Chapter 31 Naomi #2
When the estate comes into view, I’m sure I’ve forgotten how to breathe. It’s enormous—a sprawling limestone mansion that looks plucked straight out of a Regency-era fantasy. Acres of manicured grounds surround it, its grandeur framed by lush greenery.
We pull up to the front of the house, a waterfall fountain—a wall of golden cherubs—runs along the left side of the house, glowing in a scene that seems as if it were crafted by the gods.
A young valet—barely older than a teenager—rushes toward the driver’s side, nerves stitched into every crease of his young face.
Christian steps out of the car just before I do, and the valet barely has time to reach for the door when Christian grabs him by the collar, yanking him close. The boy’s eyes widen as Christian growls, “Don’t scratch my shit.” He shoves the kid back with enough force to send him stumbling.
“Y-yes, sir,” the boy stammers, his voice trembling as he scrambles into the driver’s seat. He doesn’t look back, his hands shaking as he carefully steers the car away.
I stand frozen, my jaw slack as I stare at Christian—it's like I’m looking at a fucking stranger.
Or maybe this is who Christian is, and I just refused to see it before now.
Christian runs his hand down his suit, smoothing the fabric with an eerie calm that makes him seem borderline psychotic.
His fingers rake through his blond hair, leaving it perfectly tousled, and when his eyes meet mine again, there it is: that warm, familiar smile.
The one I fell for. The one that hides how utterly crude he can be.
“Was that necessary?” I demand, barely containing the simmering anger bubbling under my skin.
He shrugs, unapologetic. “You know how I am about my cars, baby.” His words are smooth, but the casual way he closes the distance between us tells me he knows exactly how much he’s being an ass tonight. His hand finds the small of my back, and he pulls me close for a kiss that I weave out of.
“If you keep acting like this, I’ll go back home right now. The last thing we need is a horrific repeat of what happened at our engagement party.”
We never got to talk about it after, with everything that happened over the past couple of days.
And I’m no saint either, but if this marriage is going to work, we must adapt outta street behavior—the manner in which you conduct yourself when representing your family or your business, in large groups, or in settings where conduct matters.
Obviously the Cavanaugh’s missed the memo.
Tris filled me in on how Momma screamed about it, patios flying all the way to the airport the next day, after she spent all night making calls to ensure everyone was okay. Let’s just say my parents were less than impressed by their new in–laws.
So, that drunken mess that Christian was, his parents' lack of accountability for what happened in their home—Daddy took note of all of that. After admitting to them that I knew about the merger, they were finally honest with me and told me what it was for. My father wants to partner with Celestia—The Cavanaugh’s company—to bring new and advanced surgical technology to third-world countries—sutures that can detect infections, robotic-assisted surgeries—it would take longer without Celestia, but Tre assured me that they didn’t mind dissolving the contract.
So, being here with Christian is my choice, my decision.
Daisy Buchanan. Eat your heart out.
Christian doesn’t give me time to stew. “Butterfly, please,” He leans in, pressing a soft kiss to my lips, his nose brushing against mine. “Don’t be mad,” he murmurs, his voice melting into something softer, sweeter—designed to pull me back from the edge. “I’m sorry.”
I sigh, caving against my better judgment. “Fine,” I mutter. “But you owe the valet an apology. And a damn good tip.”
His thumb strokes my cheek, his blue eyes softening. “I promise, my love.” I roll my eyes but let him guide me forward, his hand pressing against the small of my back. “C’mon,” he says, and I let him lead me into the foyer, even as my instincts twinge.
The house swallows us whole. It’s breathtaking —a monument to wealth and power, with glittering chandeliers dripping light like liquid gold, a sweeping staircase that feels like something out of a fairytale, and intricately designed windows that let in the natural light.
The foyer gleams, every surface polished to perfection, but the unsettling stillness pulls at my attention.
Security personnel stand in the shadows, their faces obscured by white masks with bold black Xs sewn across the eyes.
They don’t move. Barely breathing. They’re statues in an unnerving masquerade.
Before us, a long black glass table stretches out, and resting atop it is an array of masks and velvet gloves, each guest’s name written on parchment in elegant calligraphy.
Christian steps forward, scanning for our names, his movements precise and practiced.
