CHAPTER 12 – Leona
Two weeks have passed since my first public appearance as Mrs. Drake. Two weeks of outings, strategic introductions, and the gradual tightening of a leash, I didn't fully perceive until it was firmly secured.
The most obvious constraints are the security details that shadow my every move, the cameras monitoring each entrance, the fingerprint scanners on every door. But these, at least, are honest in their purpose.
It's the subtle restrictions that truly bind me—the ones draped in luxury and wrapped in the guise of protection.
I stare at the three dresses laid out across the bed, each one selected by Marcus's personal shopper for tonight's dinner with the city's police commissioner. Navy silk, emerald velvet, black lace.
This is my life now.
"The emerald would complement your coloring."
I turn to find Marcus in the doorway, dressed in a tailored black suit. These past weeks have taught me to read the subtle differences in his attire—the cut of this jacket, the platinum cufflinks, the particular tie—all indicating that this event holds strategic importance.
"I was considering the navy."
"By all means."
I reach for the navy dress, suddenly perversely determined to wear it simply because it wasn't his preference. Such small rebellions are all I have left.
"You'll need to be ready in thirty minutes," he informs me, checking his watch. "The Mercers are punctual to a fault."
The Mercers—real estate developers with ties to every level of Port Hollow's government. Another strategic alliance in Marcus's ever-expanding web of influence.
"I'll be ready."
He lingers, studying me with that calculating gaze I've come to resent and crave in equal measure. "The sapphires would pair well with that dress. Second drawer of the jewelry cabinet."
After he leaves, I open the drawer to find a sapphire and diamond necklace.
I dress and clasp the sapphires around my neck, the weight of them unfamiliar but not unpleasant.
Tonight will be like all the others—smiling at strangers, memorizing names and connections, standing close enough to Marcus to maintain the illusion of marriage.
***
The dinner is held at Alessandro, Port Hollow's most exclusive restaurant.
"Mrs. Drake, enchanting as always." Commissioner Reeves, a man whose dedication to law enforcement is matched only by his willingness to look the other way for the right price, kisses my hand with calculated charm. "I see why Marcus has been keeping you to himself."
"A failing I'm gradually correcting," Marcus responds smoothly, his arm slipping around my waist. "Leona's been adjusting to her new role admirably."
The proprietary gesture would have infuriated me weeks ago. Now, I lean into it automatically, playing my part.
"You've been quite the talk of the city these past weeks," Reeves's wife comments, her smile not reaching her eyes. "First, that spectacular debut at the Townsend Gallery, then suddenly appearing at all the right events. Marcus has certainly brought you into society with... flair."
"Some entrances deserve fanfare," Marcus replies, his fingers tightening almost imperceptibly at my hip.
I force a smile, remembering my role. "Marcus has been introducing me to his world."
"Well, you certainly appear to be adapting quickly." Mrs. Reeves's gaze flicks to the diamond pendant at my throat, mentally calculating its worth. "That necklace is exquisite."
"Another gift." I touch the stones briefly, thinking of the growing collection in my jewelry box. "Marcus likes to spoil me."
"I'm sure he does."
The insinuation in her tone makes my spine stiffen. Marcus must feel the change because his thumb draws a calming circle against my side.
"If you'll excuse us," he says smoothly. "I see Judge Morton has arrived. We have matters to discuss."
As he guides me away, I maintain the smile until we're out of earshot. "Two weeks and they still think I'm a gold digger."
"They think whatever I want them to think." His voice is low, meant only for me. "And right now, that's that I've found a wife beautiful and intelligent enough to turn my head. The rest is irrelevant."
"It's not irrelevant to me."
His eyes meet mine, something almost like gentleness in them. "Their opinion means nothing. Mine is the only one that matters."
For the rest of the evening, I observe more than I participate. Marcus, I've learned, operates in layers of strategy—tonight's seemingly casual interactions will undoubtedly serve multiple purposes in his ongoing campaign for control.
By the time we leave, my face aches from smiling, and my feet throb in my designer heels.
As we reach the penthouse, Marcus steps forward and swipes a card along a hidden sensor near the wall. A low mechanical click follows, and a side panel opens, revealing a narrow hallway I'd never noticed before.
“This way,” he says.
