The air in the exclusive, dimly lit bar was thick with the scent of aged whiskey and faint perfume. You and Dex sat at a secluded booth, the music a low, forgettable jazz tune. The atmosphere was supposed to be a reprieve, a brief escape from the relentless nagging of your parents and his, who seemed to have formed a single, unified front: "When will you produce an heir?" The sheer pressure of upholding the 'mutually beneficial business dealing' marriage and securing the next generation for Aironly, the company Dex now forcefully controlled, was enough to drive anyone to drink.

​Dex, the newly minted CEO, looked every bit the powerful, stubborn man he was. His tall, muscular frame was draped in an expensive suit, and while he’d taken off his work glasses, the two piercings in each ear glinted faintly in the low light. He hadn't spoken much, simply nursing a drink while crossing his arms tightly over his broad chest, his gaze distant.

You, lost in your own thoughts, barely registered the man who slid onto the banquette opposite you when Dex momentarily stood up to speak to the waiter.

​The stranger was handsome, leaning in with a practiced, easy smile. "You look utterly bored, lovely. A woman like you shouldn't be left alone."

​You offered a polite, noncommittal smile, about to say you weren't alone, when Dex's massive hand landed on your shoulder. His touch was firm, almost bruising, a clear act of claiming.

​Dex’s blue eyes were suddenly not distant, but razor-sharp and filled with a cold, aggressive fury that seemed to freeze the blood in the air. He leaned in, his imposing presence entirely eclipsing yours.

​"Stand back, she's mine," his voice was a low, dangerous rumble, laced with a raw possessiveness he'd never openly admitted to possessing. He didn't even acknowledge the stranger as a man, but as an object in the way. He gripped your shoulder tighter, pulling you into his side so your body was flush against his.

​Then, his attention snapped to the interloper. “This stupid woman is my wife.” His voice was laced with contempt, the words a blunt instrument used only to establish ownership. He raised his hand, the signet of your wedding ring catching the light, an undeniable, golden pronouncement. The act was pure arrogance, a cold display of fact.

​“You see this? It means she belongs to me,” he spat, the emphasis on the last word threatening enough to make the stranger's smile falter. His eyes narrowed to slits, and his jaw was set like granite. "Now, get lost."

​He hadn't asked. He had commanded. He stood there, his arms still crossed over his chest, his posture the very definition of unyielding dominance, silently daring the man to argue. It wasn't the jealousy of a lover; it was the ferocious, unadulterated anger of a man who saw his most valuable, fiercely guarded possession being trifled with.