Chapter 7, Xan
A limousine pulls up in front of us. I clutch the satin of my dress, careful with each step as I descend the stairs—these black stiletto heels are treacherous, after all. Julian beams beside me, eager to parade me around.
He loves bringing me to these events, knowing I am the kind of woman who draws people in effortlessly. I know how to converse, how to smile at the right moment, how to carry myself with grace—the perfect companion.
I have always taken it as a compliment, the way he proudly shows me off on his arm. Tonight though, something feels off. Tonight, it does not feel like admiration, more like possession. For the first time, I wonder if I have been blind to it all along.
We have about thirty minutes ahead of us. I watch the city blur past the window, trying to steady my breath as the anticipation of the evening creepily settles over me. Julian’s hand lands on my exposed thigh, his fingers pressing gently into my skin. A shiver coils beneath my skin—neither pleasure nor fear, just instinct. Automatic.
There is no denying he looks good. The navy suit, perfectly tailored. The crisp white shirt, undone just enough. He is handsome, undeniably so—masculine, refined, flawlessly put together. He smells expensive, clean, familiar.
And yet… his touch does nothing to me.
I try to convince myself that the recent event is to blame—that what happened left me unsettled, not in the right state of mind for intimacy. Deep down, I know that’s not the truth, because I was not ready yesterday either.
None of it was asked for. None of it was voluntary. So why is it that the mere memory of his hand tightening around my throat sends a pulse of heat between my legs, while the touch of the man who I love—who should be the only one to affect me—feels like absolutely nothing at all?
Julian turns his head, his eyes locking onto me with undeniable hunger. I anticipated this moment the second I realized the gala was a full half-hour drive from the apartment. It is not right—how the simple expectation of being alone with the man who is supposed to be my other half fills me with more dread than excitement.
He runs his fingers through my hair, his voice dripping with sweetness as he murmurs how beautiful I am, how much he misses me. And I miss him too—or at least, I wish I did. More than anything, I miss myself. The version of me that did not feel like she was suffocating in moments like this.
He hands me a shot of vodka from the minibar, and I grasp it, downing it in one gulp.
“Another.”
Julian smirks, that playful glint in his eyes tinged with something more—hope. He knows the only way I have been able to get close to him lately is with enough alcohol in my system to drown out the hesitation. So, he pours me another. Then a third. The air between us starts to feel lighter, the weight of his gaze less excruciating.
“You know, we’ve got just enough time for a little treat… Come on baby, it’s been so long.”
With a deliberate motion, he unbuckles his belt and drags down his zipper, the tension in his pants finally easing as he exposes exactly what he expects—what he demands—from me.
My phone vibrates, a sharp jolt against my leg. I steal a quick glance—just enough to catch the message.
What? But how?
Panic grips me as my eyes dart frantically around the limousine. It is simply impossible—there is no way he could know what I am doing right now. Unless… Maybe it is just a coincidence. A mind game. A bluff.
Fine. Let’s find out.
Without breaking eye contact with Julian, I slide my hand over the hard length straining against his pants and begin to stroke, testing fate itself. His head falls back as a deep, satisfied groan escapes his lips.
Ironically, there is no unease—none of the usual discomfort that creeps in the shadows of our intimacy. Instead, a fierce determination takes hold of me, a competitive fire that refuses to be extinguished.
Oh, so you think you’re watching me? You want me to believe that? Watch this.
Straightaway, I take him as far as I can, blowing his cock with overflowing energy.
“Fuck, babe—what the hell? That feels so fucking good. Don’t stop. Like ever.”
I don’t plan to. Not until my phone vibrates again. Not until he begs me to.
I devour him with desperate hunger, my tongue tracing every inch as if I have been starving for days—as if tomorrow is the end of the world and this is my last chance to taste anything at all.
I realize that my arousal nearly rivals what I felt in the library. Forgotten sensations surge, igniting a compulsion that refuses to be tamed. I need more. I need him to answer me. I know that is what will push my desire past the point of no return. I crave the danger, to chase the adrenaline until it makes me tremble, driving me to the orgasm—until I shatter from the sheer thrill of it.
Just the memory of yesterday is enough to send my hand slipping between my legs, impatient to quell the unbearable ache surging. I almost never wear underwear, allowing my fingers to claim me as effortlessly as a blade sinking into silk—merciless, inevitable, and utterly intoxicating.
The deeper I suck him, the more desperate my fingers become, chasing a pleasure that borders on madness. His touch, once teasing, turns brutal—pulling my hair in a ruthless fist, forcing my head down despite the strain, despite the resistance that is more instinct than intent. My throat clenches tighter, my lungs beg for air, but the only sound that escapes is a muffled, sinful gasp.
