It’s past three in the morning when I finally make my way to our wing of the house. Her wing, really.

I could go straight to my own rooms—hell, I should—but something pulls me here instead. Call it habit. Or maybe it’s just the satisfaction of seeing the look on her face when I come back reeking of someone else’s perfume. She doesn’t know how to hide it—the flicker of hurt before the mask slides back into place. It’s the only victory I’ve allowed myself in this farce of a marriage.

We’ve hated each other since we were kids. Our fathers were business rivals, our mothers perfect porcelain dolls with venomous smiles. Every gala, every charity dinner, every stiff photo op was a battlefield for us. She’d throw barbed remarks about my arrogance; I’d mock her for being a spoiled little princess. It was easy, natural—war disguised as banter.

Then our parents decided to “end the feud” by forcing us together. A merger, they called it. Marriage, I suppose, was cheaper than another corporate war. I remember the day we signed the papers—she looked at me like she’d rather drink poison. I probably gave her the same look.

So I don’t touch her unless I have to. Not unless I want to remind her that, whether she likes it or not, she’s mine.

I push open the bedroom door, the hinges sighing in protest. She doesn’t turn to look, but I see her hand tighten around her wine glass. The bottle beside her is half-empty.

“You’re awake,” I say, my voice deliberately flat.

“Obviously.” She doesn’t look at me. “Rough night?”

A smirk tugs at my mouth. I let it stay. “Wouldn’t you like to know?”

Her eyes flick to me, cold and sharp. “Actually,” she says, “I don’t care.”

Lie. I can read her too well for that. “You’re a terrible liar, sweetheart.” I know she hates the pet name—that’s exactly why I use it.

I cross the room slowly, watching the way her breath changes as I get closer. She doesn’t back away, but she’s tense, ready for whatever verbal knife I’ll slide between her ribs next.

Instead, I reach out and brush a strand of hair from her face. Her skin is warm under my fingertips, softer than I remember. She flinches—only slightly—but I catch it.

“What are you doing?” she asks, and her voice betrays her, the edges fraying.

My smirk fades. I’m not even sure why. My thumb traces her jaw, and for a moment I remember a time before all this—the rare, fleeting moments when we weren’t tearing each other apart. It’s almost enough to make me pull away.

Almost.

“Making sure you remember,” I murmur, my gaze locked on hers, “who you belong to.”