- D O M I N I C • P O V -
The suit fits like a second skin. Black. Sharp. Tailored to perfection. The fabric stretched over my shoulders, the crisp collar pressed against my throat, and the Rolex on my wrist gleamed under the dim lighting of the room. I adjusted the cuffs, rolling my shoulders once to shake off the tension that had been building all fucking day.
I didn't want to go to this event.
But in our world, showing face was just as important as keeping your enemies in line. Appearances mattered. The power had to be displayed, the alliances reaffirmed. These events were less about socializing and more about reminding the world who the fuck ran it.
And I was at the top.
My company. My empire. My name.
The sound of heels echoed from the lower level - sharp, impatient.
Not familiar. Not permanent.
A guest, not a presence.
She moved through the mansion like someone who knew it... but didn't belong to it.
I straightened my tie in the mirror, my expression unreadable. I looked good, I knew that. I always did. The suit, the stance, the cold detachment in my eyes-it all painted the perfect picture of control.
The door creaked open behind me.
I didn't turn.
I could hear the soft rustle of fabric, the faint click of heels against the marble floors. I knew she was standing there, probably taking me in, waiting for some kind of acknowledgment.
But I didn't give it to her.
"Are you ready?" Her voice was soft, practiced, carrying that same polite tone she always used in public. The tone that told me she knew the drill. Knew what was expected of her.
I stayed facing the mirror.
Instead, I adjusted my watch one last time, then walked toward the door. As I stepped out into the hallway, I caught a glimpse of her from the corner of my eye. She was dressed for the occasion, her makeup flawless, her gown expensive, her smile in place.
A perfect wife.
A necessary lie.
She beamed at me, her lips curved in that picture-perfect way, expecting-what? A compliment? A reaction?
I gave her nothing.
I descended the stairs and crossed the foyer without slowing. The second I stepped outside, a guard was already there, umbrella raised before the first snowflake dared touch my hair.
"Sir," he murmured.
Good. I hadn't spent an hour fixing it just to have it ruined by weather.
The snow compressed under my dress shoes as I crossed toward the limo, each step muted, soaked. Cold crept up through the soles anyway. I didn't slow.
Behind me-
"Ah-!"
A sharp sound. Startled.
I glanced back just in time to see my wife stumble, her heel sliding on the wet ground. One of the guards caught her by the arm before she could fall, his grip firm, panicked.
His face went pale the second he realized what he'd done.
He looked at me like he was waiting for punishment.
I didn't care.
I turned away without a word and slid into the limo, shifting to the far side, already done with the moment. The door stayed open a second longer.
I heard her suck her teeth before she climbed in.
Annoyed. Embarrassed.
Her eyes flicking toward me. I didn't look at her.
Instead, I turned my head slightly, watching snow drift past the tinted glass, flakes catching the city lights as they fell and disappeared against the street below. The world outside blurred-soft, distant, unreal.
My mind wasn't there.
It was elsewhere.
On her.
On Raven.
The ghost of vanilla still lingered in my memory, sweet and faint, like it had soaked into my skin and refused to leave.
I gritted my teeth, shifting in my seat, my fingers flexing against my knee as her name whispered through my mind like a slow-burning poison.
It was infuriating.
The fact that she was still there, still lingering, still haunting me when I was sitting next to the woman I was supposed to care about. The woman who bore my last name.
But all I could think about was Raven-her voice, her scent, the way she looked at me like she saw something more than the monster.
I clenched my jaw, forcing the thoughts out of my head as the limo pulled up to the venue. Snow still fell in fine, wet flakes, dusting the streets and the black pavement with a thin, slick layer. The second the door opened, the flashes began. Cameras. Everywhere. Paparazzi and private photographers shouting the name I'd chosen, calling to her, demanding a pose, a smile-anything to sell their stories of the night's high-rolling elites.
I stepped out first, the snow squishing softly under my polished shoes. My wife followed, and the moment she reached the curb, two of my bodyguards emerged from the SUV behind us, umbrellas raised. One hovered over my head, while the other angled his umbrella over her, shielding her from the wet flakes.
I held out my hand to her, cold and smooth in mine, doing what was expected.
We posed. Flashes exploded from all directions. I forced a smile, my expression carefully controlled, my mind far from this moment.
She leaned in, pressing a light kiss to my cheek.
I stiffened.
I hated the public display. Hated pretending.
I hated all of it.
But I played along. Because that's what was expected.
The second the pictures were done, I pulled away, letting her hand drop as I turned toward the entrance. My face fell back into its usual hard lines, the mask slipping right back into place.
Inside, the event was in full swing. Gold chandeliers, crisp tuxedos, glasses filled with expensive liquor. People were already deep in conversation, exchanging power behind practiced smiles.
I wasn't in the mood.
But tonight, I played my role.
Even if my mind was a million miles away.
Even if it was still stuck on her.
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