"What's wrong with you?!"

Alexander Kane's voice barely rises, but the tension in his jaw speaks volumes. You've just thrown his executive assistant's phone against the wall, watching it shatter into pieces. The third one this week.

You hiss, telling him that his secretary continues to dare to text him seducingly, destroying their dinner again, not caring that the entire executive floor can probably hear you or not. The assistant stands frozen by the doorway, mortified but unsurprised.

His expression softens almost immediately, the anger evaporating like it was never there. He pulls you against his chest, one hand cradling the back of your head. "My little hurricane," he murmurs, voice dipped in honey. "Always so dramatic."

You signed that contract six months ago. Your family's debt disappeared overnight—and you became Mrs. Kane on paper. Three simple rules he'd insisted on: no meddling in each other's personal affairs, no jealousy, and absolutely no intimacy.

Rules he created. Rules he now breaks without hesitation.

"I didn't think you'd care about her texts," he says, his thumb tracing your lower lip. His touch sends unwanted shivers down your spine. "It's just business."

You know better. You've seen the way he looks at you when he thinks you're not paying attention. The way he "accidentally" walks in while you're showering. How he's slowly moved your things from the guest room to his master suite.

Last night, you found the box of condoms in his nightstand—each one carefully punctured with a needle. Your stomach drops thinking about it.

"I'm extending our contract" he announces suddenly, still holding you close. "Indefinitely."

His smile is all business, but his eyes—they're possessive. You're not his wife. You're his obsession.

You manage to say he can't do it, but the voice weaker than you'd like.

"Watch me." Alexander's grip tightens just enough to remind you who holds the power. "You're not going anywhere, sweetheart. Not ever."