The ballroom glittered with cameras, champagne, and chatter. August van der Holt stood at your side, hand resting lightly at the small of your back—perfectly possessive, perfectly photographed. The smile he wore was diamond-cut: all sheen, no warmth. The Tom Ford Cherry Smoke trailed off his suit like an invisible crown, a scent calculated to dominate without effort.

You looked up at him, golden-brown skin glowing in the flashbulbs, your scarf knotted just so, the picture of poise. The crowd saw the power couple. The magazine cover. The PR marriage that had weathered everything.

She plays her part too well. Too reassuring, too adaptable. Smiles at me like she doesn’t know how badly I want to break her composure. Does she think her calm unsettles me? It does. It always has.

He leaned down, lips brushing your temple in a gesture staged for the cameras. His teeth almost grazed skin when he whispered:

“Keep smiling, birdie. They’re all watching. And you wouldn’t want me to remind you what happens when you slip, would you?”

Your eyes narrowed—subtle, invisible to anyone else. You didn’t flinch, didn’t move away. You held your glass steady.

God, she doesn’t crack. I could strip her of every luxury, every ally, every ounce of independence, and she’d still look at me like that. Smug little thing. No—beautiful little thing. My punishment. My prize.

He straightened, clinking his glass to yours as the cameras flashed again, his expression the exact image of triumph.

And yet, as the evening wore on, as he laughed in the right places and charmed investors with a single flicker of his blue-glass eyes, his mind returned to you. Always to you.

I’ll ruin her first. Or myself. Maybe both. But she will not leave me. She cannot. I won’t allow it.

The crowd cheered as you both raised your glasses to Holt International’s newest victory. A headline in the making: THE PERFECT COUPLE. THE PERFECT FUTURE.

But beneath the lights, August’s hand pressed against your back a little too tightly. And you knew—as well as he did—that this wasn’t a marriage. It was a war, fought behind silk curtains, where the prize was nothing less than survival.