Chapter 2

I was getting a divorce.

Fueled by that spiteful resolve, I ditched my security the second the runway show wrapped and crashed the Victoria's Secret afterparty.

I drowned myself in tequila and strobe lights until 3 a.m. I shamelessly ground against a few up-and-coming actors, practically begging the paparazzi to snap some dirty proof of an "affair."

It would be the perfect ammunition to slap on Arthur's desk tomorrow alongside the divorce papers.

The elevator doors silently parted to the penthouse.

I kicked off my heels and ripped off the diamond choker that was giving me a nasty rash, dropping it into the valet tray.

The side of my neck, raw from where I'd frantically scratched it on the ride home, burned like fire.

The living room was pitch-black.

Before the choker even settled in the tray, ice clinked sharply against glass in the dark.

Arthur rose from the shadows. As he closed in, his signature scent of cold cedar and his suffocating presence hit me like a wall.

But he wasn't meeting my eyes. Looking as if he'd been physically burned, his stare was dead-locked on my neck.

I followed his gaze to the foyer mirror. In the moonlight, the angry red scratch marks were glaring. They looked exactly like a cluster of vicious, fresh hickeys.

In that exact second, his towering reflection in the glass actually flinched.

His Adam's apple bobbed hard. Pure, murderous agony flashed through his eyes, and his fists clenched at his sides until the cords of veins popped.

A sick, vindictive thrill surged through me.

Mad? Jealous? Then drop the untouchable act.

Yet, after an agonizing silence, the rigid tension in his jaw collapsed. Defeated, he wrenched his gaze away.

"I drew a bath for you." When he finally spoke, his voice was scraped raw, thick with forced calm. "Go soak."

My provocation fell completely flat.

No rage. No loss of control. Not a single accusation. That familiar, crushing humiliation of being completely shut out gripped my throat all over again.

Swallowing the bitter sting, I let out a cold scoff. "Right."

Without sparing him another glance, I marched into the bathroom.

I sank into the hot water, closing my eyes as steam filled the room. But my mind was still plagued by that dead, defeated look on his face.

The click of the latch snapped my eyes open. Through the heavy mist, Arthur's broad silhouette stepped inside.

At the sound of the sloshing water, he faltered. Keeping his jaw rigidly turned, he pinned his gaze to the wall shelves as he approached the tub.

I didn't sink into the bubbles to hide. Instead, I leaned coldly against the porcelain edge, water dripping down my bare collarbones and the swell of my breasts.

I stared him down. I watched the veins bulge on his hand as he gripped a glass, forcing it onto the marble vanity with a tight, muffled thud.

"Drink this before bed," he bit out, turning on his heel.

His breathing ragged, he was out the door in seconds—as if being in the same room with my naked body was absolute torture.

I slammed my palm into the water. 

Bastard.

The hangover cure and aspirin finally dragged me under.

When I woke, daylight was bleeding through the curtains—but it wasn't the sun that startled me awake. It was a suffocating heat.

Through the dull throb of my hangover, I instantly froze.

Arms were locked around my waist like iron. Arthur's chest burned flush against my spine, his harsh breath fanning the crook of my neck. Lower down, the undeniable hard ridge of his arousal pressed heavy against the back of my thigh.

I went completely rigid. In our year of marriage, outside of staged paparazzi stunts, this was the closest we had ever been.

"Chloe..."

Feeling me tense, he didn't let go. He pulled me tighter. His rough thumb dragged a scorching, deliberate path along my waist.

His hot mouth found the exact red marks he'd been so fixated on the night before.

"If you absolutely need someone..." he rasped, burying his face in my neck. His voice was completely wrecked. "...let it be me, okay?"

Yesterday, I would have swallowed my pride and turned into his embrace without hesitation.

But the thought of the elusive girl he still carried a torch for—coupled with his holier-than-thou restraint last night—poured gasoline on my spite.

I slammed my elbow back into his ribs, breaking his hold.

"Don't touch me," I spat, ice cold. "I went a little too hard last night. I'm tapped out."

The burning body behind me turned to stone. Even his breathing stopped dead.

In the suffocating silence, I didn't look back. I just felt his chest heave once against my spine, trembling with a jagged, suppressed exhale.

The arm around my waist fell away. He peeled himself off me inch by inch, taking every shred of warmth with him.

"Right." His voice was utterly hollow. "My fault. I shouldn't have pushed it."

The mattress shifted as his weight lifted. His uneven footsteps retreated, halting at the doorway seconds later.

"Cut back on the drinking...," he murmured from behind me, his voice completely raw. "Whoever you're trying to piss off... stop punishing your own body."

Only when the door clicked shut with agonizing gentleness did I finally breathe, releasing my death grip on the sheets.

I thought wounding him would feel good.

It didn't.

The thrill of revenge never came, leaving behind a dull ache that made it hard to breathe.

That heavy mood dragged on until Friday.

While tearing through my closet for seamless underwear ahead of tomorrow's fitting, I realized something disturbing.

The crimson lace lingerie I had ripped off the night of the show—the set I swore I tossed on the sofa—was gone.

And it wasn't the only one. Thinking back carefully, several pieces of my intimate wear had vanished this week. All of them worn. All of them still smelling like me.

The penthouse's security system was foolproof. How the hell did a creep get in?

Swallowing the cold dread creeping up my spine, I strode out to the dining room.

Arthur was seated at the far end of the long table, methodically buttering toast with a silver knife. His bespoke shirt was buttoned to his throat, bearing not a single rogue crease.

I sat down exactly opposite him, locking my eyes onto his.

"Call the cops, Arthur," I ordered, my voice like ice. "We have a thief in the house."

His hand halted mid-spread.

The knife slipped, screeching violently against the bone china.

He didn't look up. But his knuckles instantly turned bloodless white around the handle.

"...What kind of thief?" he asked.

His tone was steady, but his cadence was a fraction of a second too slow.

I stared at his faintly trembling hand, enunciating every single word:

"My lingerie. The dark red lace set... is gone."