**Chapter 4: Jealousy**

The champagne flutes clink like fragile bone against glass, a delicate soundtrack to a room full of polished lies. I stand near the marble staircase, a half-empty glass in my hand, watching the crowd move like a tide beneath the gallery's exposed steel beams. The art is all sharp angles and bruised color, meant to provoke, meant to wound. I know the feeling.

Ethan stands three feet away, but the space between us feels like a chasm. He's been back in London for six days. Six days of cold spreadsheets, late-night calls in a voice stripped of warmth, and a marriage that exists more in legal documents than in shared breath. He wears his black suit like armor, his jaw set, his eyes scanning the room with the detached precision of a man who measures worth in numbers and leverage. Ruthless outside. I've seen it. I've lived with it. But tonight, there's something else under the ice. A tension coiled tight in his shoulders. A restlessness that has nothing to do with business.

I shift my weight, the silk of my dress whispering against my thighs. I caught him watching me earlier. A quick, hard glance when I laughed at something the curator said. He looked away immediately. I pretended not to notice. Pretending is the only language we speak anymore.

Then I feel it. The shift in the air. The way the ambient noise seems to thin, to recede, leaving only the heavy, electric charge of attention.

A man steps into my periphery. Tall. Sharp suit. Silver rings on his fingers. A curator, maybe an investor. He's been lingering near my table for twenty minutes. He doesn't speak. He just looks. His gaze slides over my face, dips to my mouth, traces the line of my collarbone where the neckline of my dress falls just shy of dangerous. It's slow. Deliberate. Appraising. Like he's deciding whether to bid.

My stomach tightens. I raise my glass in a polite nod, trying to make myself small, trying to be the invisible wife Ethan's world expects.

He doesn't back down. His eyes lock onto mine. A smile touches his lips. Not friendly. Possessive in the way a predator smiles before a kill. He takes a step closer. The space between us shrinks to inches. I can smell his cologne. Expensive. Intimidating.

"You have remarkable taste in art, Miss Hart," he murmurs. His voice is smooth, practiced. "And remarkable poise. It's rare to find a woman who can hold a room without trying to own it."

I open my mouth to respond, to deflect, to maintain the fragile veneer of politeness that keeps me from unraveling in public.

Ethan moves.

He doesn't walk. He cuts through the space like a blade, and suddenly he's between us. One of his hands lands on my lower back, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise. The other closes around the man's wrist before the guy can even finish his sentence. The grip is brutal. The man winces, his smile vanishing into something like fear.

"Let go of her," Ethan says. His voice is quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that precedes a detonation. "You're standing too close."

The man blinks. "I was merely—"

"I don't care what you were," Ethan cuts in, his jaw locking. He doesn't raise his voice. He doesn't need to. The coldness in his eyes is absolute. "Walk away. Now."

The man swallows. He looks at Ethan's hand, then back at his face. He nods once, jerks his wrist free, and disappears into the crowd without a word.

I don't move. My skin feels too tight. My breath comes shallow. Ethan's hand is still on my back, but it's no longer protective. It's a claim. A warning. A brand.

"We're leaving," he says. Not a request. A verdict.

He turns, his fingers shifting to my wrist. He doesn't ask if I'm coming. He just pulls. Hard enough to drag me forward. Hard enough to make my heels click unevenly on the stone. I stumble, catch myself, fall into step beside him. The gallery fades behind us. The murmurs, the clinking glasses, the curated chaos—it all dissolves into white noise. All that exists is the heat of his hand on my wrist, the rigid line of his shoulders, the storm brewing in the silence between us.

The black town car waits at the curb. Ethan doesn't open the door for me. He just yanks it open, shoves me inside, and follows. The door slams, sealing us in leather and tension. The driver pulls away without a glance in the rearview mirror. Men who work for the Hart family know better than to ask questions.

For the first five minutes, Ethan doesn't speak. He stares out the window, the city lights painting his face in fractured gold and shadow. His knuckles are white where he grips his knees. His breathing is controlled, but I can hear the edge in it. The tightness in his throat. The way his jaw works, grinding down something feral.

I turn to him. "Ethan."

He doesn't look at me. "Don't."

"That man wasn't doing anything wrong. I was just standing there."

He finally turns. His eyes are dark. Dilated. The cold mask is gone, shattered by something raw and volatile. "He was looking at you like he wanted to take you apart."

My breath catches. "So? People look at me."

"Not like that." His voice drops, roughens. "Not by choice. Not without consequence."

I shift, trying to make room, trying to steady myself. The car sways over wet pavement. The city blurs. "Ethan, what is this? You've been back for a week. You've barely spoken to me. And now you're—" I search for the word. "Now you're acting like I belong in a cage."

The word hangs in the air. Cage.

His hand moves before I realize he's shifting. It lands on my thigh. Fingers digging into the silk, pressing down. Hard. I gasp. He leans in, close enough that I can feel the heat rolling off him, smell the faint trace of scotch and cold night air on his skin. His eyes drop to my mouth. Then back to mine.

