The car ride was silent, but the tension between us hummed louder than the engine.
He didn't speak, but his hand brushed mine once—accidental, or maybe deliberate. My chest skipped. My fingers tingled.
At the boutique, he led me past the displays like he owned every inch of the space—which, with his black card, he practically did.
"Try this," he said, handing me a dress so soft it felt like silk against my skin. I slid it on, and the mirror reflected a version of myself I barely recognized—elegant, poised… and undeniably his.
He circled me slowly, eyes scanning, calculating. "It suits you. But not as much as this." He held out another dress, darker, sharper, with lines that made my heart race.
I felt his gaze linger, heavy, unreadable. "Why are you staring at me like that?" I asked, though my voice betrayed my nervous excitement.
"Because you're mine," he replied, voice low, dangerous.
Before I could react, a familiar voice sliced through the boutique air: "Oh… so fancy," the scheming lady drawled, leaning against a display with that infuriating smirk. "I didn't expect to see you here again."
My stomach dropped. I braced myself.
He didn't even glance at her at first. Then, slow and deliberate, he stepped in front of me. His hand brushed my waist—not aggressively, but possessively enough to make a statement.
"Don't test me," he said, calm but icy.
She smirked, trying to provoke, and leaned closer to whisper something meant only for me. Before she could finish, his hand snapped out—another sharp slap across her face.
"Enough," he growled. The boutique went quiet, all eyes on the scene. She flinched, stunned, the audacity of his control—and protection—crashing over her like a wall.
He turned back to me, softer now, thumb brushing my hand. "You're safe," he murmured.
I nodded, cheeks hot, heart racing. Every moment with him was a storm I didn't want to escape.
Even as the scheming lady slunk away, plotting, I knew one thing: he would always be there. Watching. Protecting. Possessing.
And I… wanted him to.