The sun was a physical assault. It sliced through the gap in the curtains, burning Calla's retinas before she even opened her eyes.

She tried to roll over, but her body screamed. Her hips ached, her thighs felt bruised, and there was a dull, throbbing soreness between her legs that brought the memories rushing back.

The chapel. The ring. The ripped dress. The look in his eyes.

Calla sat up, gasping. She looked around the massive bed. It was empty. The sheets on the other side were rumpled but cool.

The bathroom door opened. Steam billowed out, followed by Christ.

He was wearing nothing but a towel low on his hips. Water droplets clung to the hair on his chest, trailing down over abs that looked like they were chiseled from marble.

Calla's breath hitched. She pulled the sheet up to her chin, her face burning.

Christ walked to the bed. He didn't look ashamed. He didn't look apologetic. He looked like a king surveying his conquered land.

"Awake?" he asked. His tone was back to business-casual, as if he were asking if she'd finished a report.

"Turn around," Calla croaked. Her voice was hoarse. "I need to get dressed."

Christ raised an eyebrow. He gestured to the floor. "Your dress is... compromised."

Calla looked down. The silk heap on the carpet was unrecognizable. Panic flared in her chest. "That was... Francis bought that for me."

Christ's expression hardened instantly. He walked to the closet, ignoring her request for privacy, and pulled out a white dress shirt. He tossed it at her.

"Put it on. Breakfast is in the living room."

Calla caught the shirt. It smelled like him. Cedar and starch. She wrapped the sheet tighter around herself and tried to stand. Her legs gave way.

She stumbled. Christ was there in a second, his hand gripping her arm to steady her. His skin was hot against hers.

The contact made Calla flinch. She shoved him away, hard. "Don't touch me!"

The rejection sparked something in his eyes. He grabbed the back of her head, his fingers tangling in her messy hair, and pulled her face to his.

He kissed her again. Hard. Possessive.

Calla didn't think. It was pure instinct. A cornered animal reaction. She clamped her teeth down on his lower lip. Hard.

She tasted metal.

Christ pulled back with a hiss. He touched his lip. His fingers came away red.

Calla froze. The silence in the room was deafening. She had just drawn blood from Christ Carlson. The man who made grown men cry in boardrooms.

"I... I'm sorry," she stammered, trembling. "You... you started it."

Christ looked at the blood on his thumb. He didn't look angry. His pupils dilated, swallowing the iris. He slowly licked the blood from his lip, his eyes never leaving hers.

"Feisty," he murmured. It sounded like a compliment. It sounded dangerous.

"Eat," he ordered, turning away as if nothing had happened. He gestured toward the living room, where a small foil packet sat next to a glass of water on the coffee table. His gaze lingered there for a moment, an unspoken command.

Calla scrambled into the shirt. It hung to her mid-thighs, swallowing her frame. She buttoned it with shaking fingers and walked into the living room.

A spread of fruit and pastries sat on the glass table. Next to the water, the foil-wrapped package seemed to glare at her. Plan B.

Calla felt a wave of nausea. She sat down, staring at the pill.

Suddenly, a buzzing sound vibrated against the glass.

Calla's phone.

The screen lit up. Francis.

Calla's heart stopped. She stared at the name blinking on the screen.

Christ, who had been reading something on a tablet, looked up. He saw the name.

The air in the room vanished.

The phone buzzed again. Bzzzt. Bzzzt. It sounded like a countdown.

Calla lunged for it, desperate to silence the noise, to hide the evidence.

Christ's hand got there first. His long fingers slammed down on the phone, pinning it to the table.

"Answer it," he said. His voice was silky, terrifyingly calm. "Speakerphone."

Calla went pale. "Please. Christ. Don't let him know."

"Why?" Christ tilted his head. "Are you ashamed of your husband?"

"It's not that! He'll... he'll be so angry. Please."

Christ ignored her. He slid his finger across the screen and tapped the speaker icon.

"Calla?" Francis's voice filled the room. It was tight, laced with panic. "Where are you? Gemma said you left with some guy last night. Are you okay?"

Calla stared at the phone, her lungs paralyzed. Christ watched her, his finger tapping a rhythm on the glass table. Tap. Tap. Tap.

"I..." Calla swallowed dryly. "I'm okay, Francis. I'm at the hotel. I just... drank too much. I fell asleep."

"Which hotel? Are you alone? Who was the guy?" Francis fired the questions like bullets.

Calla looked at Christ. He was smirking. It was a cruel, cold expression. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out. His hand slid under the table.

His fingers brushed the bare skin of her inner thigh.

Calla jumped, clapping a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp.

"Calla?" Francis's voice sharpened. "What was that noise?"

Christ's hand moved higher. His thumb traced the sensitive skin just above her knee. He was watching her struggle, enjoying the torture.

