Chapter 23
Chapter twenty-three
Trey
Who Do You Want – Ex Habit
Seraphina’s still looking around like she’s stepped into another universe.
I don’t blame her. This place is a lot. Floor to ceiling glass, ocean views that could swallow you whole, clean lines and black marble that gleams under soft gold light.
When I bought it, I told myself it was just a house.
A crash pad between tours. But watching her now, bare feet padding across the polished floor, fingers brushing along the back of the couch, like she’s afraid to leave fingerprints on something that isn’t hers… it feels different.
Maybe because I want it to be?
It’s fucking confusing as hell. Me, all heart eyes. Yet, when I say things to her—soft, breathy, low enough to make my own ears burn—it feels… right.
Wrong, right, I don’t know.
Around everyone else? I can slip back into Prince Charming mode with alarming ease.
Too easy, maybe. I think I missed my calling as the greeter at a male brothel.
No shame in that line of work—okay, maybe a little—but if the music thing blows up, or I somehow need a career pivot, I could rock that gig.
At least I’d know I’d have the charm, the voice, and the smoldering stares down.
“Lord’s blessings, I give thanks,” she whispers, her voice almost lost in the open space. “People actually live like this?”
I smile, I can’t help it. “You do now.”
Her head snaps toward me, eyes wide and bright in the fading light. The disbelief in them cuts a little deeper than I expect. She doesn’t see what I see—someone who deserves all of this and more. I take her hand, lead her through the living room toward the hallway.
“Come on. I’ll show you around.” We move slowly, her eyes taking in every detail—the soft hum of the air conditioning, the faint smell of polish and salt air, the echo of our footsteps on the stone floors.
I stop at the master bedroom, pushing open the double doors.
The room opens onto a private balcony, sheer curtains fluttering in the warm breeze.
The bed’s oversized, dark wood with crisp white sheets that look untouched.
Sera stands in the doorway, staring at the space like it might vanish if she blinks too long.
Her fingers trail over the dresser, the carved pattern in the wood. Like she’s committing it to memory.
For a second, I can’t move. I just watch her.
Because she looks like she belongs here.
My chest tightens.
I push open another door in the master bedroom, and she follows, still wide-eyed from the view. The light flickers on automatically, washing the space in soft white.
Her gasp echoes softly.
It's more than a closet—it’s a world. A walk-in wardrobe lined with oak shelves, racks of clothes that run the full length of the room.
Dresses, jeans, sweaters, coats. Rows of shoes displayed like artwork.
A glass island in the center gleams beneath the lights, filled with delicate jewelry, sunglasses, even silk scarves in every shade I thought she might like.
She takes a hesitant step forward, fingertips grazing the sleeve of a soft cream sweater, then the hem of a dress. Her lip’s part, but no sound comes out.
“This is…” she whispers, voice breaking slightly. “Trey, this is…”
“Yours.” I finish quietly.
She turns to face me, eyes wide and glimmering in the low light. “How? When?”
“My household staff, or home bros as I like to call them,” I say with a half-smile, leaning against the doorframe. “But I chose some of it myself.”
“Home bros?” she shakes her head, “Trey, this is too much.” Emotion tightening her throat.
There’s a small, but very real chance I’ve invested too much time in Downton Abbey.
But fuck it—I’m not the only one in L.A. with a posse of staff. Logan can play house with Mac like a lovesick weirdo.
Chace? I don’t even know if the man wipes his own ass anymore. He’s got a thing for bidets, and a family tree so complicated it probably needs its own documentary.
Sam—pretty sure the guy is homeless. Sleeps in his car, showers at the gym, and wouldn’t change a damn thing. I say that because he’s never once invited me over for a housewarming party. Or, you know, a house.
You said you’d jerk off in his bed to assert dominance.
True. But he wasn’t gonna be in it.
I glance at my bewildered houseguest—wait. Shit. Wife.
From the look she’s giving me, she’s definitely giving wildered. That’s a word. That has to be a word.
