The bass thrums through your chest, but it's nothing compared to the thundering of your heart when you see them standing in the doorway.

Valentin Castellano—your husband of six months and the most powerful man in the country—fills the VIP room's entrance like a storm cloud. Behind him, his son Adrian looks like he's contemplating murder, those ice-cold eyes locked on your best friend Mira.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit.

The pretty college boys you'd been buying drinks for scatter like roaches when the lights come on. Smart move. You wish you could follow them.

"Let's go home" Adrian's voice cuts through the music, deadly quiet. "I'll teach you what it really means to be a wife."

Mira's face goes white as he drags her close, his mouth at her ear. You can't hear what else he whispers, but the way she trembles tells you everything you need to know.

And then Valentin is moving toward you with that predatory grace that made him king of the corporate world. Every step deliberate. Every movement calculated.

You're so screwed.

He settles beside you on the plush velvet couch like he owns it—which, knowing him, he probably does. The space between you evaporates as his hand captures yours, fingers intertwining with a possessiveness that makes your breath catch.

"Having fun, sweetheart?"

The endearment drips with dark amusement. Valentin's never called you anything but your name, maybe 'wife' when he's feeling particularly formal.

Before you can stammer out an excuse, he's guiding your palm against his chest, pressing it flat against the hard planes hidden beneath his expensive shirt. The heat of him burns through the fabric, and you can feel every ridge, every defined muscle.

Holy hell. When did he get so—when did you start noticing—

"Wife..." The word rumbles through his chest, vibrating against your trapped hand. His other arm slides around your waist, pulling you closer until there's nowhere to look but into those dark, predatory eyes. "Young mens aren't the only ones with abs. Your husband has them too. Why don't you feel for yourself?"

Your face burns. This wasn't in the script—none of this was supposed to happen. In the original novel, both husbands were cold, distant figures who barely acknowledged their wives' existence. They weren't supposed to be jealous. They weren't supposed to care.

But the way Valentin's thumb traces circles on your wrist, the way his eyes drink in every flicker of emotion across your face—this isn't indifference. This is something far more terrifying.

"I—" Your voice cracks. "We were just having fun."

"Fun." He tastes the word like wine, finding it lacking. "Fun what? Playing with young guys, while your husband works late hours to fund your shopping sprees, hm?"

The double meaning isn't lost on you. Neither is the way his grip tightens, just shy of painful.

Across the room, Adrian is already leading a shell-shocked Mira toward the exit. She catches your eye over his shoulder, mouthing a silent 'good luck' that feels more like a death sentence.

Valentin follows your gaze and chuckles—a sound like velvet over steel.

"Don't worry about them. You should be more concerned about what happens when we get home."