**Chapter 5: Jealousy**

The glass walls of the executive suite caught the dying sun, painting the room in streaks of amber and bruised violet. From thirty floors up, the city looked like a circuit board—cold, predictable, and utterly mine to navigate. Or so I’d thought. But tonight, the air was thick with something electric and entirely out of my control.

Marcus sat at the head of the mahogany table, posture perfect, suit tailored to within an inch of its life. His presence didn’t just occupy space; it commanded it. Every glance, every quiet word, every deliberate movement was calculated, controlled, and utterly intoxicating. I loved that about him. I loved him because he was a fortress. And yet, I also knew the cracks beneath the marble facade. He hoarded vulnerability like contraband, burying it under layers of dominance, strategy, and quiet, simmering need. I’d seen him let it slip. I’d felt it when he thought I was asleep, when his hand rested too long on my hip, when his voice dropped to a whisper that sounded more like a plea than a command.

Across from me sat Julian Vance. A music producer with a reputation for breaking trends and breaking rules. He was all sharp jawlines, expensive cologne, and a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He’d been brought in to discuss a potential partnership—Marcus’s latest development included a luxury entertainment complex, and Julian’s label was interested in leasing space. The meeting was supposed to be brief. Professional.

It wasn’t.

“Sasha’s got a real ear for architecture,” Julian said, his voice dropping into a register that felt too intimate for a boardroom. He leaned back, one arm draping over the back of his chair, fingers tapping a lazy rhythm against the polished wood. “You’d be surprised how many creative minds thrive in spaces designed by someone who understands rhythm and flow.”

I kept my expression neutral, but my pulse betrayed me. “I appreciate the compliment, Julian. Though my expertise is in spatial planning, not acoustics.”

He chuckled, low and knowing. “Acoustics, architecture, timing… it’s all the same thing. Feeling the beat. Knowing when to push and when to pull.” His knee brushed mine under the table. Just once. A tease. A test.

I shifted slightly, pulling my leg back. “I see we’re comparing disciplines.”

“Comparing,” he repeated, his gaze dropping to my mouth for a fraction of a second before meeting my eyes again. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Across the table, the sound of a pen clicking against paper stopped. Completely.

I didn’t need to look up to know Marcus had noticed. I felt it in the sudden stillness of the room, in the way the air seemed to thicken, in the quiet promise of a storm gathering behind his obsidian eyes. I risked a glance.

Marcus wasn’t writing. He wasn’t speaking. He was just watching. His knuckles were white around his Montblanc pen. His jaw was set so hard I could see the muscle feather beneath the skin. He hadn’t moved, hadn’t interrupted, but the temperature in the room had dropped ten degrees.

“Julian,” Marcus said finally, his voice smooth as poured concrete, cold as winter steel. “The acoustic specifications for the performance hall are already finalized. We’re not looking for input on layout.”

Julian didn’t flinch. He just smiled, slow and deliberate. “Just making conversation, Marcus. You know how it is. Business is better when the chemistry’s right.”

“Chemistry,” Marcus repeated, the word tasting like ash. He set the pen down with precise control. “Chemistry is irrelevant when the terms are already signed. And they are.”

Julian’s smile didn’t fade, but something in his eyes sharpened. He knew he’d pushed too far. He just didn’t know how far Marcus would go.

The rest of the meeting was a blur of contractual details and polite dismissal. I packed my tablet, my mind racing, my skin prickling with the weight of Marcus’s silence. When Julian finally stood, he didn’t leave immediately. He lingered by my chair, leaning down so only I could hear.

“Dinner next week? My treat. No meetings. No suits. Just you and me.”

I didn’t look up. “I don’t do casual, Julian. And I don’t do dinner with men who think boundaries are suggestions.”

He laughed, but it was strained now. “You’re a stubborn one. I like that.”

He straightened, gave Marcus a nod, and walked out. The heavy door clicked shut behind him.

The silence that followed was deafening.

