**Chapter 5: Jealousy**

The crystal chandeliers of the grand ballroom cast fractured light across the marble floors, but all I see is the reflection of my own reflection in the polished steel of the staircase railing. Emerald silk clings to my curves, the neckline dipping just enough to draw eyes that don’t belong to the man standing ten feet away from me, watching me like I’m the only object in a room full of wealth and influence. My stepsister. My contract wife. The woman who holds the key to his trust fund, just as he holds the key to my quiet, unremarkable life before him.

We got married in a judge’s chambers six months ago. A pen stroke, a signature, a whispered vow that meant nothing and everything. The condition was simple: Grant Winters must be married before his thirtieth birthday, or the generational trust evaporates. He turned twenty-nine last week. I turned twenty-four a month later. We’re both safely inside the deadline. The contract is supposed to be simple. Shared assets, separate lives, polite coexistence, and a quiet dissolution when the paperwork runs its course. But contracts don’t account for the way his hand lingers on the small of my back when we walk. They don’t account for the way my breath catches when he says my name. Or the way I’ve started noticing things. Like how his jaw tightens when I smile at waitstaff. Like how his eyes track me across a room like I’m his.

I tell myself it’s just possession of property. He’s a Winters. We don’t share; we claim. But my traitorous pulse doesn’t match that logic.

Grant is holding court near the center of the room, flanked by donors in tailored suits and women in couture that costs more than my first car. He’s laughing at something, but the sound is dry, rehearsed. His gaze finds me again. It always does. I feel it like a physical touch, warm and heavy between my shoulder blades. I turn back to the champagne tower, letting the bubbles coat my tongue, trying to steady the sudden, unexplained flutter in my chest.

Then a shadow falls over me.

“Well. If it isn’t Mrs. Winters.”

The voice is smooth, cultured, edged with amusement. I don’t need to look up to know who it is. Julian Thorne. Thirty-two. Hedge fund manager. Known for his taste in vintage cars, older models, and women who look like me. We’ve crossed paths at three of these galas. He’s always been polite. Today, he’s not.

“Julian,” I say, offering a practiced smile. “It’s been a while.”

“Too long.” He steps closer. Close enough that I catch his scent: sandalwood, crisp linen, something expensive. His eyes trail down my face, linger on my mouth, then drop to the diamond on my left hand. He doesn’t miss it. He never does. “Congratulations again. A step-sibling marriage. Bold. Unconventional. I admire your courage.”

I force a laugh. “It’s hardly courage. Just legal convenience.”

“Convenience.” He chuckles, low and deliberate. His fingers brush the bare skin of my waist as he adjusts his cufflink. The touch is light, but it sends a jolt through me. I should step back. I should remind him that I’m married. That I’m taken. But my feet stay planted. Maybe because I want to feel it. Maybe because I’m tired of pretending I don’t notice when Grant’s eyes darken at the slightest contact between me and another man.

“You’re stunning tonight, Ava,” Julian says, leaning in just enough that his breath ghosts over my ear. “That dress is a crime. I’m surprised Grant hasn’t had it burned.”

I stiffen. “He likes it.”

“Does he?” Julian’s mouth curves. “He barely looks at you during these events. Always talking to the board. Always checking his phone. I’d be jealous if I were him. Lucky you, though. Young, beautiful, untethered. You could have anyone.”

His hand slides higher, fingers tracing the curve of my hip through the silk. It’s not aggressive. It’s conversational. But it’s wrong. My skin prickles. I take a half-step back, but he mirrors me, closing the distance.

“Julian,” I say, voice tighter now. “I’m married.”

“I know,” he purrs. “But marriages of convenience are flexible, aren’t they? Especially when the husband isn’t paying attention.”

I open my mouth to shut him down, to step away for good, but the air behind me shifts.

The temperature drops. The chatter in the room doesn’t stop, but it fades into white noise. I don’t need to turn around to know who’s there. I feel him before I see him. A wall of muscle and tension. A presence so heavy it presses the breath from my lungs.

“Enough.”

The word is quiet. Deadly. It cuts through the ballroom like a blade.

Julian straightens immediately. “Grant. Didn’t see you there.”

Grant doesn’t look at him. His hand is already on my lower back, fingers digging into the silk just above my hip bone. Not painful. Possessive. I lean into it instinctively, the contact grounding me even as my heart hammers against my ribs.

“Julian,” Grant says, still not looking. “You’re trespassing.”

Julian clears his throat. “I was just congratulating your wife on the—”

“She’s not yours to talk to.” Grant’s voice drops, velvet over steel. “Back off.”

For a second, Julian hesitates. Then he laughs, but it’s hollow. “Right. Of course. Forgive me, Ava. I forgot my place.” He steps back, adjusts his jacket, and melts into the crowd without another word.

