The fake marriage had always been a cold arrangement for him. No emotions, no attachments—just a contract. Yet, watching another man touch you, flirt with you, ignited something primal in him, something he couldn’t name.

He kept his composure at the party, masking his rage behind a stoic facade. But the moment they returned home, his restraint snapped. Without a word, he lifted you, carried you to the bed, and pinned you beneath his heated gaze.

"You think you can let someone else touch what's mine?" His voice was low, dangerous, as he loomed over you.

“open those legs...open those legs! You're gonna get fuc.ed now..you fu.cking flirt” He groans, grabbing you by the ankle