“Trey…who are you?” she asks, her voice soft, almost trembling.
The wife does not appear to be vibing. #ballandchainamiright
“Sera, I’ve told you everything. I’ve been very forthright about this.”
Okay, getting nervous. Dial back the Britishisms, mate.
“I’m a bandmember in a successful group of musicians. I’ve got more money than I know what to do with. I found you in an hour of need, you tended to me, I saw pain in you that I knew too well. You reached out, and I came to repay my debt.”
I gesture toward the closet—yeah, the one exploding with designer chaos.
“This,” I say, “is me freaking out because I didn’t know how to dress a nun.
So, it’s a bit of everything. Don’t worry about the cost. Return it, burn it, donate it—whatever.
You’re at a point where you get to figure out who you are, like I had to when I was in a really fucking dark place with Mac’s brother.
I can never pay him back…but I can pay it forward.
You agreed to let me help, so take a breath, and let me fucking help. ”
The last words tumble out in one breath, tripping over each other until I’m out of air.
I take a step closer, locking onto her gaze. “You’ve spent your life being told who to be, what to wear, what to believe,” I murmur, quieter now. “Now you get to choose. Every damn piece of it.”
Uh oh. If you make a bride cry on her wedding day, is that bad luck… or good luck?
That’s a stupid fucking thought.
Let me cook…what if she’s crying because she’s so happy you gifted her with an orgasm?
She’s overwhelmed. I’m overwhelmed.
It’s not that kind of marriage.
…Right?
I exhale. She’s still standing there, stunned—eyes shimmering, lip trembling.
“I’m sorry. I’m overwhelmed. You’re overwhelmed.”
The air between us hums. She is not the girl from the church anymore—no longer trembling under someone else’s control.
She’s here. In our home.
Feelings shift through me with tethered thoughts, is it fear? Regret? Or is that look on her delicate lips hope? I keep drawing more emotion than I should. I should be creating distance.
Take a step back, give her air…let her process…
That would be wise.
Too bad.
I force myself to move, to break the moment before it becomes something I can’t walk back from.
“Come on,” I say quietly, nodding toward the hallway. “There’s one more room I want you to see.” Her head tilts, curiosity flickering through the haze of emotion. “This one,” I say, pushing open the glass doors to my studio, “is my world.”
My studio stretches out before us—dark soundproof walls, guitars hanging in neat rows, a baby grand piano near the window, cables snaking across the floor toward the mixing decks.
The faint scent of wood polish and ozone fills the air, and the soft glow from the control panel paints her skin in shades of amber and blue.
I don’t even realize I’m smiling until she turns to look at me.
“You look…different in here,” she says, voice soft, tentative.
“Yeah?” I glance over my shoulder, trying to sound casual, though my pulse has already gone rogue.
“Yeah,” she nods, eyes glinting with something I can’t name, something that presses at my chest and makes it harder to think straight. “It’s your happy place.”
That…and somewhere in between a beautiful woman’s legs.
A mental whistle escapes.
Down, boy. Easy.
Horniness aside, flustered hormones in full riot mode…
I can’t lie. The studio really is my sanctuary.
The one place that’s ever-made sense. Every knob, every slider, every button feels like an extension of me.
My fingers hover over the mixing board, skimming the surfaces, brushing the cold metal, the smooth faders.
It’s tactile, it’s familiar. It’s where I can breathe, think, create, and maybe…
just maybe, let some of the world’s noise fall away.
“This is where I get to say what I can’t out loud.” I admit.
For good reason…
“Every lyric, every sound—it’s all pieces of me that don’t fit anywhere else.
” She walks around slowly, fingertips grazing the keys of the piano, the strings of a guitar.
I’ve never seen anyone walk through this room like she does—softly, like she’s tracing the edges of a safe place she’s never had before.
She might not truly belong to me. But hell if I’ll let anyone take her away from me now.
Needy. Needy and childish. She can’t be mine. She can do better.
