**CHAPTER EIGHT: REAL MARRIAGE**

The phone feels heavier than it should in my hand. I stand in the glass-walled hallway of my lawyer’s office, the city skyline blurred behind the rain-streaked windows, and I press the speaker button one last time. My thumb hovers over the end call. My breath catches.

“Mrs. Vance,” I say, and my voice doesn’t shake. It surprises me. “I’m withdrawing the annulment request. Effective immediately. You can close the file.”

A pause. Then the rustle of papers. “Are you certain, Ms. Hart? Once filed, there’s a cooling-off period, and legal counsel would strongly advise—”

“I’m certain,” I cut in, and the words settle into my bones like a key turning in a long-jammed lock. “Tell the court. Tell them it’s off. Tell them I’m keeping my husband.”

I don’t wait for his reply. I end the call, slide the phone into my coat pocket, and lean my forehead against the cool glass. The rain taps a steady rhythm against the window. My heart is hammering, but not from fear. From relief. From the dizzying, terrifying certainty that I’ve just stepped off a tightrope and into solid ground.

I’m not letting him go.

Not anymore.

The drive back to the house is quiet. Ethan sits in the passenger seat, one arm resting on the open window, the city lights painting sharp angles across his jaw. He’s been back from London for three days, and in those seventy-two hours, I’ve watched him shed the armor like a second skin. The man who strides into boardrooms with a reputation for breaking competitors isn’t the man who brings me tea in the dark without asking if I’ve slept. The man who signs multi-million-dollar contracts with a single pen stroke is the man who traces the curve of my spine with a reverence that makes my chest ache.

He turns his head, catching me watching him. His dark eyes drop to my mouth, then back to the road. “You look different,” he says, voice low, roughened by fatigue and something softer.

“Good different?” I ask.

He glances at me, a ghost of a smile touching his lips. “The only kind that matters.”

The house is quiet when we walk in. The foyer smells like sandalwood and rain, the air still carrying the weight of our recent past. Separate bedrooms. Separate lives. Separate beds where I used to lie awake listening to him walk past my door, a silhouette in the hall, always stopping just outside my threshold like he wanted to knock, like he needed to, but never did.

Tonight, I lock the front door behind us. The click echoes. I turn to face him.

He’s already loosening his tie, fingers working at the silk with practiced efficiency. His shirt clings to his shoulders, the fabric stretched tight over muscle and tension. He’s exhausted, I can see it in the lines around his eyes, in the way his posture finally yields to gravity. But he’s here. In our home. In our life.

“I called the lawyer,” I say.

His hands still. The tie slips from his fingers, pooling on the marble console table. He turns fully toward me, and the air between us thickens, charged with something unspoken but undeniable.

“Sophie.”

“I’m not doing it anymore,” I continue, stepping closer. “The annulment. The contract. The separate rooms. I’m done pretending this is just a business arrangement. I’m keeping you, Ethan. However you want it. However you need it. But I’m not letting you push me away again.”

He doesn’t answer right away. He just looks at me, really looks at me, as if memorizing the shape of my face, the set of my shoulders, the way my chest rises and falls with steady, determined breaths. The ruthlessness I’ve seen in boardrooms, the cold calculation that made him a legend in finance, it’s all stripped away now. What’s left is raw. Unprotected. Vulnerable.

He crosses the distance between us in two long strides. His hands come up, palms flat against my hips, pulling me flush against him. I gasp as his body meets mine, solid and warm and real. His forehead drops to mine, his breath mingling with mine in the quiet hall.

“You have no idea,” he murmurs, voice rough, “what it’s been like pretending I don’t need you.”

“Then stop pretending,” I whisper.

His hands slide up my back, fingers tangling in my hair, tilting my head back. His mouth finds mine, and the kiss isn’t careful. It’s not the polite, restrained contact of weeks past. It’s hungry. Desperate. A claiming. A surrender. I melt into him, fingers gripping his shirt, pulling him closer, deeper, until there’s no space left between us. He groans against my lips, one hand sliding down to grip my thigh, lifting me effortlessly. I wrap my legs around his waist, instinct taking over, and he carries me down the hall without breaking the kiss.

