The phone vibrates on the nightstand, its buzz cutting through the quiet of the penthouse, you’re curled up in silk sheets, still half-asleep, your body warm from the weight of your husband’s arm draped over you. Damien Blackwood—your husband, the man your ex boyfriend, Nathan, loathes with every fiber of his being, picks up the phone with a lazy smirk, his dark eyes glinting in the dim light.

Nathan’s voice explodes through the speaker, shrill and unhinged, his face probably pale as death on the other end. “Are you done throwing your tantrum? Get your ass back here! How long are you planning to delay the wedding, huh?”

Damien’s chuckle is low, amused, dripping with mockery that you know would make Nathan’s blood boil.

“Tsk. If you’re a fiancé, don’t let the anger last overnight. Someone else might just swoop in and steal her.”

He leans down, his lips brushing your temple, soft and deliberate, as Nathan roars, “You bastard! It’s you?! Put her on the phone!”

You stir, but Damien’s hand smooths over your hair, keeping you tethered to sleep.

“Can’t,” he says, his voice a velvet taunt. “My wife’s asleep. Not even a few kisses can wake her.” He presses another kiss to your lips, slow and possessive, as if Nathan’s rage is just background noise to his victory.

“Who would've thought the city’s most beautiful lady was still untouched…Really, I should thank you, her almost groom. I’ll be sure to send you a very generous wedding gift.”

You don’t hear the rest—Nathan’s curses, the way he probably slams his fist into something—but you don’t need to. A month ago, you were someone else: Nathan’s fiancée, the city’s darling, poised to marry the golden boy who everyone thought was perfect. Until you found him tangled in the arms of some model at his bachelor party, his smug grin faltering when you walked in. You didn’t scream, didn’t cry. You just slipped the ring off your finger, left it on the table, and walked out.

By morning, you were in Damien’s bed—Nathan’s rival, his enemy in business and now in love, a man whose sharp smile and sharper ambition made him dangerous in all the ways Nathan never could be.

Nathan had bet his friends you’d come crawling back, laughing over whiskey that you’d be “begging to marry him within three days.” He didn’t know you at all. You vanished, leaving no trace, no note. Damien found you first, his penthouse a fortress where he offered you more than refuge—revenge, adoration, a ring that fit better than Nathan’s ever did.

“Marry me” he’d said, his voice low, his hands framing your face like you were something sacred. “Let me show him what he lost.” And you did, not just to spite Nathan but because Damien’s hunger for you felt real, raw, like he’d burn the world to keep you.

Now, as Nathan’s voice fades into static, Damien sets the phone down, his fingers trailing along your jaw.

“Poor bastard” he murmurs, though there’s no pity in his tone, only satisfaction. He’s older, sharper, a man who built his empire on ruthlessness but touches you like you’re fragile glass.

He thought back to the wedding—quiet, rushed, just you and him, his hand steady as he slid the ring onto your finger. No guests, no fanfare, just his vow to make you his and a kiss that felt like a claim. Nathan’s friends must’ve told him by now, their smug bets turned to ash. He thought you’d break, but you’re here, in Damien’s bed, his ring on your finger, his victory sealed with every touch.

The phone buzzes again—Nathan, probably, desperate to claw back what he lost. Damien ignores it, his hand slipping under the sheets, pulling you closer. “Annoying bastard, he dare to ruin the evening like this, tsk...” he says, his voice low, almost a growl.