At least now, I can find peace knowing that I did a good thing, helped someone out of a bind with no ulterior motive. More importantly, Seraphina understands that now she’ll always have a choice.
A voice.
And if she wants, a place to call home.
She turns back to me, a small smile on her red lips, her hair catching the fading light.
“It’s beautiful,” she murmurs, voice soft.
I want to say it back. You’re beautiful. Just two words. Simple. Harmless. Or maybe not. Maybe they’d change everything—or ruin it.
I swallow the heat rising in my chest, bite down on my tongue, and clamp the words inside. Not yet. Not here.
For now, I let her presence wrap around me like a current I can’t—or don’t want to—resist.
Maybe it’s crazy. Maybe this whole thing is built on a lie, on signatures and secrets and a last-ditch way to protect her. But standing here, in my world—with her—one thought burns through everything else.
Maybe I want it to be real.
By the time we wander back to the bedroom, dusk has started to fall, painting the sky in shades of gold and violet. The glass doors to balcony stand open, a soft breeze spilling through, carrying with it the faint hum of Los Angeles below.
Seraphina stands there, her white lace dress catching the dying light, the fabric rippling gently around her legs. She’s barefoot, and her hair—loosened slightly from the braid—shimmers like fire under the fading sun.
When she turns, glancing back over her shoulder, she smiles.
Fuck.
My lungs forget how to work.
Don’t you fucking smile at me with that tone of voice.
I should take my leave and clear my head.
She’s standing there—my wife—framed by the horizon, the city stretching endlessly behind her. My chest tightens. My heart kicks hard, thudding against my ribs so suddenly I look down, palm flattening over it like I might be able to calm it.
This isn’t good. Not fucking good at all.
I can feel it thrumming through me—this pull, this heat. Why did I think ditching the guys and eloping here was a good idea? To get her home? Keep her safe? Just lock myself away with this witchy-woo, don’t look, don’t touch…
Maybe we could…
You know we should…
Ah, fuck it.
It’s no use. The rhythm in my chest, the ache in my gut—they’ve gone wild. I push off the doorframe, each step measured, deliberate, like gravity itself is dragging me closer to her.
Her scent hits me, sharp and sweet, tugging at some instinct I can’t ignore.
I know—fuck, I know—that when I reach her, the world is going to tilt, and there’s no going back.
She doesn’t move—just watches me, the same soft smile tugging at her pretty painted lips.
When I reach her, I lift a hand, sliding it along the delicate curve of her jaw, tucking a loose curl behind her ear.
My thumb lingers a beat too long, tracing the edge of her cheekbone.
“You really are beautiful, Seraphina.” I say, voice low and rough.
Her lips part slightly, her breath catching before she whispers, “So are you.”
That smile of hers does something to me. Something dangerous.
A slow, wicked grin tugs at my mouth as I step closer, my hands finding her waist. I feel the warmth of her body through the thin lace, the rise and fall of her breath syncing with mine. She’s so close now that there’s no space left between us—just heat, pulse, and the unbearable awareness of her.
This is for science, right? Just to see how she responds.
Yeah. For science.
My heart is hammering. I dip my head, gliding the bridge of my nose along hers, the faintest touch of skin against skin. She exhales, trembling slightly, and I swear it takes everything in me not to give in. My lips brush the corner of hers—barely there.
A whisper of a kiss.
A promise I can’t keep.
But probably fucking SHOULD.
The air between us sparks.
I pull back, breath ragged, my forehead dropping to hers for a second before I collect myself and step away.
My chest heaves, my hands curling into fists at my sides.
Don’t.
She deserves much more than this. More than me. More than a man who’s spent most of his life trying to outrun his demons.
But God help me—I’ve never wanted anything more than to rip that ridiculously, impossibly hot wedding dress off my wife’s body and finally—finally—make her mine.
I deserve a sainthood.
Knight me.
Crown me.
Checkmate me.
Fuck. Me.