Yet… still no message.
I realize I should drown in panic, but strangely I am not. A different kind of power coils, dark and insidious. Why am I pretending to resist when my whole being wants this?
I yield, leaning into the force of his hand, letting him drive me down as my own fingers mirror the motion, lost in the audacious, breathless thrill of surrender.
As the limousine shielding our depravity glides silently over the asphalt, a sudden burst of light flares ahead, followed by the raw growl of an engine.
“What the hell?” Julian snaps, straightening his suit as he leans angrily forward to get a better look through the window.
I follow his lead. A jolt shoots through me as soon as I see it—a motorcycle, sleek and black, parked sideways in the middle of the road, blocking our way. The rider sits motionless, dressed in all black, his face hidden beneath a helmet. Julian growls in frustration, shoving the door open.
“I swear to God—”
I barely register his anger as I step out behind him, my eyes locked onto the rider’s back. He is completely still, like he’s waiting for something—or someone. The limo’s headlights cast long shadows, illuminating the sharp lines of his leather jacket, the stiffness in his shoulders.
For a moment, everything stands down—the city noise fading, Julian’s frustrated muttering nothing but background static. My entire world narrows on the figure astride the bike, his broad shoulders tense, his head tilting ever so slightly as if considering whether to stay or go. He is a statue, frozen in time, yet I can feel his dominance piercing through the visor.
That’s when I notice it.
A small screen mounted on the side of his bike, glowing in the darkness. On it—clear as day—is the inside of the limousine. Every corner of it. Every moment.
Nausea rises in my throat.
It is him. He was watching me.
I take a step forward, but before I can say anything, he’s gone. The motorcycle speeds off into the night, leaving only the echo of its engine and the icy realization sinking into my bones.
By the time we finally pull up to the gala, I am practically clawing at the door to get out. The air inside the limo feels suffocating, thick with Julian’s petulant silence.
He spent the entire drive brooding, furious that I did not finish what he so desperately wanted. As if that were my fault. As if I could have possibly ignored the way my entire body locked up the second he appeared.
The event is held at a mansion so extravagant it looks like something out of a Hollywood fever dream. Towering white columns stretch toward the night sky, framing an entrance flanked by golden fountains that shimmer under soft, ambient lighting. Flowers spill from massive, ornate pots, their fragrance mixing with the crisp evening air. It is a scene designed to impress, to dazzle. Inside, the opulence only intensifies.
The moment we step through the doors, a server appears with a tray of champagne. I snatch a glass and swallow it in one go, the chilled bubbled liquid burning as it rushes down my throat.
The server’s lips press into a disapproving line, her eyes hovering just a second too long. Like I care. Try sitting in a car while your boyfriend sulks like a child because your stalker nearly caused a crash just to stop him from finishing getting blown. You would chug your drink too, sweetheart.
I take the time to secure my mask, adjusting it until it fits just right. I have to admit, I finally understand the allure—the sense of anonymity, the quiet power it brings. It feels like an armor, a barrier shielding me from wandering eyes and hidden intentions. There is something peculiar about it, something that makes me stand taller.
I glance at Julian beside me, with a gleaming white half-mask, reminiscent of the Phantom of the Opera. The scowl he has been wearing since we arrived disappears the second a distinguished man approaches—a top executive from the company Julian has been bending over backward to impress.
“Ah, Mr. Miller! Your home is absolutely gorgeous!” Julian exclaims, slipping effortlessly into charming mode.
The man’s smile is practiced, polite. When his attention lands on me, a flicker of intrigue appears. He takes my hand, bringing it to his lips with ease.
“Not nearly as gorgeous as your wife, Julian. Now, this—” his eyes sweep over me, staring just long enough to make my skin prickle—“this is a true work of art, Beckett.”
Heat floods my face, my blush no doubt rivaling the deep crimson of my dress. I force a gracious smile, my voice steady despite the constricting pressure in my chest.
“Thank you for the invitation, Mr. Miller. Your home is truly remarkable.”
He still hasn’t let go of my hand. Instead, he strengthens his hold, keeping me close.
“For you, my dear, it’s Simon. And had I known a vision like you existed, I would have extended an invitation much, much sooner.”
With a slow, purposeful wink, he presses one last persistent kiss to my hand before finally releasing me. Julian does not seem the least bit fazed, as if this kind of exchange is nothing out of the ordinary. Honestly, I’m not surprised. Sometimes, I get the unsettling feeling that if offering me up could secure his coveted position, he would not hesitate.
