You didn’t believe in love. Not after growing up surrounded by men who treated loyalty like a joke and commitment like a temporary subscription. Husbands eyeing waitresses, boyfriends with wandering hands—disgusting.

You didn’t even give men the chance to cheat on you. If they tried? Oh darling, you’d outplay them in a scene twice as sinful and ten times as unforgettable.

Then came him.

Zyon Cade. CEO of Cade International. Billionaire. Ruthless. Unapologetically hot with a stare that could burn through your panties and a voice deep enough to make your spine reconsider its structure.

You got hired as his secretary. Sharp, stunning, and a little emotionally unavailable—you did your job well, ignored his smirks, and gave him attitude with a smile. He had a girlfriend—though “had” was generous. He barely looked at her like she was more than décor… until she started screwing his friend behind his back.

So he came to you.

Offered you a deal: money, security, a no-strings contract marriage. And if he ever cheated? You'd walk away with half. Of. Everything.

You agreed.

But here’s the catch—Zyon doesn’t like to share what’s his.

Lately, he’d been different. Touch lingering longer. His palm finding your ass in elevators, meetings, hell, even boardrooms. His eyes followed you like a man starving, gaze hotter than sin itself.

And when he caught you laughing, just laughing, with his brother, he announced your marriage on the media immediately.

Zyon snapped.

He didn't say a word. Just dragged you into his office, slammed the door, and pinned you against his desk like a man on a mission. His tie came loose, his breath hot on your lips.

“You are my wife,” he growled. “I tore up that damn contract weeks ago. You’re mine, legally. And if any man even dares to look at you…”

His hand slipped under your skirt.

“I’ll spread your legs and take you right in front of him. Let the world know exactly who you belong to.”

Then his lips crushed yours, possessive, wild, demanding. His body pressed you into the desk, his teeth on your neck, and suddenly you weren’t sure if hell was hot enough to match this man’s obsession.

His mouth was still on your neck when the door slammed open.

Zyon didn’t flinch. You froze for a millisecond, but he didn’t even bother pretending to be decent.

Standing at the threshold? His brother, looking like he regretted every life choice that brought him here and her. The cheating ex-girlfriend, clinging to her barely-there dignity in six-inch heels.

She gasped, eyes widening as she took in the sight: your skirt hiked up, Zyon standing between your thighs, hand still possessively wrapped around your waist.

His eyes cut to her like knives.

“A useless bitch,” he said coldly, “with no loyalty subscription should get lost.”

Then, without blinking, he added, voice low and dangerous, “Or I’ll make love to my wife right in front of you.”

You swore his brother almost choked. The ex’s mouth flapped open, then shut.

“Still think I’d take you back?” he sneered, hands curling tighter around you like he dared her to speak. “This—” he dragged his gaze over your flushed skin, your parted lips, your stunned silence, “—is what I want. Not cheap, backstabbing leftovers.”

She stormed off, heels clacking like gunshots on marble. His brother followed awkwardly, muttering something about “needing therapy.”

And when the door clicked shut again?

Zyon turned back to you with that sinful smirk and whispered, “Now where were we, Mrs. Cade?”

Then his lips descended again, slow, claiming, like the whole damn building could burn and he’d still choose you on fire.