“Where are we going?”
“Somewhere private.”
The hallway ends at a steel-reinforced door. He opens it to reveal a secluded study—walls lined with bookshelves, blackout curtains drawn over the windows, and a fireplace casting a warm flicker over leather furniture. It’s masculine, quiet, heavy with unspoken history.
“I needed a space untouched by the world. No surveillance. No staff. Just me.”
“Why show me this?”
“Because I trust you enough to want you here.” He pours two glasses of whiskey from a crystal decanter and hands one to me. Our fingers brush in the exchange. Even this slight contact sends an unwelcome current through me.
"Our agreement was temporary," I tell him, stirring the liquid before taking a sip.
"Agreements change."
"Not this one. Once the Delgados are no longer a threat, once we find Cody—"
"Then what?" His voice is closer now; he's followed me. "You return to your old life as if none of this happened?"
"What are you saying?"
He reaches out, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear, the gesture unnervingly gentle. "I'm saying you fit here better than you want to admit."
"In your world of violence? That’s the same reason I ran from the world Cody created."
"In my world of power and protection." His fingers linger against my cheek. "Tell me you don't feel it—how differently people look at you now. How doors open without asking. How fear has been replaced by respect."
I can't deny it. These past weeks have shown me exactly what it means to be Marcus Drake's wife—the fear in people's eyes when I enter a room, the deference in their tone, the way problems disappear before I even mention them.
It's intoxicating.
"That's not me," I whisper, but the protest sounds hollow even to my own ears. "That's your name, your influence."
"It's yours now too." His hand slides to the nape of my neck, warm and possessive. "You wear it well, Leona."
"This doesn't change anything," I manage, even as my body betrays me by leaning into his touch.
He says nothing—just reaches out and curls his fingers around the arm of my chair.
And then he pulls.
The chair glides over the floor with a soft scrape, bringing me flush against his. The force of it isn’t violent but it’s enough to leave me panting.
“What are you doing?” I whisper, my voice barely making it past the knot in my throat.
Marcus doesn’t answer. He just leans back slightly, his posture maddeningly relaxed, like he didn’t just close the distance between us and toss my entire nervous system into chaos.
“You’re in my space,” I manage, even though I don’t move. Even though I don't want to.
He tilts his head, eyes locked on mine. “You didn’t stop me.”
My heart stutters, but I lift my chin anyway. “Maybe I’m just too shocked to react.”
“Are you?” His voice lowers, not quite a whisper, but quieter. “Or are you exactly where you want to be?”
Before I can fire back, his hands slide along the inside of my thighs.
“Marcus—” I flinch, not from fear, but anticipation.
He spreads my legs with a gentle but commanding motion. I don’t resist. I don’t even blink.
“I told you,” he murmurs, “I enjoy watching you discover things.”
“Discover what?” My voice shakes. My entire body shakes.
“How easily you give in when no one’s looking.”
He slides a finger along the edge of my panties. I bite my lip hard.
“Say something,” I whisper.
“I don’t need to say anything. I want you to feel it.”
His fingers trace over the soaked fabric—slow, careful strokes. Each pass tightens the coil low in my belly. I grip the seat under me, barely holding still.
He watches my face the entire time. Not my thighs. Not his hand. Me.
I’m flushed. Panting. So close it hurts.
“Don’t stop,” I breathe, not caring how desperate I sound.
His fingers pause. That cruel mouth lifts at the corner, and he leans in, his lips brushing my ear.
“That’s the problem with you,” he murmurs. “You always want something you haven’t earned.”
Then, like a spell snapping, he pulls his hand back and wipes his fingers with a monogrammed napkin from the table.
I stare at him, completely undone. Shaking. Unsatisfied.
“You’re walking away?” My voice is a sharp edge.
He straightens his jacket, nonchalant. “You’ll live.”
I shove back from the table, the chair legs screeching. “You smug, manipulative bastard.”
His smile is lazy, unreadable. “You enjoyed it.”
“You didn’t even let me finish.”
“I wasn’t trying to.”
I don’t know whether to slap him or pull him back into my lap. My hands clench into fists, my body still pulsing with everything he started and refused to finish.
“This isn’t a game,” I hiss.
“It is now,” he replies, and turns his back like the final insult.