"Nothing!" Calla said, her voice an octave too high. "It's... room service. They just brought breakfast."

Christ's eyes darkened at the lie. He picked up a silver fork and dropped it onto a ceramic plate. Clatter.

"Room service?" Francis sounded suspicious. "Is there a man in there?"

Calla grabbed Christ's wrist under the table, digging her nails in, begging him to stop. He didn't budge. He was solid rock.

"It's the TV!" she lied frantically. "I'm watching the news! It's loud!"

Francis let out a breath, a static sigh over the line. "Okay. Okay. Just... don't scare me like that, Cal. Come home. The jet is waiting. Annamarie is asking for you."

Calla flinched at the name. "Okay. I'm coming."

"Safe travels, sweet pea."

The line went dead.

Calla slumped in her chair, sweat beading on her forehead. She felt like she had just run a marathon.

Christ snatched the phone from the table. With a sudden, violent motion, he threw it against the far wall. It shattered on impact.

Calla screamed, jumping out of her chair.

"Room service?" Christ stood up, stalking around the table. He crowded her against the edge, his body radiating heat and fury.

"You'd rather lie to him than admit you belong to me?"

"It's complicated!" Calla cried, backing away until her hips hit the console table. "You know how he is! He's possessive! If he knew..."

"If he knew what?" Christ grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up at him. "That he lost? That his little girl is a woman now? My woman?"

"That he would be heartbroken!" Calla blurted out.

The words hung in the air.

Christ's face went blank. The anger vanished, replaced by that terrifying, dead calm.

"Heartbroken," he repeated flatly.

He released her chin as if touching her disgusted him.

"Pack your things," he said, turning his back on her. "We're going back to New York."

Calla stood in the center of the living room, clutching the lapels of Christ's shirt. The fragments of her phone lay in the corner like a dead insect.

"I can't go," she whispered.

Christ didn't turn around. He was pouring himself a glass of water. "Why?"

"My dress. You ripped it. I can't walk out of here in your shirt. Francis will ask questions I can't answer."

Christ paused. He took a sip of water, then set the glass down. He picked up the hotel phone and punched a single button. He murmured something low and indistinct, then hung up.

"Wait," he said.

Ten minutes later, there was a knock at the door. Two women in black suits rolled in a rack of clothing. It was like a portable fashion week. Chanel, Dior, Saint Laurent. All in her size.

"Mr. Carlson," one of the women said, keeping her eyes respectfully lowered. "The selection you requested."

Calla stared at the rack. There was easily fifty thousand dollars' worth of fabric there.

"I can't accept this," Calla said, her voice shaking. She looked at Christ. "Francis checks my accounts. He'll know I didn't buy these."

Christ waved the women away. The door clicked shut.

"I am your husband," Christ said, walking over to the rack and running a finger along a silk sleeve. "According to the state of Nevada, my assets are your assets. It's a legal obligation."

"It's a trap," Calla countered. "If I wear this, I owe you."

"You already owe me." He turned to her, his eyes scanning her bare legs beneath his shirt. His gaze flickered to the untouched pill on the table. "Take it, Calla."

The phone call had completely derailed her. She had been so terrified of Francis finding out that the small, silver packet had been forgotten. Now, under Christ's unwavering stare, she felt her face heat up. She walked over, ripped the foil, and dry-swallowed the pill. It tasted bitter. Like regret.

"About us..." she started, turning back to him. "I need... I need time. Francis is getting engaged to Annamarie. The family image is fragile right now. If we announce this..."

"You want an NDA," Christ interrupted. His lip curled in a sneer.

"I want a truce," Calla pleaded. "Just until things settle down. Please. Don't tell him yet."

Christ walked over to the sofa and sat down, crossing one leg over the other. He looked like a king on a throne, deciding the fate of a peasant.

"A secret marriage," he mused. "Scandalous."

"Please, Uncle."

His eyes flashed at the word. "Don't call me that."

He was silent for a long moment. The hum of the refrigerator was the only sound.

"Fine," he said finally. "I will keep our marriage a secret from Francis. For now."

Calla let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. Her shoulders slumped in relief.

"But," Christ stood up. He walked over to her, stopping inches away. He reached out and buttoned the top button of the shirt, his knuckles grazing her throat.

"Everything has a price, Calla. You know that."

"What's the price?" she whispered.

"Access," he said softly. "You are available to me. Whenever I want. Wherever I want. You answer my calls. You come when I summon you."

Calla felt a chill run down her spine. It was a deal with the devil.

"And if I'm with Francis?"

"Especially then," Christ's eyes glittered.

Calla looked at the clothes, then at the man who held the deed to her life. She had no choice.

"Deal," she said.

Christ patted her cheek. It was patronizing. Possessive.

"Good girl. Get dressed. The car is downstairs."