The silence inside the Maybach on the ride home was thick enough to choke on.

Isla stayed huddled against the passenger door, wrapped in Curtiss's jacket. She kept her eyes closed, pretending to sleep. She could feel Curtiss's heavy, burning gaze dragging across her skin every few seconds.

Curtiss stared at the tear tracks on her cheeks. He remembered the raw desperation in Karson's eyes. A dark, ugly jealousy clawed at his throat.

He pulled out his phone and texted K. Jennings: Tear into Karson Cantrell's past. I want to know exactly where he was five years ago.

The car pulled into the underground garage. Isla instantly opened her eyes. She took off the jacket and held it out to him, keeping her distance.

Curtiss ignored the jacket. He grabbed her wrist and pulled her out of the car, dragging her toward the elevator.

When they walked into the penthouse, Isla turned toward the guest hallway.

"Stop," Curtiss commanded.

Isla froze.

"You're moving into the master bedroom tonight," Curtiss said, loosening his tie. "My wife doesn't sleep in a separate wing."

Isla's eyes went wide. "But... my sleep schedule..."

Curtiss stepped into her space, his height overwhelming her. "I need to know you aren't having panic attacks over some pathetic bully. You sleep where I can see you."

Isla had no choice. She bit her lip and nodded, her chest tight with panic.

At 2:00 AM, the master bedroom was pitch black. They lay on opposite sides of the massive King Size bed.

Isla listened to Curtiss's deep, even breathing. When she was sure he was asleep, she slipped out from under the covers. She grabbed her phone and crept into the master bathroom, turning on the sink faucet to mask any noise.

She sat on the cold tile floor and logged into the dark web. She messaged 'Ghost', a top-tier hacker.

Alter the relationship descriptions in my school records regarding Karson Cantrell. Delete any mutual photos, event logs, or shared project files to create the absolute illusion that we never crossed paths.

She transferred a massive sum of cryptocurrency. Ghost replied: Give me two hours. It'll look like you two didn't even breathe the same air.

Suddenly, the bathroom doorknob rattled.

Isla's blood ran cold. She shoved the phone deep into her bathrobe pocket.

"Are you crying again?" Curtiss's rough voice came through the wood.

Isla splashed cold water on her face, making her skin look pale and clammy. She opened the door. "I had a nightmare," she whispered.

Curtiss looked at her wet face. He let out a heavy sigh. He reached out, grabbed her waist, and pulled her hard against his bare chest.

Isla gasped. She was pressed against his hot skin, listening to his strong, steady heartbeat. The sheer physical dominance of his embrace made her head spin.

The next morning, while Curtiss was in the gym, Isla checked her phone. Ghost had confirmed the wipe.

At the Coffey Group headquarters, K. Jennings stood in front of Curtiss's desk. He looked nervous.

"Sir, Cantrell's file from five years ago... it's completely empty," K. Jennings said. "Someone professionally scrubbed it last night."

Curtiss stared at the blank paper. A slow, predatory smile spread across his face.

"A clean file means a dirty secret," Curtiss whispered. "Call the ex-military contractors. Dig up the graves if you have to."

Across town, Isla walked into the hidden Verve headquarters. Kristy handed her a black envelope.

"The European buyers want a secret meeting tonight," Kristy said. "At the underground VIP club in SOHO."

Isla took the envelope. Her eyes burned with ambition. She had to secure the European market before Curtiss tore her past wide open.

The heavy bass from the underground SOHO club vibrated through the soles of Isla's stilettos.

She wore a sharp, blood-red velvet suit. Her lips were painted a matching crimson. She walked past the bouncers, flashing a black metal card. They bowed instantly, leading her away from the chaotic dance floor and down a dark hallway toward the soundproof VIP rooms.

Kristy and three arrogant Parisian fashion buyers were already sitting inside the room.

Isla walked in. She didn't greet them. She walked straight to the head of the table, sat down, and crossed her legs. She radiated absolute, terrifying authority.

She picked up a martini glass, taking a slow sip.

The lead Parisian buyer leaned forward. "We want a thirty percent cut of the European distribution, Freya. Or we block your entry."

Isla let out a cold, mocking laugh. She slammed a thick dossier onto the glass table.

"Your supply chain in Milan is bankrupt," Isla said in flawless, razor-sharp French. "You need my brand to survive the quarter. You get ten percent, or I crush your company by Friday."

The Parisian buyers went pale. The air in the room grew suffocating under her dominance.

Directly above them, on the second floor of the club, Curtiss walked out of a private lounge. He had just finished a brutal negotiation with Wall Street bankers.

He felt a massive headache coming on. His mind kept flashing back to Isla's pale, terrified face in the bathroom last night. He just wanted to go home and check on her.

"Bring the car around," Curtiss told K. Jennings as they walked down the private VIP stairs to the first floor.