"You think I don't see them?" he asks, voice low, dangerous. "You think I don't notice how they look at you in boardrooms? How they linger when you walk past them in the hallway? How some of them forget their own names because the sight of you short-circuits whatever's left in their heads?"

I swallow. "That's not my fault."

"It shouldn't be," he agrees, voice cracking just slightly. "But it is. Because every time one of them stares, I feel like I'm drowning. Like I'm going to wake up and you'll be gone. Like I'm going to come home to an empty bed and realize I never had you to begin with."

The confession hits me like a physical blow. I stare at him. The ruthlessness is still there, but it's fractured now. Beneath the ice, something is bleeding. Desperation. Fear. A need so sharp it's turning him feral.

"Ethan," I whisper.

He doesn't let me finish. The car stops. We're home. He's out of the door before the engine cuts. I follow, my heels clicking against the stone steps, my heart hammering against my ribs. He doesn't wait for me. He just walks inside, and I follow, because I always follow. Because this is what we do. This is what we are.

The door slams behind me. The sound echoes through the empty foyer. I don't have time to process it before he's on me.

His hands grab my waist, lifting me slightly, pinning me against the hardwood. His mouth crashes into mine, and I gasp into it. The kiss isn't gentle. It's hungry. Violent. A claiming. His teeth catch my lower lip, drawing a sharp inhale, and I melt into him anyway. I always melt. God help me, I always melt.

He breaks the kiss just long enough to speak, his voice a ragged scrape against my skin. "You're my wife. Act like it."

The words hit like a spark to dry tinder. My pulse roars in my ears. My fingers dig into his shoulders, gripping the expensive fabric, feeling the hard muscle beneath. "I am acting like it," I breathe. "I'm acting like I don't want you to ruin me."

His eyes flare. "Good."

He turns us, spins me around, and pushes me forward until my chest meets the wall. The wood is cool against my skin. My dress bunches at my thighs. His hand slides up my back, fingers catching the zipper, dragging it down with one swift motion. The fabric falls away, pooling at my ankles. I don't bother stepping out of it. I don't care.

His palm slaps against my ass. The sound cracks through the foyer. I cry out, arching into it, my head falling forward. The sting blooms, hot and bright, and then his other hand is on my hip, pulling me back against him. I feel him. Hard. Aching. Pressing against my lower back through the layers of our clothes.

"Take it off," he growls. "All of it. Now."

My hands tremble as I push his suit jacket off his shoulders. I fumble with his belt buckle. The metal clicks. He steps back just enough to let me work, watching me with dark, heavy-lidded eyes. When the belt falls, he kicks off his shoes. His shirt follows. Then his trousers. He doesn't rush. He lets me see him. Let me trace the lines of scar tissue along his ribs, the width of his shoulders, the hard set of his jaw. He's a landscape I've been mapping in silence, and tonight, he's handing me the compass.

I drop to my knees. The floor is hard. I don't care. My hands slide up his thighs, pushing the fabric down, freeing him. He's thick. Heavy. Already leaking at the tip. I wrap my fingers around him, stroking once, twice, and he curses, his hips jerking forward.

"Don't," he says, voice strained. "Not like that. Not yet."

I look up. His eyes are blown wide, pupils swallowing the iris. There's hunger in them. And something else. Something raw. I reach up, cup his jaw, and pull him down. Our lips meet. He groans into my mouth, hands tangling in my hair, tilting my head back. He kisses me like he's trying to brand me from the inside out. When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against mine. His breath is hot. Uneven.

"Stand up," he murmurs.

I do. He turns me, pushes me forward again. This time, he doesn't pin me to the wall. He pulls me over his knee, right there on the foyer floor. My dress is a mess. My knees press into the hardwood. The position is humiliating. Intimate. It strips me bare in a way clothes never could.

His hand slides up my thigh. Pushes the remnants of my underwear aside. His fingers find me already slick. I gasp. He smirks, low and dark.

"Always so wet for me," he murmurs. "Even when I ignore you. Even when I pretend you're just a signature on a contract. You ache for me. I can feel it."

"I ache for you," I admit, voice breaking. "I've ached since the day we signed the papers. Since the day you left me in this house and walked into your office like I was furniture."

His fingers still. He presses two inside me, curling them just right, and I cry out, my hips bucking against his thigh. "Then feel it," he growls. "Feel me. Feel every inch. Know exactly whose you are."

He pumps his fingers, slow at first, then harder. Faster. I grip the edge of the console table, knuckles white. My head falls forward. My breath comes in ragged bursts. He works me open, stretches me, fills me with his touch, and I'm trembling on the edge before he even enters me.

He pulls his hand out. I miss the pressure instantly. He steps in front of me, still on his knees, but he grabs my hips, lifts me slightly, and guides himself to my entrance. He doesn't push in. He waits. His eyes lock onto mine. The vulnerability is there now. Stripped bare. The ruthless businessman is gone. In his place is a man who's terrified of losing something he can't name.

