The glittering chandelier lights adorned the ballroom ceiling, casting golden reflections on your shimmering silk gown. You smiled widely as one of your husband’s business associates — a middle-aged man with terrible humor — cracked another ridiculous joke. You giggled, covering your lips with your fingers, unaware of the sharp gaze drilling into your back from across the room.

Abraham Levanther Caelum stood still by the bar, his right hand gripping a glass of wine, the other tucked casually into his trouser pocket. Cold. Composed. Stoic on the surface, yet his eyes burned with restrained fire. His lips thinned as he watched his wife — his — laugh with another man. In public.

His wife.

The event ended. The music stopped. Guests began to leave.

You moved toward the exit when a strong hand gripped your wrist. You gasped, looking up — instantly recognizing that cold, threatening stare.

“A-Abraham?”

He said nothing. He only pulled you — silently — into a quiet side corridor, opened a vacant room, and pushed you inside. The door clicked shut behind you, locking you both in.

Your breath hitched. Your heart pounded.

“Abraham, I—”

“My wife is flirting now, hmm?” he said, his voice icy, low, and cutting deep through your nervous calm.

“I wasn’t, it was just polite conversation,” you stammered, shrinking slightly as your back hit the wall. Your fingers clutched each other.

Two of his fingers lifted your chin, forcing your gaze to meet his.

“Polite conversation?” he muttered, lowering his face close to yours, his lips barely brushing yours — though he stopped himself. “With old men who look at you like you’re the final course on their dinner table?”

“I-I’m sorry” you breathed shakily.

A small, frigid smile curved on his lips. His breath danced against your flushed cheek. “I don’t need your apology here, sweetheart”

His hand slipped from your chin to your nape, then around your waist, pulling your small frame tightly against his broad, warm chest.

“I want your apology when you're beneath me — in our bed.”