We don’t make it to the bedroom. Not yet. He lays me down on the chaise in the sitting room, the one that faces the floor-to-ceiling windows, and strips off his shirt with one hand while the other works at my buttons. I arch into his touch, heart pounding, as he pushes my dress up, over my hips, down my legs, until it pools around my ankles. He doesn’t rush. He never does with me. He takes his time, mapping my body with his mouth, his hands, his eyes, as if relearning every inch, every curve, every scar.

His mouth finds my breast, and I cry out, fingers tangling in his hair. He sucks gently, then harder, rolling his tongue over my nipple until I’m trembling, until my hips buck against him. “Ethan,” I breathe, his name a prayer on my lips.

“Look at me,” he commands, voice low, rough.

I open my eyes. He’s staring at me like I’m the only thing in the world that matters. Like I’m the only thing that ever will. And maybe I am.

He slides his hand between my thighs, fingers slipping through my wetness, and I gasp as two fingers push inside me, stretching me, filling me. I’m already dripping for him. Always have been. He curls his fingers, hitting that spot inside me that makes my vision blur, and I arch off the chaise, a broken sound escaping my throat.

“Fuck,” he murmurs, setting a slow, steady rhythm. In, out. Curl, press. His thumb circles my clit, and I’m shaking, completely undone by the simplicity of it. No performance. No pretense. Just him. Just me. Just the raw, honest truth of what we are.

He pulls his fingers out, and I whine at the loss, but he’s already kneeling between my legs, unfastening his jeans, shoving them down his thighs. He steps out of them, kicks them aside, and I watch him unbuckle his belt, slide out his boxers, and free himself. He’s hard. Aching. Thick. And when he looks up at me, his eyes are dark with something I’ve only seen in the quiet hours before dawn. Devotion.

He lines himself up with me, the head of his cock pressing against my entrance, and I wrap my hands around his wrists, holding him still. “Please,” I whisper. “Don’t stop. Don’t ever stop.”

He nods, slow and solemn, and then he pushes inside.

I cry out as he fills me, stretching me, claiming me, every inch of him sliding into place like it was always meant to be there. He’s so deep I can feel him in my chest. He stills, forehead pressed to mine, breathing ragged. “You okay?” he asks, voice strained.

I nod, tears pricking my eyes. “More than okay. Just… keep going. Please.”

He moves. Slow at first, a deep, rolling thrust that makes me gasp. Then another. And another. The pace builds, steady and relentless, each thrust hitting me right where I need it. The chaise creaks beneath us. My nails dig into his shoulders. He groans, a low, guttural sound that vibrates through my bones, as he drives into me, deeper, harder, his hips snapping forward with controlled violence that quickly unravels into something desperate, something needy.

I match him, meeting every thrust, my hips rolling up to take him deeper. The friction is exquisite. The wet, slick sound of our bodies meeting fills the room. He leans down, capturing my mouth in a searing kiss, swallowing my moans, his tongue tangling with mine as he fucks me like he’s trying to brand me from the inside out. His hands grip my thighs, spreading me wider, angling me so every inch of him hits my cervix, and I’m sobbing now, not from pain, but from the sheer overwhelming weight of it. The connection. The truth. The fact that I’m finally, completely, his.

“Look at me,” he growls against my mouth.

I open my eyes. He’s watching me, pupils blown wide, jaw tight, every line of his face stripped bare. He’s falling apart. For me. Only me. And it unravels the last of my control.

I come with his name on my lips, a wave crashing over me, tightening around him, milking him, and he groans, his body locking, hips stuttering as he spills deep inside me, hot and thick, pulsing against my walls. We stay like that for a long time, breathing each other in, hearts hammering in sync, skin slick with sweat, legs tangled.

He doesn’t pull out. He just rolls onto his side, keeping me trapped against his chest, one arm wrapped securely around my waist, the other hand stroking my hair. I press my ear to his chest, listening to his heartbeat, slow and steady now. The rain has stopped. The city outside is quiet. And for the first time in what feels like forever, so am I.

