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Aria.

Always fucking Aria.

The club’s too hot. My shirt clings. My blood’s crawling.

I drop a hundred on the bar and walk away, leaving her gaping like a landed fish.

I move toward the private elevator that leads to the club’s exclusive upper level. The space reserved for some quiet conversation.

Or just quiet.

The penthouse lounge is a sight to see. Here, looking out at the panoramic view of the city, I usually feel like I’m the king of the world.

Tonight, I hardly notice the sight.

I need to find a spot where no one talks to me. I move aimlessly. I need air, space, something that isn’t blonde and vapid.

And that’s when I see her.

Time stops. The air leaves my lungs in a rush, and suddenly I can’t feel my fingers or toes, only the wild hammering of my heart against my ribs.

Aria sits alone in the far corner booth, and she’s dressed like sin incarnate.

The dress, black as midnight and cut to kill. A plunging neckline that showcases the perfect swell of her breasts, the fabric so thin it might as well be paint.

But it’s the slit that makes my mouth go dry—starting at her ankle and climbing all the way to the top of her thigh, offering glimpses of skin that I’ve kissed, tasted, claimed.

Her hair falls in loose waves over one shoulder, and when she shifts in her seat, crossing those incredible legs, the slit parts wider. I catch a flash of lace—black, delicate, the kind of underwear designed to drive a man insane.

What the fuck is she thinking, dressed like that in public? In my territory?

The possessive rage that roars through me is immediate and overwhelming. Every man in this room has seen what I’ve seen. Wanted what belongs to me. The thought of their eyes on her, their minds undressing her, makes my vision tint red around the edges.

She’s pretending not to notice me. Sipping whatever mocktail like she doesn’t feel my presence burning across the room. But I see the way her spine stiffens, the careful stillness that means she knows exactly where I am.

I cross the room with predatory grace, ignoring the conversations that die in my wake. Power radiates from me in waves, marking my territory, marking her. By the time I reach her booth, the surrounding area has cleared like I carry the plague.

Good.

“Fancy meeting you here,” I say, sliding into the booth across from her without invitation.

She doesn’t look up from her glass. “Marco.”

Just my name, spoken like a curse. But I hear the slight tremor beneath the ice, the way her breathing has changed.

“You’re far from home, wife.”

“I’m exactly where I belong.” Her eyes flick up to meet mine. “This is neutral territory. Even you can’t object to that.”

“I’m not objecting to your presence.” I lean back, letting my gaze rake over her slowly, deliberately. “I’m objecting to your outfit.”

Her chin lifts in that defiant gesture I know so well. “I wasn’t asking for permission. If it bothers you, don’t look—because I’ll wear whatever I damn well want.”

“Will you? Even if it drives every man in here to distraction? Even if it makes them think they might have a chance at what’s mine?”

“I’m not yours anymore.”

“Yet you carry my child. Mine.”