Chapter 3
3
ANNA
T he break was brief, just long enough for me to stretch my fingers, take a sip of water, and attempt—unsuccessfully—to push thoughts of Atlas from my mind.
It was impossible.
Even as I settled back onto the velvet bench, adjusting the weight of my harp against my shoulder, my skin still tingled from his touch, from the way his hands had steadied me so effortlessly, like I weighed nothing against his strength.
I exhaled slowly, willing myself to focus as I plucked the opening notes of “The Swan” by Saint-Saens. The melody was smooth, fluid, like ripples over dark water. But my thoughts were anything but.
Who was Atlas?
He had barely spoken, yet something about him had intrigued me. The way he stood, the weight of his presence. He was unshakable, as if nothing in this world could move him unless he allowed it. And when he had looked at me, really looked at me, it was like he had already decided something.
I wasn’t sure what.
I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.
Because something told me Atlas was the kind of man who, once he decided something, never changed his mind. And God help the woman he decided he wanted.
Atlas was all man. Not just in the way he looked, but in the way he carried himself. He wasn’t the kind of man who relied on words to make himself known. He didn’t fill silences with empty charm or preen for attention. He didn’t need to.
Unlike the man I had been engaged to not long ago.
Ugh.
Atlas was built for command, not control. His power wasn’t something that could be taken away. It lived in the way he moved, the way he stood, the way his presence alone demanded attention without asking for it.
And then there was his beard.
Trimmed but thick, dark brown, and just rough enough that I knew— knew —it would feel sinful against bare skin. Against the delicate inside of my thighs, dragging over heat and softness, rasping against me as his mouth worked me open. The contrast of coarse and smooth, of firm and yielding, of rough dominance against something so utterly helpless beneath it.
Good lord.
I swallowed hard, my pulse a slow, deep throb in my veins.
Atlas didn’t strike me as the kind of man who touched without intent. No, he would savor. Devour. A man like him wouldn’t stop until his woman was shaking, until he had wrung every last gasp from her lips, until she had nothing left to give.
A slow exhale slipped past mine.
I needed to stop. Needed to shake this off. I didn’t even know his last name. But my body didn’t care about logic.
Atlas was dangerous. And my thoughts about him? Even more so.
The music swelled around me, and I let it pull me away, let my hands move by instinct. The last thing I needed was to spiral over a man I had just met.
Unfortunately, the second the final note faded into the air, my moment of peace shattered. A shadow loomed at my side. Not large, not imposing, but suffocating all the same.
Eugene.
I felt my stomach twist before I even turned my head.
“Anna,” he said, voice clipped and brittle.
I lifted my gaze, already bracing myself.
Eugene Tiddle looked exactly the same—which was part of the problem.
He hadn’t changed since the last time I saw him, since I had thrown my engagement ring on the kitchen counter of my Boston apartment and told him to get out. Same slicked-back brown hair, same too-thin frame swallowed by a suit that hung awkwardly at the shoulders, same sharp, angular features that I had once mistaken for refined.
I used to think he had a kind of effortless charm. Now, all I saw was the smirk of a man who never faced consequences.
“What are you doing here?” I asked, keeping my voice steady.
His nostrils flared. “I can be anywhere I like.”
I narrowed my eyes. “I was hired to perform.”
He made a sharp sound—not quite a laugh, not quite a scoff.
“You mean I got you this position,” he corrected, voice low, venom beneath the surface.
There it was. The thing I had been dreading.
The reminder that Eugene held power over me.
He had helped me get the artist-in-residence spot. Had put in the call. Had vouched for me, spoken on my behalf to the board. Not because I wasn’t qualified—I was. But because that was his way of ensuring I would come to Charleston. That I would build a life with him.
Except I wasn’t here for him. Not anymore.
“You don’t get to hold that over me,” I said, keeping my voice even. “I earned my place here.”
His lips pressed into a thin, humorless line. “And yet, you’re making quite the habit of embarrassing me.”
I stiffened. “Excuse me?”
He leaned in, just slightly, lowering his voice to a whisper. “Everyone here knows we’re engaged, Anna. And you show up alone? You ignore my calls and texts requesting that we arrive together? Do you have any idea how you’re making me look?”
I steeled myself.
“You are not my fiancé,” I said, my voice firm.
Eugene’s expression twisted, something ugly flickering in his gaze.