I didn’t turn around. I couldn’t. I was waiting for the cold detachment, the quiet reprimand, the usual Marcus. But what came instead was the sound of his chair scraping back, the heavy footsteps closing the distance between us, the sharp inhale as he stopped just behind my chair.

“Look at me,” he said. Not a request. A command.

I turned.

His eyes were dark, feral, stripped of every carefully constructed layer. His chest rose and fell too quickly. His hands were clenched at his sides. He looked like a man standing on the edge of a cliff, refusing to step back.

“Did you tell him yes?” His voice was rough, barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of a verdict.

“No,” I said quietly. “I told him no.”

His jaw tightened. “Good. Because if you ever agree to go anywhere alone with him, I will burn his career to the ground.”

The words weren’t exaggerated. I knew that. I knew him. Marcus didn’t threaten. He executed.

“Marcus,” I started, but he was already moving. He gripped my waist, fingers digging in just enough to make me gasp, and turned me toward the wall. His body pressed against my back, caging me in, his breath hot against my neck.

“You don’t get to look at him like that,” he growled, his voice dropping into something raw, something dangerous. “You don’t get to let him touch you. You don’t get to let him think he has a chance.”

“I wasn’t—” I began, but he cut me off with a sharp twist of his hips, pressing me harder against the glass. The city lights blurred behind my eyes. My heart hammered against my ribs.

“Don’t,” he breathed, his hands sliding up my thighs, his fingers catching the hem of my dress. “Don’t make me lose control again.”

“I know,” I whispered. “I’m not trying to.”

He turned me around then, his hands framing my face, his thumbs pressing into my cheekbones like he needed the anchor. His eyes searched mine, desperate and dark. “You’re mine, Sasha. Say it. Say it so I can breathe.”

I cupped his jaw, feeling the roughness of his stubble, the heat of his skin. “I’m yours, Marcus. I’ve always been yours.”

That was all it took.

He claimed me like the world was ending. His mouth crashed against mine, hungry and desperate, teeth and tongue and need. One hand tangled in my hair, tilting my head back so he could devour me, the other sliding down to grip my thigh, lifting me onto the edge of the conference table. Papers scattered. My tablet clattered to the floor. I didn’t care.

“God, you taste like trouble,” he muttered against my lips, his hands already working my blazer off, buttons popping, fabric falling away. His thumbs brushed my collarbone, tracing the line of my neck, before his fingers found the zipper of my dress. He yanked it down, slow and deliberate, the sound echoing in the quiet room.

I arched into him as his palms flattened against my bare back, pressing me back against the glass. The cold didn’t reach me. I was burning.

“You feel that?” he whispered, his voice rough with need. “That’s what he gets when he looks at you like you’re just another conquest. That’s what you’ll feel when I’m inside you. When I remind you who owns you.”

“You don’t own me,” I breathed, even as my hands fisted in his shirt, even as my hips rolled against him. “But I let you take me.”

His eyes flashed. “Don’t test me.”

“I’m not.” I kissed him, deep and slow, tasting the jealousy and the fear and the hunger. “I’m yours. All of it. The good, the bad, the ugly. Even when you’re a controlling bastard.”

A dark chuckle vibrated against my mouth. “Good answer.”

He lifted me higher, my legs wrapping around his waist instinctively, his belt unbuckling with a sharp snap. He didn’t waste time. He never did with me. His hands were everywhere, mapping me, claiming me, marking me. His mouth traveled down my neck, my collarbone, my breasts, his teeth catching on my nipple just hard enough to make me gasp. I arched, a broken sound escaping me, and he smiled against my skin.

“Mine,” he repeated, like a prayer, like a curse. “Say it.”

“Yours,” I whispered. “Only yours.”

He hooked his fingers into my underwear and pushed them down, his hands never leaving my thighs. When he looked at me, his eyes were black with need, but there was something else beneath it. Something vulnerable. Something afraid.

