Elena: POV

The autumn sunlight streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows of Sterling Fashion HQ should have felt warm, but I barely noticed it.

My attention was fixed on the Italian silk samples spread across the table, Marcus Brown’s enthusiastic voice washing over me as he pointed out the way the fabric caught the light.

“I really think this weave would be perfect for the evening gown line,” Marcus was saying, leaning closer to show me the subtle shimmer. “The drape is—”

“Miss Vance.”

My entire body went rigid. I knew that voice—cold, commanding, edged with something dark that made my stomach drop.

I turned slowly to find Julian Sterling standing across the open floor, his tall frame immaculate in a charcoal Brioni suit.

But it was his eyes that made my breath catch—those steel-gray eyes that could cut through me like a knife.

And right now, they were burning with barely restrained fury.

“My office. Now.”

He didn’t wait for an answer. He simply turned and walked toward the executive elevator.

“Elena?” Marcus’s concerned voice broke through my paralysis. “Is everything okay?”

“It’s fine,” I managed, the lie tasting bitter.

I was already moving, my heels clicking against the marble floor. I could feel eyes following me—Sarah from accounting, Lisa from marketing, half the design team. The whispers started before I even reached the elevator.

‘There she goes again. Running to the boss.’

I thought, ‘Wonder what he wants this time.’

I kept my spine straight, my face blank. Let them think what they wanted. They had no idea I was actually his wife—his secret, hidden wife that no one could ever know about.

The elevator ride felt like an eternity. When the doors opened to the executive floor, Julian was already striding away. I followed like I always did, my heart hammering against my ribs.

But instead of entering his office, he turned sharply toward the private lounge.

‘What does he mean?’

The lock clicked behind us with a sound of finality that made my pulse spike. I opened my mouth to speak, but he was on me before I could get the words out.

His hands gripped my waist, backing me against the wall until the cool plaster met my shoulder blades. His face was inches from mine, and I could see the storm brewing in his eyes.

“Who is he?” His voice was low, dangerous.

“What?” My hands pressed against his chest instinctively. “Julian, I don’t understand—”

“The man you were laughing with.” His fingers dug into my hips hard enough to leave marks. “Marcus Brown. Don’t think I didn’t notice. Don’t think I don’t see the way men look at you.”

The accusation hit me like a physical blow. “We were discussing work! Julian, that’s all—”

“Work.” The word was a mockery, his right hand sliding up to grip my jaw, forcing me to meet his gaze. “You trying to seduce every guy you meet? Tell me, Elena—am I not enough for you?”

The words cut deep. “That’s not fair—”

“Isn’t it?” His thumb traced my lower lip, the touch somehow both tender and threatening. His other hand was already working the buttons of my blouse. “You’re my wife. Mine. And I don’t share what’s mine.”

Wife. The word should have meant something.

“Julian, please, we can’t do this here—” My protest sounded weak even to my own ears. Because my body was already betraying me, heat pooling low in my belly despite everything. Three years of this. Three years of being his outlet, his release.

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