He retrieves our masks with ease: his, a striking half-face design adorned with intricate gold markings; mine, delicate and lace-like, almost deceptively fragile.
Christian slides on his gloves, slow and deliberate, then reaches for my hand. He slips the ring from my finger, only to slide it over the glove now hugging my skin. The sight of it there is a small but powerful reminder that I am his. There is no denying it, no turning back.
For a second, flashes from the weekend float through my head—unspoken things, strange moments I brushed off. I almost linger in them, almost let them consume me. But I don’t. I force them down, smoothing my expression as I pull in a breath.
Focus, I remind myself. Stay in the moment.
He ties his mask on quickly, the transformation from the man I know to someone more formidable almost instantaneous.
“Turn around,” he says softly, the request carrying the weight of an order.
I obey, and his fingers brush against the nape of my neck as he secures my mask.
His touch lingers, and he leans in close, his breath warm against my ear.
“Do not take this off. Not for any reason at all,” he whispers, his voice laced with a dark edge that sets every nerve in my body on fire. There’s a sharpness beneath his tone, something possessive that hooks deep under my ribs.
His fingers trail lightly down my spine, and my breath hitches. A shiver races through me. I nod, unable to form words.
“Répétez,” he murmurs, his lips brushing against my skin. Repeat.
He’s always known how to speak French—something I’ve found intriguing about him ever since the first time we met.
He spoke—almost perfectly—my father’s language.
Over the years, he’s only gotten better in a way that makes my knees weak.
Speaking a different language is always a selling point for me, due to the fact that I understand seven, and speak six, damn near perfectly—Russian, and I have a love-hate relationship.
“N’enlève pas le masque,” I whisper back, my voice trembling with something between fear and anticipation.
“Très bien, ma cherie,” he says, pressing a kiss to the tender spot between my neck and shoulder. The sensation sends a jolt through me. And just as I think I might catch my breath, his hand slips lower, palming my ass,
“No underwear?” he asks, the words darkly amused and far too intimate, but I go along with it, reminding myself that I’m going to have to have kids with this man someday.
“I didn’t want lines to show,” I answer practically.
“Good,” he replies, “Less for me to take off later.”
His hand slides away, but not before delivering a firm slap to my ass.
I gasp, the sharp sound echoing in the cavernous room, but Christian is already wrapping his arm around my waist, pulling me close as if nothing happened at all.
My body still responds to everything he does—when he’s not being a raging asshole—and I begin to wonder if I’m broken.
How can someone who repulses me emotionally still turn me on?
The answer is simple: I. Am. Fucking. Broken—that’s how.
“Let’s go,” his voice is calm, steady, but I can feel the storm brewing beneath the surface as he leads me toward the doors. The weight of whatever lies ahead presses against my chest, but I keep walking.
We walk down the long corridor, the heels of my shoes clicking against the polished floor, each step echoing in the heavy silence.
The air feels thick, charged with an energy I can’t quite place, and my pulse hammers as we approach the large, ornate oak doors.
They’re adorned with intricate carvings, telling a story I don’t have time to decipher.
Christian stops, reaching into the inner pocket of his tailored suit, pulling out a silver ring. The design catches the dim light—a detailed, almost hypnotic engraving that seems to pulse with its own life. He slips it onto the ring finger of his right hand like it’s the final piece of armor.
When his eyes meet mine, they’re darker than I’ve ever seen them. Stormy. Dangerous. He grabs my hand with a sudden, almost brutal jerk, pulling me flush against his chest.
“Do you trust me?” The words slide through me like silk spun with barbed wire.
I nod, though my stomach churns violently, my instincts screaming at me to run. Bile rises in my throat, but I force it down, unwilling to show any weakness.
“Whatever you see in here,” he says, “remember—I love you.”
“Christian, you’re sc—”
“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the lovebirds,”
My protest dies on my lips—His voice, Lucifer’s gift, smooth as aged whiskey and just as intoxicating, booms through the space, wrapping around me like a vice.
I whip my head around, and there he is—a man who commands the room with a presence that makes my blood chill. Towering over Christian’s six-foot frame, he moves with predatory grace. His dark, tousled hair frames sharp, angular features and full lips.