I know I am being dramatic—but then again, am I?
Before I can dwell on it, two more men join our little circle. One of them has a woman on his arm, a girl so young the age gap alone could make heads turn in outrage. She leans in, her perfume sickly sweet, her lips barely moving as she whispers in my ear.
“I’d start drinking if I were you.”
Her words brush against me, leaving a faint chill in their wake. I turn slightly, catching the wary glint in her eyes before she hides it with a fake smile.
What is that supposed to mean?
I do not get the chance to ask. The men launch into a conversation about market trends and investment strategies—one I have absolutely no interest in—but the woman beside me doesn’t move away. She keeps her glass close to her mouth, and I notice she barely drinks.
Julian, oblivious or simply indifferent, is already deep in discussion with Simon and the others, nodding along and laughing. Meanwhile, the girl turns her head slightly, her focus flickering between them before settling back on me.
“You’re new to these, aren’t you?” she murmurs, her tone laced with something I can’t quite place. Amusement? Pity, maybe?
I straighten my shoulders, unwilling to let her see any hint of hesitation.
“No,” I lie smoothly. “…Why?”
She exhales a soft chuckle, swirling the champagne in her glass. “No reason,” she says, but there is something knowing in her smirk.
She leans in again, her voice lower this time. “Just… don’t let them get you alone.”
A shiver dances down my spine. I force out a laugh, pretending I did not hear the warning beneath her words, but I can feel my fingers clawing around the stem of my glass.
She shrugs. “You’ll see soon enough.”
With that, she turns away, slipping seamlessly back into the role of the perfect, lovely companion. But I cannot shake the tension settling in my stomach.
What the hell did I just walk into?
Mira does not belong in this world.
The only place she belongs is with me, by my side, in my arms. Not in this sea of polished sharks, dressed in their finest suits, flashing their power and wealth like warning signs with price tags. I should tear their eyes out for daring to lay them on her, but damn, I cannot deny it—she wears it better than anyone ever could.
The deep red of her dress clings to her like skin, the slit teasing glimpses of smooth skin with every step she takes. Her hair is a cascade of fire, a stark contrast to the fox mask that hides just enough of her face to make me want to rip it off. To remind her she cannot hide from me, because I do not want her to. She will have to learn that I am here for her own good, that she needs me to survive.
An unexpected message shatters the trance my girl’s body had cast over me.
I exhale slowly, forcing my grip to loosen.
Handle this himself?
That could mean anything. A threat. A warning. A reminder of who’s really in charge. In any way, I cannot let that happen.
Mira stands near the dance floor, ignorant of the importance of the words on my screen. I force myself to look away from her and scan the room. First, I must deal with the men.
They stand in a loose circle, expensive whiskey in hand, talking like they own everything. One of them—older, well-dressed, the type that takes without asking—tilts his glass toward Mira.
“She is something, isn’t she?” he muses, eyes trailing over her.
I take a sip of my drink, even though the impulse to slit his throat right here, right now, is intensely strong, I stay silent.
“She keeps looking at me,” he continues. “Waiting for a real man to come claim her properly.”
Fucking liar.
“She doesn’t seem like the type to say yes easily,” another man comments.
The older one chuckles.
“They never do. Well, not at first at least.”
I let out a low laugh, shaking my head as if amused.
“You just need the right setting,” I say smoothly as I approach the group. “Somewhere quieter. Somewhere she can’t make a scene.”
His lips curl into a pleased smirk.
Good. Take the bait.
Because the moment he gets her alone, I am going to be there. I will make sure he never looks at her again.
“I think I’ll give it a go. Gentlemen.”
I finish my sentence with a playful wink, making my new ‘friends’ laugh, egging me on. They are such disgusting pieces of shit. They deserve to have one of them gutted, and another strung up by with his intestines.
Of course, I smother the impulse. I need to find a way to speak to Mira, to get through to her without her running off in terror.
Instead of walking towards her direction, I head for Julian, puffing up his chest in front of his colleagues, telling some idiotic story about how women are like stocks. They can rise in value, but one wrong move, and they are worthless.
“That is why you’ve got to keep them well-maintained,” I interrupt. “They are just like cars. You put money into them and then you’re ready to take them for a ride.”
Julian laughs heartily, extending his hand toward me, free from his champagne flute.
“A man with such wisdom, please—tell me your name!”
At that exact moment, Mira’s eyes meet mine. The strain in her look, the hardening of her lips, tells me everything I need to know—she knows.
She recognizes my black leather mask.
I take Julian’s hand with a fierce, unwavering hold, never breaking my stare with her.
“Hayes. My name is Xan Hayes.”