As they walked down the dark hallway, a drunk patron stumbled out of a side door, violently crashing into the door of Isla's VIP room.

The heavy door cracked open just a few inches. The blinding light from inside spilled out into the dark hallway.

Curtiss stopped walking. He frowned at the noise and casually glanced through the crack in the door.

His expensive leather shoes rooted to the floor. His lungs stopped working.

Through the narrow gap, he saw her.

Sitting at the head of the table, wearing a blood-red suit, holding a martini glass, was his pathetic, stuttering, terrified wife.

But she wasn't stuttering. Isla's chin was tilted up. Her eyes were lethal. She was looking at the men across the table with the exact same ruthless arrogance Curtiss used to destroy his enemies.

He watched her lips move, delivering a command that made the grown men across from her sweat.

Curtiss's brain flatlined for one agonizing second. Then, the truth hit him like a freight train.

The perfectly tailored dress. The lack of fear in her eyes when she thought no one was looking. The scrubbed files.

A violent wave of fury crashed into him, instantly followed by a twisted, burning surge of adrenaline. He had been played.

The bouncers grabbed the drunk man and pulled him away. The heavy door began to swing shut.

Just before the door clicked closed, Isla's survival instinct flared. She felt a presence. She snapped her head toward the door.

Through the two-inch gap, her eyes slammed directly into Curtiss's pitch-black stare.

Isla's blood turned to liquid nitrogen. The martini glass in her hand shook violently, spilling red liquor over her fingers.

Bang. The door shut completely.

Inside the room, Isla shot up from her chair. She couldn't breathe. Her chest heaved as pure panic ripped through her body. She was caught.

Out in the hallway, K. Jennings looked confused. "Sir? Should I handle that?"

Curtiss stared at the closed door. His face went completely expressionless, a mask of pure, impenetrable ice, but his eyes darkened into a bottomless, dangerous abyss. The air around him dropped to freezing, heavy with a terrifying, calculated stillness.

"Lock down every exit in this club," Curtiss ordered, his voice perfectly calm, yet every single word was coated in frost. "I want to know exactly who she is. No one leaves."

The heavy soundproof door of the VIP room didn't just open. It was violently shoved.

The thick solid wood slammed against the wall with a deafening thud. The sound cracked through the room like a gunshot, instantly killing the music and the conversation.

Curtiss stepped over the threshold. He brought a freezing, suffocating wave of air into the room.

His dark suit looked black in the dim lighting. His eyes, sharp as surgical blades, bypassed everyone in the room and locked dead onto Isla.

Isla sat at the head of the table. Her fingers gripped the stem of her martini glass so hard her knuckles turned pure white.

Her heart violently contracted in her chest. The blood drained from her face, leaving her skin pale against the blood-red velvet of her suit. But she forced her spine to stay locked against the back of the chair. She did not move.

The lead Parisian buyer stood up, his face red with indignation instantly draining into pure terror. "M-Monsieur Coffey?" the buyer stammered in French. "W-what are you doing here? This is a private-"

He didn't get to finish.

Four massive bodyguards in black suits flooded into the room behind Curtiss. One of them shoved a heavy hand onto the buyer's shoulder, forcing him violently back into his seat.

Curtiss walked slowly toward the glass table. He placed both of his large hands flat on the surface. He leaned forward, his massive frame dominating the space.

"You have ten seconds to get out of this room," Curtiss commanded. His voice was a low, terrifying rumble that vibrated in the floorboards. "Before I have you thrown into the street."

The Parisian buyer looked up. He finally recognized the face of the Wall Street tyrant. Pure terror washed over the man's features.

He grabbed his briefcase. He didn't say another word. He and his team scrambled over each other, practically running out of the room.

Kristy gave Isla one last, terrified look before she slipped out the door.

K. Jennings was the last to exit. He pulled the heavy door shut until it clicked.

The massive VIP room was suddenly dead silent. It was just Isla and Curtiss.

Curtiss walked around the edge of the glass table. The slow, deliberate click of his expensive leather shoes against the floor sounded like a countdown to an execution.

He stopped right beside her chair.

Isla's chest heaved. She couldn't pull enough oxygen into her burning lungs.

Curtiss reached down. His large, cold hand clamped around her jaw. His fingers dug into her skin, forcing her face up to meet his gaze.

"So," Curtiss whispered, his voice dripping with lethal venom. "How many more surprises do you have for me, my sweet, fragile wife?"

Isla stared into his pitch-black eyes. She saw the raw fury there. She knew the tears wouldn't work anymore. The pathetic wallflower act was dead.

A sudden, strange calm washed over her.

Isla reached up. She grabbed his wrist and forcefully shoved his hand away from her face.

She stood up, her red velvet suit commanding the space. She didn't shrink back. She met his aggressive stare with a gaze that was just as cold, just as sharp.

