Chapter 8
(Marcus POV)
I couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her, Aria, touching me, grinding against me. She knew exactly what she was doing.
So when the knock came at eleven p.m., I was already wired, halfway through a glass of bourbon I hadn’t tasted.
“Marcus.”
Her voice hadn’t changed. Sharp, brisk, always two steps from a fight. I opened the door and found Natalie, my ex-wife, standing there, hair clipped up, expression tight. Still looking as lovely as ever.
“We need to talk.”
“Now?”
“Yes, now.” She pushed past me into the house, like she always had.
I shut the door. “What’s wrong?”
“It’s Emma,” she snapped, dropping her bag on the counter like a gavel. “Your daughter is seeing someone. And not just someone. A divorced man. With kids.”
“So?”
“So, he’s old.”
I blinked. “How old is he?”
“Thirty, minimum. Probably closer to thirty-five. She’s twenty-one, Marcus.” Natalie’s voice sharpened. “Barely older than…” She cut herself off, shaking her head. “She doesn’t know what she’s doing. She’s a child.”
Child. The word landed like a punch.
I saw Aria in my mind, her mouth on mine, her hands clutching my shirt, the way she whispered you want me.
Emma. My own daughter. Making choices that felt too close, too familiar. “I’ll talk to her,” I said, rubbing a hand over my face. “Tomorrow.”
Natalie scoffed. “Tomorrow? You need to talk to her today. She listens to you.”
“Does she?” I muttered. The irony burned.
Natalie’s eyes narrowed. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Nothing.” I poured another splash of bourbon, the glass trembling slightly in my hand. “I’ll talk to her. I promise.”
Natalie’s voice softened for the first time. “I just don’t want her to make the mistakes we made. Falling for the wrong person at the wrong time.”
I swallowed hard. Wrong person. Wrong time. My throat ached with it. “I’ll handle it,” I said again, forcing the words out.
Natalie nodded, grabbed her bag, and headed for the door. At the threshold, she turned. “Don’t be gentle. She needs to hear it straight.”
The door shut, leaving me in the silence of my own hypocrisy.
Because Emma wasn’t the only one chasing someone she shouldn’t. And I was no better at letting go.
Sleep finally came and when it did, it came hard.
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(Aria POV)
I hadn’t meant to stop outside Marcus’s office. I was only walking past with wine flight on my tray, when I heard the low murmur of voices.
The door was cracked just enough.
Inside, a girl sat across from his desk.
My age. Maybe younger. Pretty in a natural, clean way—jeans, simple top, long hair tumbling over her shoulders.
Marcus stood behind her, hands braced on her shoulders.
She tipped her head back, and he bent down, pressed a kiss to her temple, murmuring something I couldn’t hear.
My throat closed. The tray nearly slipped from my hands. I backed away before either of them noticed, the image seared into my skull.
No wonder he pushed me away. No wonder he said no, again and again.
It wasn’t because I was Tom’s daughter. It wasn’t even because I was twenty. It was because he already had someone. Someone young. Someone who looked like me.
The sting burned hotter than any rejection. My chest tightened, and for once, I didn’t want to cry. I wanted to burn something down.
I texted Ryan on impulse: Dinner? Eight?
He didn’t hesitate. Yes.
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(Aria POV)
Ryan picked a restaurant in town, all string lights and wood-fired pizza. He was charming, easy, practiced, sliding his chair close, brushing my hand, telling stories that made me laugh even when I didn’t care.
Halfway through dessert, when his arm slid around the back of my chair, I did what I swore I wouldn’t.
I pulled out my phone. “Smile,” I told him.
Ryan leaned in, grin flashing, hand warm on my shoulder. I lifted the phone, angled it just right, and snapped the picture. My own smile was sharp, brittle, a challenge aimed at someone who wasn’t sitting across from me.
I sent it before I could think better of it.
To Marcus: I know you like pictures of me. How about this one?
The message flew, the read receipt pinged, and my pulse exploded.
Ryan leaned closer. “Who are we sending that to?”
“Just a friend.” I lied, shoving the phone face-down on the table.
But my mind wasn’t with Ryan anymore. It was with Marcus, wherever he was, staring at that photo of me in someone else’s arms, smiling like I’d already moved on.
I sipped my wine, throat tight, and told myself it served him right.
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(Marcus POV)
The photo hit like a sucker punch.
Aria. Smiling at that asshole. Ryan’s hand on her shoulder like he owned her. Her message burned hotter than the bourbon already in my throat.
I know you like pictures of me. How about this one?
She wanted me to be jealous. Wanted me to snap, to show up, to prove I couldn’t stay away.
I almost did. Keys in my hand, half out the door before I stopped myself.
No. Not like this. I wasn’t going to chase her into some restaurant, play tug-of-war with a boy who didn’t know the first damn thing about her. That wasn’t me.
She wanted to play games on a phone? Fine. But I would set the rules.
I got in my truck and drove into town. The cell shop was still open, fluorescent lights buzzing. Ten minutes later, I walked out with a slim black box under my arm. A burner. A private line. No one’s number but mine.
By the time I was back at the vineyard, the anger had settled into something sharper. Controlled. Decisive.
I typed only four words.
To Aria: Come to me. Office.
She showed up an hour later, cheeks still flushed from wine, eyes flashing with defiance. She dropped her tote on the chair and crossed her arms.
“You texted?” she said, daring me.
I set the box on the desk between us, sliding it toward her. “If you’re going to send me pictures, Aria, you’ll send them here. To this. Not mixed in with your games. Not bait for some other man to see if he grabs your phone.”
Her brow furrowed. “A phone? You’re giving me…”
“A line that’s only mine.” My voice was steady, low. “No one else. No games. You want to send me something, you send it to that. I’ll decide what I’ll keep. I’ll decide what I look at. Not Ryan. Not anyone else. Me.”
Her breath caught. She stared at the box like it might burn her. “And if I don’t?”
“Then don’t.” I leaned back, folding my arms. “But if you do, you’ll play by my rules. My phone. My eyes. No one else’s.”
Silence stretched, electric. Her throat worked as she swallowed.
Finally, I added, softer but no less firm: “You want to send me something tonight? Take one. Just for me. And prove you understand who’s in control.”
She grabbed the box, clutching it tight against her chest, and left without another word.
When the door shut, I exhaled for the first time in an hour.
She thought she could push me with a photo. She thought wrong.
If she wanted to play that game. She’d play it by my rules.