“You’re staying,” he murmurs into my hair. Not a question. A promise.

“I’m staying,” I confirm, fingers tracing the sharp line of his collarbone. “No more separate rooms. No more pretending. Just us. However long you’ll have me.”

He turns his head, pressing a kiss to my temple. “Forever,” he says, and the word hangs in the air, heavy and absolute. “I’m done running from this. From us.”

I smile against his skin, closing my eyes. It’s exactly what I wanted. Exactly what I needed. A real marriage. A real man. A real life.

But the quiet doesn’t last.

It never does.

Ethan’s phone, left on the console table in the hall, buzzes. Once. Twice. Then a third time. The vibration is sharp against the marble. I don’t move. He doesn’t move. But his body tenses, just slightly, the muscle in his jaw tightening.

I open my eyes. “Who is it?”

He doesn’t answer right away. He reaches over, picks up the phone, and looks at the screen. His expression doesn’t change, but I know him well enough by now to see the shift. The coldness returns to his eyes. Not the performative kind. The real kind. The kind that belongs to the man who breaks rivals without blinking. The kind that means trouble.

“Dmitri Volkov,” he says quietly.

My stomach drops. The name hits me like a physical blow. The Russian oligarch. The man who’s been circling Ethan’s deals for months. The man who’s made veiled threats. The man who’s supposed to be in Moscow.

“He called to reschedule,” Ethan continues, voice flat. “Says he’s already in the city. Wants to discuss the maritime acquisition. Tonight.”

I sit up, pulling the sheet around me, the warmth of the bed suddenly feeling very far away. “You’re not meeting him.”

Ethan turns to look at me, and I see the calculation in his eyes, the old armor sliding back into place. But beneath it, I see the man who just spent an hour coming apart inside me. The man who promised me forever.

“I have to,” he says. “It’s not just a business meeting, Sophie. He’s trying to buy my leverage. And he’s not asking.”

I swallow hard. “Then tell him to go to hell.”

A ghost of a smile touches his lips, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “He’s not someone I can afford to ignore.” He stands, pulling his boxers up, leaving his shirt on the floor. He runs a hand through his hair, exhaling slowly. “Stay here. Lock the door. I’ll be back before midnight.”

“Ethan—”

He cuts me off with a kiss. Brief. Firm. Final. “I’m not leaving you,” he says against my mouth. “I’m just going to handle what needs handling. Then I’m coming back to you. To us. Always.”

He pulls away, grabs his shirt from the floor, pulls it on, and buttons it with practiced efficiency. The vulnerability is gone. The man who just worshipped me is gone. In his place stands the CEO. The shark. The man who walks into boardrooms and leaves destruction in his wake.

But before he reaches the door, he pauses. Turns back. Looks at me. Really looks at me. And for a second, the mask slips. Just a fraction. Enough for me to see the man who chose me. Who’s staying.

“I love you,” he says, quiet, but clear. “Say it back.”

My throat tightens. The words catch in my chest, heavy and sweet and terrifying. I’ve said it before, in the dark, in the quiet, but never like this. Never with the weight of everything hanging in the balance.

“I love you,” I whisper.

He nods, once. Turns. Walks out.

The door clicks shut.

I sit in the quiet, the sheet pooled around my waist, his scent still clinging to my skin, his weight still imprinted on the mattress. I should be happy. I should be resting. I should be celebrating the fact that I finally have him.

But my hands are shaking.

Because Dmitri Volkov doesn’t just make phone calls. He makes threats. He breaks men. And he doesn’t ask twice.

I crawl out of bed, wrap the sheet around me, and walk to the window. The street below is empty. The rain has washed the city clean. But somewhere out there, in the dark, the wolves are circling.

And my husband is walking straight into their den.

I press my palm against the cold glass. “Come back to me,” I whisper.

The house is silent. The city is quiet. But my heart is racing.

Because I know, with terrifying certainty, that tonight won’t end the way he promised.

And when he comes back, it won’t be the man I just fell in love with.

It’ll be the man I’m afraid he’s become.