I don’t watch him go. I’m staring at Grant’s profile. His jaw is clenched so hard I can see the muscle jumping. His knuckles are white where he grips his champagne flute. His eyes are fixed on me, dark and stormy, and they’re burning.

“We’re leaving,” he says.

“Grant, I—”

“Now.”

The car ride home is suffocating. The leather seats smell like him: bergamot, tobacco, something uniquely Grant. I sit rigid on my side of the backseat, hands folded in my lap, the diamond on my finger feeling suddenly heavy. He doesn’t speak. He stares out the tinted window, profile sharp against the passing streetlights. My reflection stares back at me from the glass, pale and wide-eyed.

“Grant,” I finally say, voice small in the quiet. “What’s wrong?”

He doesn’t answer.

“I didn’t do anything,” I add, frustration creeping in. “He touched me. I told him to stop. You intervened. So why are you treating me like I’ve committed treason?”

Finally, he turns. His eyes lock onto mine. The possessive fury in them makes my stomach flip. “Because he put his hands on you.”

“So you can put yours on me?”

His mouth twitches. Not a smile. A threat. “No. My hands on you are different.”

The car pulls into our driveway. The house is dark except for the porch light. He kills the engine, turns to me, and before I can brace myself, his hand is on my neck. Not rough. Firm. Controlling. His thumb strokes my pulse point, feeling the frantic rhythm beneath my skin.

“Look at me,” he murmurs.

I do.

“You think I don’t see it?” he asks, voice low, ragged. “You think I don’t notice how you tilt your head when he talks to you? How your breath catches? How your body leans toward him even when you’re trying to pull away?”

My eyes widen. “I don’t— I don’t lean toward him.”

“You do.” His grip tightens slightly. “I notice everything. Especially when it’s him.”

I swallow hard. The air between us is electric, charged with something I’ve been avoiding for months. The contract. The trust fund. The stepsibling complication. The quiet understanding that this was supposed to be temporary. None of it matters right now. Because Grant is looking at me like I’m the only thing in the world that keeps him breathing. Like he’s going to shatter if I don’t give him something real.

“Grant,” I whisper.

He doesn’t let me finish. He crashes his mouth against mine.

It’s not gentle. It’s desperate. Teeth and tongue and hunger, raw and unfiltered. I gasp into his mouth, my hands flying to his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart beneath my palms. He groans, one arm wrapping around my waist, pulling me against him so hard I can feel every hard line of him through our clothes. His other hand slides into my hair, tilting my head back, angling me deeper. I kiss him back like I’ve been starving. Like I’ve been waiting for this. Like the contract was never real, only a delay.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to unbuckle his seatbelt, then throws the door open. “Inside. Now.”

I don’t argue. I step out, my heels clicking on the pavement, my skirt riding up my thighs. He follows, close, his hand never leaving my back. The front door opens. We stumble inside. The lock clicks behind us. The sound echoes like a gunshot.

He pushes me against the wall. Not hard. Just enough to pin me. His mouth finds my neck, sucking a mark right over my pulse. I arch into him, a whimper escaping my lips. He growls, low and animalistic, his hands sliding down to grip my hips, lifting me slightly so my legs wrap around his waist. I’m gasping now, fully aware of exactly what he wants. Exactly what I want.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmurs against my skin, teeth scraping my collarbone. “Tell me to back the fuck off, and I will.”

I thread my fingers into his hair, tangle them in the thick dark strands. “Don’t you dare.”

His mouth crashes onto mine again. This time, it’s slower. Deeper. A claiming. His hands are everywhere, peeling at the silk of my dress, pushing it up my thighs, bunching it at my waist. I kick off my heels, bare feet scraping against the hardwood as he carries me down the hall, down the stairs, into our bedroom. He lays me on the bed, but doesn’t let me stay there long. He strips off his suit jacket, his tie, his shirt, tossing them carelessly onto the floor. His chest is bare, scarred, perfect. I reach for him, but he catches my wrists, pins them above my head.

“Look at me,” he says again.

I do. His eyes are black with want, with something deeper. Fear. Need. “You’re mine,” he says, voice rough. “Say it.”

I should be ashamed. We’re stepsiblings. We’re married by contract. We’re playing house while the real world moves on. But I don’t care. Not anymore.

“I’m yours,” I breathe.

He releases my wrists, only to slide his hand down my body, under the silk, between my legs. I’m already wet. Already aching. He curses, low and filthy, his fingers sliding through my center, circling my clit with deliberate, maddening pressure. I cry out, back arching off the mattress.

“Fuck,” he groans. “You’re so fucking perfect for me.”

He doesn’t give me time to recover. He drops to his knees, pulling my dress up, bunching it at my hips, exposing me completely. I watch him, heart pounding, as he parts my thighs, spreading me open. His eyes darkens as he takes in the sight of me.

