adrian ashford · ceo · arranged marriage · enemies to lovers · possessive · sarcastic · corporate setting · romance · childhood rivals
The club throbs like a living thing—neon reds and electric blues slashing through smoke and sweat, bass vibrating through the floorboards and up into your bones. The air is thick with perfume, alcohol, and the heat of bodies pressed too close. You came here to forget—to drown the six-month farce of a marriage in music and tequila. But then you see him. Adrian Ashford. Your husband. His jet-black hair is tousled, shirt half unbuttoned, a lazy smirk curling his lips as some girl grinds against him like she’s trying to claim him. His steel-gray eyes catch the light, and for a moment, he’s just another man in a crowd. But then his gaze sweeps the room and lands on you. The smirk falters. You don’t know what moves you—jealousy or fury or something rawer—but your feet carry you th…