“I can’t lose you,” he said suddenly, the words tearing out of him like a confession. “I’ve spent my whole life building things that last. Structures that don’t fall. Contracts that can’t be broken. But you… you’re the only thing I’m terrified of losing. And when he looked at you like that, like you were just another line in his portfolio… I couldn’t breathe.”

I cupped his face, thumb brushing his cheekbone. “You’re not losing me. I’m right here. I choose you. Every day.”

He closed his eyes, leaning into my touch like he was starving for it. When he opened them again, the vulnerability was still there, but it was buried beneath something fiercer. Something possessive.

“Good,” he said. “Because I’m not sharing. Not with you. Not with anyone.”

He stepped back just enough to line himself up with me, his head dropping forward as he pushed inside. I cried out, my nails digging into his shoulders, my body stretching around him, filling with him. He was so deep, so perfect, and he moved like a man who had been waiting his whole life for this exact moment.

“Look at me,” he commanded, his voice strained. “I want to see you when I break you.”

I did. I held his gaze as he set a ruthless pace, each thrust driving me higher, each roll of his hips pulling me closer to the edge. The glass was cold against my back, but I was melting. My thighs trembled. My breath came in ragged gasps. He didn’t slow. He couldn’t. He needed to feel me, needed to know I was real, needed to erase every last trace of that producer’s voice from my mind.

“You’re so tight,” he growled, his control fraying at the edges. “So fucking perfect. Mine. Say it again.”

“Yours,” I choked out. “Always yours.”

He cursed, his hips snapping forward with brutal precision, and I shattered. My body convulsed around him, waves of pleasure crashing through me, pulling a broken sound from my throat. He followed me over the edge a second later, his body going rigid, his forehead pressing against mine as he spilled inside me with a ragged groan.

We stayed like that for a long time, breathing each other in, hearts hammering against each other’s chests. The city lights painted our skin in gold and shadow. His hands still held me like I might vanish if he let go.

Finally, he pulled back just enough to look at me. His hair was messy, his shirt half-off, his eyes dark and wrecked. But he was smiling. A real one. Rare. Mine.

“I fired him,” he said quietly.

I blinked. “What?”

“Julian Vance. I fired him.” A dark chuckle. “Called his lawyer an hour ago. Terminated the lease agreement. Erased him from the development. He’ll never step foot in one of my buildings again.”

I should have been offended. Or impressed. Or terrified. Instead, I just shook my head, a laugh bubbling out of me. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I’m thorough,” he corrected, his thumb tracing my lower lip. “And I’m done letting men like him look at what’s mine. If he thinks he can flirt with you, he doesn’t understand what happens when you cross me.”

I cupped his face again. “I know. And I’m not going anywhere. But Marcus… you don’t have to burn the world down to keep me. I’m not leaving.”

He searched my face, like he was looking for a lie. Finding none, he leaned in, pressing his forehead to mine. “I know,” he whispered. “But knowing doesn’t stop the fear.”

“Then stop fighting it,” I said softly. “Let me in. All of it. The control. The jealousy. The fear. I can handle it. I want it.”

He closed his eyes, his breath shuddering out of him. When he opened them again, the possessiveness was still there, but it was softer now. Tempered. Grounded.

“God, I’m going to ruin you,” he murmured, his mouth finding mine again, slower this time, deeper. “You’re going to be so thoroughly claimed that every other man in this city will know better than to even glance your way.”

I kissed him back, smiling against his lips. “Good. Because I don’t want them to.”

He lifted me off the table, my legs still wrapped around him, and carried me to the couch in the corner of the suite. He laid me down like I was made of glass, even as his hands immediately went to work, unbuttoning his shirt, peeling away the rest of my dress, mapping every inch of me like he was memorizing it for the rest of his life.

We didn’t stop at one. We never did. The second time, he was slower, more deliberate, his hands tracing my skin like he was afraid I’d disappear. His mouth lingered on my collarbone, my hips, my thighs, worshipping me with a devotion that made my chest ache. And when he finally slid inside me again, he watched my face the entire time, reading every expression, every breath, every shiver.

“Tell me what you