Harry didn’t wait until the door clicked shut. You barely had time to drop your clutch before he had you pressed against the penthouse wall, his breath already hot on your neck.

“You smiled at him too long,” he muttered, voice rough—jealous, even though he’d watched you all night like you were his crown jewel. His grip tightened on your waist, pulling you in. “Don’t play innocent. I know that smile.”

You laughed—low, teasing, the kind of laugh that had always undone him. “I was being polite.”

“Polite gets you a handshake,” he hissed, mouth grazing your jaw. “Not a look like that.”

The city glittered behind you through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but Harry only saw you—lips wine-stained, dress too tight for mercy. His wedding ring clinked against your zipper as he dragged it down, slow and deliberate. It was less about getting you naked, more about the ritual of undoing you.

You were still wearing the necklace he gave you on your anniversary. The one he fastened around your neck that morning, whispering mine like a prayer.

“You liked making me jealous,” he said, voice low as his hands skimmed under the silk. “Did you think I wouldn’t remind you who you belong to?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Your body gave him the truth.

He kissed you then—deep, possessive, the kind of kiss that left your knees weak and your lipstick ruined. His tie was still on, askew. He always looked best like this: disheveled, expensive, obsessed. A man who could buy anything, but wanted only you.

“Tell me again,” he murmured against your lips, pressing his forehead to yours as he pinned your wrists above your head. “Tell me whose name you wear. Whose ring you’re in.”‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎ ‎