"Look at me," he commands.

I do.

He thrusts in. Deep. Hard. I scream into my own hand. The stretch is perfect. The friction is electric. He sets a brutal pace, driving into me, each thrust knocking the air from my lungs. His hands grip my hips, leaving red marks, his fingers digging into my skin like he's trying to anchor himself. Like I might vanish if he lets go.

"You're mine," he grinds out, voice ragged. "Say it. Say it or I'll ruin you until you forget your own name."

"I'm yours," I sob. "I've always been yours."

He drives deeper. The table shakes. The glass on top rattles. I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him in, needing more, needing all of it. He responds with a growl, one hand sliding up to grip my throat. Not hard enough to choke. Hard enough to remind me who's in control. His thumb presses against my pulse point. I can feel it hammering against his skin. My own. His. Merging.

He leans in, teeth grazing my shoulder, then my neck. He bites. Hard. I cry out, my back arching. He marks me. Leaves a bruise. A claim. He does it again, lower, higher, anywhere he can reach, anywhere he can leave evidence that I belong to him. The pain and pleasure blur into something white-hot and overwhelming.

"Ethan," I beg. "Please. I'm close."

"Not yet," he snaps. He slows. Stops. Leaves himself buried to the hilt. I whine, my hips trying to move, trying to chase it. He holds me down, his weight pressing me into the table, his breath hot against my ear. "You don't get to come until I say so. You don't get to unravel until I've taken what I need."

"Take it," I gasp. "Take it. I'm giving it to you."

He pulls out. I gasp at the loss. He turns me around, spins me to face him, and lifts me. My legs wrap around his waist automatically. He carries me down the hall, kicks open the door to his study, and drops me onto the leather couch. Books scatter. Pens roll. He doesn't care. He follows me down, pins my wrists above my head, and enters me again.

This time, it's worse. Better. Deeper. He hits a spot that makes my vision blur. My back arches. My thighs clamp around him. He grinds his hips, twisting, hitting me over and over, his breath coming in harsh bursts. His free hand slides down, fingers finding my clit, rubbing circles with cruel precision.

"Look at me," he demands.

I open my eyes. His are dark. Fierce. Unbroken. I hold his gaze as the pressure builds, coiling tight in my belly, tightening in my chest, pulling me apart. He feels it. I know he feels it. His thrusts become erratic. Desperate. His grip on my wrists tightens.

"Come," he orders. "For me. Only me. Show me how you break for me."

The word breaks me. I shatter. A cry tears from my throat as my body convulses, wave after wave crashing through me, leaving me trembling, boneless, wrecked. I feel him follow, his hips jerking, a guttural groan tearing from his chest as he empties inside me, marking me from the inside out, claiming what he's fought so hard to keep.

We stay like that for a long time. Breathing. Trembling. The city lights bleed through the windows, painting us in silver and shadow. Slowly, reluctantly, he pulls out. I whimper at the loss. He shifts, pulls me against his chest, and wraps his arms around me. His face buries in my hair. His breath is uneven. His heartbeat is a frantic drum against my ear.

I turn in his arms. Look up at him. His eyes are closed. His face is exhausted. The cold mask is gone. In its place is something raw. Something fragile. A man who just realized he's drowning in the very thing he's been trying to control.

"Ethan," I whisper.

He doesn't open his eyes. "Don't," he murmurs. "Don't make me say it again."

"Say what?"

He finally looks at me. His gaze is heavy. Burdened. "That I'm terrified. That I've spent every day in London calculating risk, measuring exposure, building walls. That I built them for me. Not for you. But they're not working. Because every time someone looks at you, I feel like I'm bleeding out. And I can't stand it. I can't stand not having you."

My throat tightens. I reach up, trace the sharp line of his jaw. "I'm not going anywhere."

He closes his eyes again. A muscle ticks in his cheek. "You should. If you want to survive me."

"I want to survive you," I say softly. "I'm already here."

He pulls me closer. His arms lock around me like steel. Like he's never letting go. Like the idea of release is a threat he won't entertain. I rest my head against his chest. Listen to his heart. Feel the slow, steady rhythm of him coming back to me.

Outside, the city sleeps. Inside, we don't. We just exist in the wreckage we've made. In the quiet space between his ruthlessness and my surrender. In the mark on my neck. In the bruise on my hip. In the way his fingers still curl into my skin, even in sleep.

I should feel safe. I should feel claimed. I should feel like the woman who finally got the man she didn't know she wanted.

But as I drift, his arm tightening around my waist, I hear it. The whisper beneath the words. The truth he's not ready to speak.

*I'll burn the world before I let you go.*

And I know, with a chilling certainty, that he means it.

The hook isn't in his possessiveness. It's in the fact that he's already crossed the line he swore he'd never cross. He's not just protecting me anymore.

He's falling. And men like Ethan Hart don't just fall.

They break. And when they do, they take everything with them.