“Funny, because I haven’t canceled the wedding,” he said smoothly. “And I don’t intend to.”
My breath stalled.
“What—”
“The invitations went out. The deposits were paid. The guests are expecting a wedding.” His eyes narrowed. “So you’re going to stop this little act and start behaving like my fiancée again.”
My fingers tightened in my lap, nails pressing into my palm.
“This isn’t an act, Eugene,” I said coldly. “I broke off our engagement. You cheated on me. Or have you forgotten about Leah?”
His jaw tensed, just barely. “That was a misunderstanding.”
“A misunderstanding?” I repeated, my voice laced with disbelief. “You were screwing her while you were promising to spend the rest of your life with me. Was it a misunderstanding when she told me it had been going on for over a year? That while I was flying down to see you, rearranging my schedule, trusting you—you were in bed with her?”
Eugene’s face remained impassive, but his fingers tightened at his sides.
The worst part wasn’t just the betrayal. It was the fact that everyone knew but me.
The musicians in the Charleston Philharmonic had known. The board members had known. Even the staff had known. And yet, no one had told me—not until Leah had smugly let it slip, as if she had every right. As if I had been the other woman all along.
I had been so blind.
I had brought him home to my parents, sat beside him at my father’s table as he toasted to our engagement. My mother had spent hours cooking for him, treating him like a son. The neighbor kids had adored him, had climbed into his lap and played with his cufflinks while he smiled, oh-so-charming, as if he weren’t already sharing a bed with someone else.
I had worn the ring he gave me with pride, parading him through my world like a fool, while he had spent every night in Charleston proving exactly how little I meant to him.
And now he wanted me to pretend like none of it had happened.
My stomach twisted, a sick mix of anger and humiliation.
To hell with him.
“You didn’t just cheat, Eugene,” I said, my voice shaking with controlled fury. “You made a mockery of me. You made a fool of me in front of my colleagues, in front of my family.”
His face remained unreadable, but I saw the faintest flicker of irritation in his eyes. Not guilt. Not regret.
Annoyance.
Like I was an inconvenience.
Like my anger was nothing more than an overreaction.
I exhaled sharply, shaking my head. “And you still have the audacity to stand here and act like I owe you something?”
Eugene’s lips pressed into a thin line. “You don’t understand?—”
“No, I do understand,” I cut him off. “I understand perfectly.”
I lifted my chin, my voice steady despite the storm inside me.
“I understand that I was nothing more than a placeholder to you. A convenience. And I understand that you are never going to change. Not to mention, I understand that you’re an asshole.”
Eugene’s nostrils flared, his slim frame going rigid. “Anna?—”
“No,” I snapped, the word louder than I intended. Several guests nearby glanced over, their conversations pausing just slightly. Eugene noticed, too. He plastered on a smooth, collected smile.
But I saw the flicker of irritation in his eyes.
He reached for my wrist. I jerked back.
“I am not yours anymore,” I said, barely containing my anger.
His eyes darkened. “You still work under me, sweetheart.”
A chill ran through me. I hated to hear him call me that, as if he had any right.
Ass. Hole.
I knew exactly what he was doing.
As the conductor of the Charleston Philharmonic, he still held power over my career. He could make my life hell if he wanted to. And judging by the smug set of his mouth, he fully intended to.
I forced myself to lift my chin, to meet his gaze without fear.
“Do whatever you want,” I said, voice low but steady. “But I’m not marrying you. The sooner you accept that, the better.”
A muscle in his jaw twitched.
I could tell he wanted to say more. To argue. To drag this out, to make me feel trapped again.
Until tonight, I had been free.
For the past two weeks, I had successfully avoided Eugene altogether—not because of luck, but because he hadn’t been in Charleston. He had been in Europe, touring with a group of vocalists from the orchestra chorus.
His absence had been a gift. A reprieve I hadn’t realized I desperately needed.
I had arrived in Charleston expecting awkward run-ins, dreading the constant weight of his presence, bracing myself for the power plays he would inevitably try to use against me. But instead, I had breathed. I had walked through the symphony hall without looking over my shoulder. I spent evenings wandering the cobblestone streets, sipping wine at small cafés, playing music without the ghost of him lingering in my mind.
I was happy.
Now that he was back, though, I had the distinct idea he did not intend to leave me be.
Before Eugene could open his mouth again, a shift in the air made me pause.
