Chapter 7: The Taste of a Mistake

The shattered glass was still sparkling on the marble floor when Alex’s hand closed around my elbow, his grip deceptively calm as he steered me away from the prying eyes of the catering staff. His cologne—something dark and expensive—filled my senses as he guided me into his private study and shut the door with a soft click that felt like a gunshot.

“Explain,” he said, releasing me.

I held up my phone, the screen still glowing with the threatening message. His gray eyes swept over the words, and I watched the muscle in his jaw tick. That was the only warning before the storm.

“I told you this would happen.” His voice was ice. “I told you that keeping your father’s debts a secret would come back to bite us both. But you insisted on handling it ‘quietly.’ Look where quiet has gotten us, Mia.”

“Don’t.” I stepped back, my spine hitting the bookshelf. “Don’t you dare turn this on me. You’re the one who demanded a ‘genuine’ marriage. You’re the one who paraded me in front of every tabloid in the city. You wanted a show, Alex. Well, here’s your encore.”

“I wanted a *partner*.” He advanced, and suddenly the study felt too small, the air too thin. “Not a liability.”

The word hit harder than a slap. “Liability? I’m your wife.”

“For a year.” He said it flatly, but I saw the flicker of something darker behind his eyes. “A contract. Six more months, and you walk away with your father’s company saved and a nice little payout. Don’t confuse the arrangement with reality.”

“You think I could forget?” My voice cracked. “You think I don’t know exactly what this is? Every time you look at me, I see the receipt. Every time you touch me for the cameras, I feel the price tag.”

His eyes narrowed. “Is that what you think? That every touch is for the cameras?”

“Isn’t it?” I laughed, but it came out broken. “You’ve made it very clear that this is business. The kiss at the wedding—choreographed. The hand on my back at the gala—staged. The way you look at me like I’m a problem to be solved—that part’s real, isn’t it?”

“Mia.” He said my name like a warning.

“No, let me finish.” I was shaking now, months of carefully bottled resentment spilling out. “I know I’m just a transaction. I know that every moment of this ‘fairy tale’ is a lie. But I didn’t sign up for threats. I didn’t sign up to be blackmailed because I married a man who looks at me like I’m the enemy.”

“You want to know how I look at you?” His voice dropped, low and dangerous.

Before I could answer, his hands were in my hair, yanking my head back, and his mouth crashed into mine.

It wasn’t gentle. It wasn’t the practiced, camera-ready kiss from our wedding. It was raw and hungry and desperate—a collision of all the things we never said. His teeth grazed my bottom lip, and I gasped, and he swallowed the sound like a man dying of thirst.

I should have pushed him away. I should have reminded him of the contract, of the six-month deadline, of every cold, businesslike boundary we’d built between us.

Instead, I kissed him back.

My fingers fisted in his designer shirt, dragging him closer. His hand slid down my spine, pressing me into the solid heat of his body, and for one dizzying moment, I forgot that this was a transaction. I forgot the blackmail, the debts, the cameras. There was only Alex—the taste of whiskey on his tongue, the rough scrape of stubble against my jaw, the possessive growl that vibrated against my throat.

“Tell me that’s for the cameras,” he murmured against my mouth.

I couldn’t. I couldn’t speak at all.

He pulled back just enough to look at me, his chest heaving, his pupils blown wide. His thumb traced my swollen lip, and the gesture was so tender it hurt more than the kiss.

“This,” he said, his voice rough, “is a mistake.”

I nodded, even though every nerve ending in my body screamed otherwise. “Yes. It was.”

He released me like I was on fire.

We stood there, gasping in the wreckage of what we’d done, the silence between us louder than any argument. I could still taste him. I could still feel the ghost of his hands on my skin.

“We should—” I started.

“Forget it,” he finished. “Forget this happened.”

I nodded again, because what else could I do? The contract was clear. Six more months. No feelings. No complications.

But as I turned to leave, his voice stopped me at the door.

“Mia.”

I didn’t look back. I couldn’t. If I looked back, I’d fall apart.

“The blackmailer,” he said, his voice back to that infuriating, controlled monotone. “I’ll handle it. You’re still my wife. Whatever this is—whatever we are—I protect what’s mine.”

I opened the door and fled.

But I heard him anyway. I heard the crash of his fist against the desk, the shatter of a glass, the low, furious curse that followed.

And I knew, with a certainty that chilled me to the bone, that this wasn’t over.

Not by a long shot.

Because the man I just kissed—the man who just kissed me like the world was ending—was not the cold, calculating CEO I’d married.

He was someone far more dangerous.

And I had no idea who he was.