“God, Ava,” he whispers. “I’ve dreamed about this. Every night. While you were sleeping. While I was pretending I didn’t want to ruin you.”

He doesn’t wait. He sinks his mouth onto me.

I scream into my hand, hips jerking off the bed. His tongue is relentless. Skillful. Devastating. He maps every sensitive spot, every trembling fold, every gasp and moan. I claw at the sheets, nails digging into the fabric as he works me closer to the edge. He hums against me, the vibration sending electric shocks through my core. I’m shaking. I’m breaking. I’m his.

“Grant,” I beg. “Please. I need— I need you.”

He pulls back, licks his lips, and stands. His eyes are wild. Possessive. “You have me. All of me.”

He strips the rest of my dress off, kicks it away, then shrugs out of his trousers, his boxers, his cock springing free. It’s thick, hard, veined, already leaking at the tip. I reach for it, but he catches my hand again.

“Not yet,” he says. “I’m not done proving it.”

He reaches for the nightstand, pulls out a drawer, and comes back with a bottle of lube and a condom. He doesn’t rush. He rolls the lube over his fingers, then slides one inside me, stretching me, coating me, making me gasp. I’m already dripping, already desperate. He adds a second finger, curling them, hitting that sweet spot deep inside, and I sob, back bowing off the mattress.

“Look at you,” he murmurs, voice thick. “So wet for me. So fucking eager. You think I don’t know how hard it is for you? To sit across from me at breakfast. To pretend you don’t want me. To let other men touch you and not do a single fucking thing about it?”

“I never let him touch me,” I gasp. “I told him to stop. You know that.”

“I know,” he says, pulling his fingers out with a wet pop. “But I’m not letting him look at you again. I’m not letting you wear that dress for anyone else. I’m not letting you pretend this contract means anything when your body screams my name.”

He lines himself up at my entrance. The head of his cock presses against my slick heat, and I whine, reaching for him, pulling him in. He doesn’t give me what I want. Not yet. He slides in an inch, then stops, burying his face in my neck, breathing me in.

“Say it,” he demands.

“I’m yours,” I cry. “Only yours. Grant, please—”

He thrusts in.

Full. Deep. Unyielding. I scream, nails raking down his back, my body stretching around him, taking every inch. He stills, forehead pressed to my shoulder, teeth clenched. “Fuck,” he groans. “You feel like heaven. Like everything I’ve been starving for.”

Then he moves.

Slow at first. Testing. Savoring. Each thrust is deliberate, drawing out a moan from my lips, a shiver from my skin. He finds my pace, matches it, increases it. The bed creaks beneath us. My legs wrap around his waist, heels digging into his back, pulling him deeper. He grips my hips, leaving bruises, marking me, claiming me in the most primal way possible. I’m close. Too close. His cock hits that spot over and over, swelling me, stretching me, pushing me to the edge.

“Grant,” I beg. “I’m gonna—”

“Come for me,” he growls. “Let me feel you break.”

I shatter.

The orgasm rips through me like a storm, waves crashing over me, my body convulsing, my fingers locking around his shoulders, my throat raw from screaming his name. He follows seconds later, burying himself to the hilt, groaning my name like a prayer, like a vow, like the only truth he’s ever known. He empties himself inside me, hot and thick, pulsing in time with my own aftershocks. We stay like that, tangled, breathing, hearts hammering against each other.

He doesn’t pull out. Not right away. He stays buried deep, one hand tangled in my hair, the other splayed over my stomach, possessive even in stillness. I trace the scars on his back, feeling the rapid beat of his heart against my chest. The diamond on my finger glints in the moonlight. The contract is still in the drawer downstairs. The trust fund is secure. The stepsibling complication hasn’t vanished. But none of it matters anymore.

Because he’s here. Because I’m his. Because the mask is gone.

“I’m never letting you go,” he murmurs against my lips, voice rough with exhaustion and something dangerously close to love. “Not ever. You hear me, Ava? You’re mine. Body, soul, every fucking breath. You belong to me.”

I cup his face, thumbs brushing his cheekbones, my heart swelling so hard it aches. “I know,” I whisper. “I’ve been yours since the day I signed that contract. I just… forgot how to say it out loud.”

He kisses me. Slow. Sweet. Real. No more pretense. No more distance. Just us. Tangled in sheets. Marked by need. Bound by something far heavier than a legal document.

I don’t know what tomorrow brings. I don’t know how we navigate the family dinners, the gossip, the unspoken rules of our bloodline. But as his hand slides down my side, resting possessively over my hip, as his legs tangle with mine, as his breathing syncs with mine, I realize something.

The contract is dead.

The marriage is real.

And I’m never letting him go.