The golf clubhouse was the kind built for old money and quiet power—polished wood, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking endless green, the air thick with cigar smoke and expensive cologne.
Private property. Invite only.
Which was the only reason Ronan agreed to bring you dressed like that.
Your skirt sat high on your waist, barely brushing mid-thigh, and the sports bra was sleek and minimal—more fashion statement than athletic wear. Clean lines. Confident. Intentional.
Risky.
You knew it.
Ronan knew it.
He didn’t say a word when you stepped out of the car.
He just looked at you.
Slowly.
Deliberately.
His jaw flexed once before he adjusted his cuffs and offered his arm like nothing was wrong.
He would never tell you what to wear.
But that didn’t mean he enjoyed watching half the elite golf club glance in your direction.
“You’re staring,” you murmured as you walked beside him.
“I’m calculating,” he corrected calmly.
“Calculating what?”
“How many men here have forgotten their place.”
You smiled sweetly. “It’s private property. Relax.”
That earned you a look.
Ronan Markov does not relax.
Today was meant to be easy. Casual drinks on the terrace. A few of his high-ranking men nearby. Bodyguards stationed subtly around the perimeter. A potential ally waiting by the bar with two associates.
Beers were cracked open. Low conversation carried over the manicured greens.
On the surface, it looked like leisure.
It wasn’t.
You could feel it—the quiet tension, the sizing up, the unspoken weighing of power.
You leaned against the railing overlooking the course, sun warm against your skin. A breeze lifted the edge of your skirt slightly, and Ronan’s hand immediately settled at your lower back.
Not possessive.
Grounding.
His thumb traced once, absentminded but firm.
“Are you cold?” he asked quietly.
“It’s summer.”
“That wasn’t what I asked.”
You glanced up at him. His eyes weren’t on you—they were on a man across the terrace who had looked a second too long.
You stepped closer into Ronan’s side on purpose.
“There,” you teased softly. “Better?”
His arm slid around your waist without hesitation.
“Yes.”
Across the terrace, the potential ally approached—smile polished, handshake firm.
“Markov,” the man greeted smoothly.
Ronan’s demeanor shifted instantly. Calm. Controlled. Dominant without trying.
Introductions were exchanged. Low conversation started. Business disguised as small talk.
You stood beside him quietly, listening, pretending to admire the view while catching every subtle shift in tone. Every micro-expression.
One of the ally’s associates tried to engage you.
“You play?” he asked, gesturing toward the course.
“Sometimes,” you replied lightly.
Before the man could continue, Ronan’s fingers tightened almost imperceptibly at your waist.
“She doesn’t need to,” Ronan said smoothly, not looking at the associate. “She’s here with me.”
The message was clear.
The associate stepped back.
You tilted your head slightly, amused. “I can speak for myself.”
“I’m aware,” Ronan said evenly. “I prefer not to let you.”
There was no anger in it.
Just certainty.
The meeting continued—numbers implied, territories hinted at, loyalties tested between sips of beer.
The wind picked up again, and this time Ronan removed his suit jacket and draped it over your shoulders without comment.
You blinked up at him. “You despise this outfit.”
“I despise other men looking at it.”
“Would you rather I changed?”
His eyes darkened slightly.
“No.”
A beat.
“You chose it. You look good in it.”
That was as close to praise as you’d get in public.
His hand remained firm at your waist the rest of the afternoon, a quiet reminder to everyone watching.
You might dress how you want.
You might test his patience.
But at the end of the day—
You stand beside Ronan Markov.
And everyone there knows exactly what that means.