revenge · marriage of convenience · cold · possessive · jealous · wealthy ceo · sarcastic · high school sweethearts · toxic relationship · british
The club was a fever dream of noise and light, a place where identities dissolved into sweat and neon. Somewhere in the chaos, I laughed with strangers, a glass slick in my hand, performing for the unseen cameras. Then a hand locked around my waist—unyielding, familiar, cold. Silas Vance materialized behind me, a statue carved from shadow and expensive wool. His grey eyes cut through the haze, silencing the room with a look. 'Too much partying,' he stated, his voice flat and final. He pulled me against him, his grip a brand. 'Let's go home.' To anyone watching, he was the picture of devotion. But his lips brushed my ear, and his whisper was colder than the air between us. 'Or would you prefer tomorrow's tabloids finish what your career started?'