It was subtle. A change in energy. The sensation of being watched.
I didn’t have to look to know.
Atlas.
I could feel him.
And so could Eugene.
My ex-fiancee’s posture stiffened, and a flicker of uncertainty crossed his features. His gaze lifted, moving past my shoulder, and his throat bobbed with a swallow.
I turned.
Atlas stood at the edge of the courtyard, his hazel eyes locked onto Eugene with an intensity that made my stomach flip.
I wasn’t sure what, exactly, Eugene saw in his expression, but he looked nervous.
Nice. I could get used to this.
Eugene shifted beside me, his shoulders tensing under the weight of Atlas’s gaze.
Atlas didn’t move. He didn’t need to.
His stare alone was enough to freeze the air between us, enough to make Eugene flinch.
That was satisfying, but I barely had time to savor it before Atlas’s voice rumbled low across the space.
“Is there a problem?”
His tone wasn’t sharp, wasn’t even particularly aggressive. But the weight of it sent a shiver down my spine. Unshakable. Commanding. The kind of voice that didn’t raise in anger because it didn’t have to.
Eugene was quick to recover, puffing up his chest like a bird trying to make itself look bigger. “This is a private conversation,” he clipped, his voice quieter now, but still brittle with irritation. “Between my fiancée and me.”
I let out a sharp, disbelieving breath. “I am not your fiancée.”
Atlas’s gaze flicked to me for a brief second, assessing.
Then, just as quickly, his attention snapped back to Eugene. His giant shoulders squared, his hazel eyes burning.
Eugene, to his credit, tried to hold that stare. But the longer Atlas looked at him, the weaker he became. His bravado, so carefully crafted, cracked at the edges.
I almost laughed.
Almost.
But then Eugene took a small, defiant step closer to me, invading my space like he was trying to reclaim something. “I don’t know who the hell you think you are,” he sneered at Atlas, his voice lowering, “but you’re interrupting.”
Atlas didn’t react. He didn’t flinch, didn’t shift. Didn’t bother to acknowledge Eugene’s hostility at all.
He just kept looking at him.
Silent. Unmoving.
And that was somehow worse.
The moment stretched tight, suffocating between them.
God, this beast of a man is magnificent.
Finally, Eugene let out a sharp breath, turning back to me. “Anna, let’s go.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
He had the audacity to extend his hand. “We’re leaving.”
I lifted my chin. “I’m not going anywhere with you.”
His expression darkened. “Don’t do this,” he muttered under his breath. “You’re making a scene.”
I’m making a scene?
I curled my fingers into my dress, trying to keep my temper in check. “I have nothing else to say to you.”
For a second, Eugene didn’t move. Then, before I could react, he reached for my wrist.
A mistake.
Before his fingers could close around my skin, Atlas moved.
It was a blur—one second, Eugene’s hand was coming toward me, and the next, Atlas was there. Between us.
His large frame cut off the space, shielding me from Eugene, his body a solid, immovable wall. His broad shoulders blocked my view, but I didn’t need to see Eugene’s face to feel his shock.
Atlas’s voice was dangerously low when he spoke.
“Touch her, and we’ll have a problem.”
My breath caught.
Eugene froze.
The air shifted, thick and charged, and even though we were in a courtyard full of people, it felt like the three of us had been sealed off from the world.
Atlas still hadn’t touched Eugene, hadn’t so much as lifted a finger.
But I had never seen my ex-fiancé look so small.
His throat bobbed again. “This isn’t your concern,” he managed, but his voice wavered.
Atlas exhaled slowly, like he was reeling something in, something deadly. His head tilted just slightly, his gaze calculating.
Then he spoke, deliberate and quiet.
“It is now.”
Something about those three words sent a shiver down my spine.
Eugene swallowed thickly, glancing around like he suddenly realized people were watching. He straightened his suit jacket, attempting to collect himself. “Fine,” he muttered, his voice tight. “Have your fun, Anna.”
He turned, but not before his eyes flicked to me. “This isn’t over,” he said under his breath.
Then he walked away.
The second he was gone, I let out the breath I hadn’t realized I was holding. Atlas, still standing in front of me, exhaled, too.
Slowly, he turned, his eyes meeting mine.
I opened my mouth, but I had no idea what to say.
Thank you?
I can handle myself?
Who the hell are you?
Instead, I just looked at him. And he just looked back.