"I work for Verve," Isla stated. Her voice was steady, completely stripped of the stutter she had used for months.

Curtiss's jaw clenched. A muscle feathered in his cheek.

"And the pathetic orphan act?" he demanded.

"Survival," Isla shot back, her eyes flashing with defiance. "If Collette and Jaylene knew I had money, they would have drained me dry. If Jimmie knew I had power, he would have destroyed my company. I played weak so they would leave me alone."

She took a step closer to him, refusing to be intimidated.

"Our marriage is a business contract, Curtiss," she said, her tone completely clinical. "You needed a wife to satisfy your board. I needed your last name as a shield. Me having the ability to protect myself is an asset to you, not a liability."

Curtiss stared at her. He looked at the sharp angle of her chin, the fire in her eyes, the absolute lack of fear.

He expected to feel rage. But instead, a dark, heavy pulse of adrenaline hit his bloodstream.

The pathetic, crying girl he had been dragging around was gone. Standing in front of him was a queen. A woman who could actually match his ruthlessness.

A twisted, dangerous spark of excitement ignited in his gut. His primal need to conquer flared to life.

Curtiss suddenly reached out. He wrapped his arm around her waist and jerked her hard against his chest.

Isla gasped. Her hands flew up, pressing against his solid chest to keep her balance.

He leaned down. His nose brushed against hers. She could feel the heat of his breath on her lips.

"You are my wife," Curtiss murmured, his voice thick with a new, dark possessiveness. "From this second forward, every single one of your secrets belongs to me."

The air between them crackled. The heavy scent of his cedar cologne mixed with her citrus perfume. The tension in the room morphed from violent anger into a suffocating, heavy sexual pull.

Isla's stomach flipped. Her skin burned where his hand gripped her waist.

Curtiss stared at her lips for one long, agonizing second. Then, he abruptly let her go.

He stepped back and adjusted his cuffs, his face returning to a mask of ice.

"Grab your things," he ordered. "We are going home."

Isla's hands shook slightly as she grabbed her clutch from the table. She also snatched a small, black velvet box from her tote bag, shoving it deep inside the clutch. It was an old, embarrassing relic from a bachelorette party she'd been forced to attend months ago, a silly gag gift she'd forgotten was even there.

She followed Curtiss out of the club. Her back was completely drenched in cold sweat.

The ride in the Maybach was agonizing.

The privacy partition was raised, sealing them in a suffocating bubble of silence. The space in the backseat felt incredibly small.

Curtiss leaned back against the leather seat. He didn't look out the window. He turned his head and openly, shamelessly stared at her. His eyes dragged over the sharp cut of her red velvet suit, re-evaluating every inch of her body.

Isla felt his gaze like a physical touch. Her skin prickled. She kept her knees pressed tightly together, her hands gripping her clutch in her lap.

Suddenly, a stray dog darted across the dark Manhattan street.

The driver slammed on the brakes.

The Maybach jerked violently. Isla was thrown forward against her seatbelt.

Her clutch slipped from her sweaty fingers. It flew open as it hit the floor, spilling its contents. A lipstick rolled into the shadows. The small velvet box skittered across the plush carpet and slid deep into the darkness under Curtiss's seat.

Isla gasped. She immediately unbuckled her seatbelt and leaned down, reaching her hand into the dark space to grab it.

Curtiss's large hand suddenly clamped down on her shoulder.

"Sit up," he commanded harshly. "Don't move while the car is in motion."

Isla froze. His grip was heavy and warm. She thought he was angry about the sudden stop. She slowly sat back up, leaving the box on the floor. She didn't want to provoke him again tonight.

The car finally pulled into the underground garage of their penthouse building.

The second the car stopped, Isla pushed her door open. She didn't wait for him. She practically ran toward the private elevator, the sound of her heels echoing loudly against the concrete.

Curtiss didn't get out immediately.

He shifted his leg and felt something hard against the side of his expensive shoe.

He reached down into the shadows. His fingers brushed against soft velvet. He picked up the small black box.

He stared at it for a moment. Then, he slowly flipped the lid open.

The dim, yellow light of the garage spilled into the box.

Lying on the black satin cushion was a delicate, incredibly thin body chain. It was made of silver and studded with tiny, glittering diamonds. It was designed to wrap around a woman's waist and trail down her stomach. It was pure, unadulterated lingerie jewelry.

Curtiss's breath hitched. His lungs seized.

An instant, vivid image of Isla wearing nothing but this diamond chain flashed violently in his mind. The pale skin of her stomach. The red velvet suit discarded on the floor.

His throat went completely dry. His Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.

He snapped the box shut. The loud click echoed in the quiet car.

A slow, dark smirk spread across his face. He slid the velvet box into the inside pocket of his suit jacket, right over his heart.

He stepped out of the car and walked toward the elevator. He had just found the perfect weapon.