Elena: POV
The autumn sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Sterling Fashion HQ should have felt warm, but I barely noticed it.
My attention was fixed on the Italian silk samples spread across the table, Marcus Brown's enthusiastic voice washing over me as he pointed out the way the fabric caught the light.
"I really think this weave would be perfect for the evening gown line," Marcus was saying, leaning closer to show me the subtle shimmer. "The drape is—"
"Miss Vance."
My entire body went rigid. I knew that voice—cold, commanding, edged with something dark that made my stomach drop.
I turned slowly to find Julian Sterling standing across the open floor, his tall frame immaculate in a charcoal Brioni suit.
But it was his eyes that made my breath catch—those steel-gray eyes that could cut through me like a knife.
And right now, they were burning with barely restrained fury.
"My office. Now."
He didn't wait for an answer. He simply turned and walked toward the executive elevator.
"Elena?" Marcus's concerned voice broke through my paralysis. "Is everything okay?"
"It's fine," I managed, the lie tasting bitter.
I was already moving, my heels clicking against the marble floor. I could feel eyes following me—Sarah from accounting, Lisa from marketing, half the design team. The whispers started before I even reached the elevator.
‘There she goes again. Running to the boss.’
I thought, 'Wonder what he wants this time.'
I kept my spine straight, my face blank. Let them think what they wanted. They had no idea I was actually his wife—his secret, hidden wife that no one could ever know about.
The elevator ride felt like an eternity. When the doors opened to the executive floor, Julian was already striding away. I followed like I always did, my heart hammering against my ribs.
But instead of entering his office, he turned sharply toward the private lounge.
‘What does he mean?’
The lock clicked behind us with a sound of finality that made my pulse spike. I opened my mouth to speak, but he was on me before I could get the words out.
His hands gripped my waist, backing me against the wall until the cool plaster met my shoulder blades. His face was inches from mine, and I could see the storm brewing in his eyes.
"Who is he?" His voice was low, dangerous.
"What?" My hands pressed against his chest instinctively. "Julian, I don't understand—"
"The man you were laughing with." His fingers dug into my hips hard enough to leave marks. "Marcus Brown. Don't think I didn't notice. Don't think I don't see the way men look at you."
The accusation hit me like a physical blow. "We were discussing work! Julian, that's all—"
"Work." The word was a mockery, his right hand sliding up to grip my jaw, forcing me to meet his gaze. "You trying to seduce every guy you meet? Tell me, Elena—am I not enough for you?"
The words cut deep. "That's not fair—"
"Isn't it?" His thumb traced my lower lip, the touch somehow both tender and threatening. His other hand was already working the buttons of my blouse. "You're my wife. Mine. And I don't share what's mine."
*Wife.* The word should have meant something.
"Julian, please, we can't do this here—" My protest sounded weak even to my own ears. Because my body was already betraying me, heat pooling low in my belly despite everything. Three years of this. Three years of being his outlet, his release.
"Can't?" His mouth hovered over mine, so close I could almost taste him. "Or won't?"
"Someone could come in—"
But he was already kissing me, swallowing my protests with a kiss that was anything but gentle.
His tongue invaded my mouth, claiming, possessing. I whimpered against him, hating myself for the way my body responded, for the way my fingers fisted in his expensive shirt instead of pushing him away.
When he pulled back, his eyes were dark with desire and something else—something that looked almost like pain.
"I'm going to fuck you right here," he growled against my lips, "and you're going to remember who you belong to."
Before I could respond, he spun me around, pressing me face-first against the wall. The cool plaster met my cheek as his hands found the zipper of my skirt, shoving it down along with my panties in one efficient motion.
"Julian—" I gasped as his palm connected with my ass, the sharp sting sending electricity through my veins.
"Quiet." His belt buckle clinked behind me. I heard the rasp of his zipper, felt his knee pushing my legs apart.
One hand gripped my hip while the other reached around to cup my breast through my bra, his thumb finding my nipple and pinching until I couldn't hold back a moan. "You're already wet for me, aren't you? Your body knows exactly who it belongs to."
I wanted to deny it. Wanted to tell him he was wrong, that I hated this, hated him for reducing us to this. But I couldn't. Because he was right. My body sang for him, even as my heart broke a little more each time.
He entered me in one brutal thrust, and I cried out, my palms flat against the wall. There was no gentleness, no preparation—just raw, desperate possession.
His thick length stretched me completely, filling every inch with burning friction as he pulled back slowly, only to slam forward again, the wet slap of skin echoing in the room.
My walls clenched around him involuntarily, milking his cock with each punishing stroke, while his hot breath fanned my neck, mixing sweat and cologne in the air.
"Fuck," he groaned against my ear, his chest pressed to my back. "You feel so good. So perfect. Mine."
Each thrust drove me higher against the wall. His fingers found my clit, rubbing in those practiced circles that he'd learned would make me come undone.
"That's it," he growled, his rhythm relentless. "Let me hear you."
I bit my lip, trying to stay quiet, trying to maintain some shred of dignity. But a moan escaped anyway, and I heard his sharp intake of breath, felt him thrust even deeper.
The pleasure built despite everything—despite the anger, despite the hurt, despite the knowledge that this was all I would ever have of him.
His fingers worked me expertly while he pounded into me, his other hand tangling in my hair, pulling just hard enough to blur the line between pleasure and pain.
And then, in the haze of sensation, in that moment when I was too far gone to guard my heart, the question slipped out.
"Did you ever love me?"
His rhythm faltered. Just for a second. Just long enough for me to feel the shift.
Then he laughed—a harsh, bitter sound that shattered what was left of my heart.
His lips brushed my ear as he spoke, his voice cruel. "Love? Do you really think you deserve to talk about love with me?"
The words hit me like a physical blow. But my body didn't care about my breaking heart. The orgasm crashed through me in waves as he drove into me one final time, his own release following with a guttural groan.
He held me there for a moment, both of us breathing hard, his forehead pressed between my shoulder blades. And for just a second—just one heartbeat—I felt his lips ghost over my spine. Almost tender. Almost like he cared.
Then he withdrew, and the sudden emptiness made me stumble. I braced myself against the wall, my legs shaking, as I heard him zip up behind me. The clink of his belt. The rustle of fabric being straightened.
When I finally found the courage to turn around, pulling up my panties with trembling hands, he was already at the mirror, adjusting his tie. His face was perfectly blank, as if he hadn't just fucked me against a wall.
He didn't look at me as I fumbled with my skirt, as I tried to button my blouse with fingers that wouldn't quite cooperate. Didn't acknowledge the tears I was desperately blinking back.
"Just remember, for the duration of this marriage contract, I'm still your husband. Don't even think about cheating," he said, his voice perfectly professional now. Perfectly cold.
