower? I paid it off this morning."

Blaire stiffened. That debt had been drowning them.

"You... you did?"

"Consider it a wedding gift."

She felt a confusing mix of gratitude and resentment. He was buying her. Piece by piece.

"Fine," she said, her voice tight. "I'll stay in the room. But you don't touch me. Unless there are people watching."

Declan smirked. She could hear the smile in his voice.

"Deal. But remember, in this house, Mrs. Higgins counts as 'people'."

"What?"

Before Blaire could react, Mrs. Higgins walked in with the coffee pot.

Declan leaned down and pressed a kiss to her cheek. It lingered. His lips were warm.

"Good morning, darling," he said loudly.

Blaire froze. Mrs. Higgins beamed at them.

"You're a jerk," she whispered.

"I'm a devoted husband," he corrected. He grabbed his briefcase. "We have a charity gala tonight. Be ready at seven. Wear something... accessible."

He walked out.

Blaire stabbed her eggs with a fork.

Her phone buzzed. It was her father's secretary.

The debt is gone, Ms. English. It's a miracle.

Blaire looked at the door Declan had just walked through.

He was a devil. But he was a devil who kept his word.

At 6:30 PM, Blaire walked into Declan's study.

She was wearing an emerald green gown. She held a stack of papers in her hand.

Declan was at his desk, signing documents. He looked up. His eyes swept over the dress, lingering on the slit up her thigh.

"Nice dress," he said.

"I have a contract," Blaire said, slamming the papers on his mahogany desk.

He raised an eyebrow. "Another one?"

"A Marital Agreement," she said. "Since you insist on this charade. Clause one: No unnecessary physical contact in private. Clause two: No entering the bathroom while occupied. Clause three: All public appearances must be scheduled and approved by both parties forty-eight hours in advance. Clause four: Outside of these appearances and necessary cohabitation, our private lives will remain separate."

Declan picked up the papers. He read the first page.

He laughed. A dark, rich sound.

"Appearances?" he asked.

"Yes."

He stood up. He held the papers in both hands.

Then, he ripped them in half.

Blaire gasped. "What are you doing?"

He stacked the halves and ripped them again. Then he dropped the confetti into the wastebasket.

"I don't sign contracts I don't intend to keep," he said.

He walked around the desk. He backed her against the bookshelf.

"I am a dictator, Blaire. Not a democrat. You don't get to set terms."

"You can't just-"

"I can. I own the mortgage. I own the company. And on paper, I own you."

He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers brushed her jaw.

"You want to hate me? Fine. Hate me. But don't try to manage me."

Suddenly, his phone rang on the desk.

He glanced at it. His expression darkened.

He pressed the speaker button.

"What," Declan barked.

"Declan?" A voice came through. Slurred. Weepy.

Jeffery.

Blaire's blood ran cold.

"I... I made a mistake, man," Jeffery sobbed. "Cathi... she's crazy. She's not who I thought she was. She just wanted the money."

Blaire covered her mouth.

"You're pathetic," Declan said coldly.

"Is Blaire there?" Jeffery asked. "Tell her I'm sorry. Tell her I'm coming back. I can fix this."

Declan looked at Blaire. He saw the tears welling in her eyes. He saw the shaking.

His jaw tightened.

"You're not coming back," Declan said. His voice was ice. "You abandoned her. You humiliated her. If you step foot in New York, I will destroy you. Stay where you are, Jeffery. Rot there."

He hung up.

The room was silent.

"He wants to come back," Blaire whispered.

"He's a fool," Declan said. "Are you still in love with him?"

She looked up. "I hate him. I hate him for leaving. I hate him for making me feel like I wasn't enough."

Declan nodded. He seemed pleased by that.

He stepped closer. He cupped her face in his hands. His thumbs wiped away a stray tear.

"Good," he said. "Use that hate. Tonight, we are going to walk into that gala, and you are going to look so happy, so radiant, that Jeffery will see the photos and wish he was dead."

"Revenge?" she asked.

"Revenge," he agreed. "Let me make you the envy of the city, Blaire. Let me show them what they lost."

Blaire looked into his eyes. For the first time, she didn't see a shark. She saw an ally. A dangerous, violent ally.

"Okay," she whispered.

"Okay."

He offered his arm.

They walked to the elevator. She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. She squeezed.

He looked down at her hand, then at her. He smiled. A real smile.

"That's it, Queen," he murmured. "Let's go to war."

The gala was a blur of flashes and fake smiles. But they won. They dominated the room.

They got back to the penthouse at midnight. They were both a little tipsy on champagne and adrenaline.

Blaire went into the bathroom to change.

She reached behind her to unzip the dress. It was stuck.

She tugged. Nothing. The fabric was caught in the teeth.

"Ugh," she groaned. She twisted, trying to get a better angle. She pulled harder.

Rip.

"Damn it!"

"Need help?"

Blaire jumped. Declan was leaning against the doorframe. His tie was undone, hanging loose around his neck.

"It's stuck," she admitted, her face heating up.

"Turn around."

She hesitated. Then she turned her back to him.

She felt his hands on her bare skin. His fingers were hot. He brushed her hair aside, exposing her neck.

"Hold still," he murmured.

He worked on the zipper. His knuckles grazed her spine, sending shivers down her legs. He was taking his time. Too much time.

"Declan," she breathed.

"Got it."

The zipper hissed down. The dress loosened, pooling around her waist.

She caught it before it fell completely. She looked in the mirror.

Declan was standing right behind her. He was looking at her reflection. His eyes were dark, hungry.

"You were dangerous tonight," he said. "The way you looked at those investors... you have teeth, Blaire."

"I learned from the best," she whispered.

He placed his hands on her waist. His thumbs rubbed against her skin.

"Did you?"

He leaned down and kissed the sensitive spot where her neck met her shoulder.

Her knees gave out. She gripped the edge of the marble sink to stay upright.

"Declan, we shouldn't..."

He spun her around. He lifted her effortlessly and sat her on the edge of the vanity. Her legs dangled open. He stepped between them instantly.

"Why not?" he challenged. "We're married. You hate Jeffery. I want you. What's the problem?"

"It's... complicated."

"It's simple."

He cupped her face. "I've wanted you for two years, Blaire. Since the moment I saw you at that merger meeting."

Her eyes widened. "Two years? But... I was with Jeffery."

"I know," he growled. "And I hated every second of it."

He kissed her.

This wasn't like the church. This was desperate. Raw.

She tasted the scotch on his tongue. She felt the desperation in his grip.

Her hands found his hair. She pulled him closer. The dress slid further down.

She forgot about the contract. She forgot about the business deal.

She just wanted to feel something other than pain. And Declan... Declan felt like fire.

"Say yes," he groaned against her lips. "Blaire, say yes."

She looked at him. She saw the need in his eyes.

"Yes," she whispered.