Page 46

I grin at my wife as she perches on my lap, her soft curves settling against me like they were made to fit.

My arm wraps around her waist, protective, possessive.

Even more so now that I know she’s growing our baby in the miracle that is her body.

I nod once to one of my guys across the yard. He taps the tablet and the massive outdoor screen flickers to life.

El Tigre already gave his speech—thanking me for the assist, thanking Lucy for the inspiration, thanking fate or whatever else brought him through the fire of fame to something that sounds like truth.

I waved it all off, as usual, but I’ll admit he’s a better man than I assumed. And, he earned this.

Him and his wife, who as it turns out, is his lyricist.

Now it’s time to show the world what we made.

Ella es de él.

Translation: She is his.

El Tigre’s new hit single

The first note hits like a spell—soft and seductive.

A single haunting guitar string that slides into a low, slow beat. It hums with longing, with reverence.

Then the melody blooms, all warm bass and whispered percussion, rising and falling like a heartbeat synced to emotion.

The kind of song that sinks into your skin and stays there.

I tense when I see the legs on screen—her legs.

Strong, shapely, and fuck-me familiar.

She walks slowly through a smoky, crowded room, high heels clicking over marble tile, the camera climbing her form like hands wanting to touch.

Beside me, Marat stiffens. Destiny’s eyes narrow just slightly.

I glance at Javier DeSoto, the photographer turned director is sitting beside them.

He’s sweating bullets, but he nods respectfully. He knows what he’s done.

The man is a genius behind a lens, and for his directorial debut?

He chose a masterpiece.

Because Lucy?

Lucy is the centerpiece of it all.

El Tigre’s voice breaks through, low and aching.

That deep reggaetón rasp of his wraps around lyrics that are nothing short of poetry.

Not sleazy. Not crude. Not inappropriate.

It’s worshipful.

The lyrics tell a story of seeing a woman too radiant to ignore, of watching her shine from across the room, of knowing she is someone else’s— and loving her all the more for it.

He sings of restraint and respect.

Of desire held back, not because it burns any less, but because what she has with her man is sacred.

It’s not the song that scumbag ex-manager of his tried to push.

That guy— may he rot in the foulest depths of Hell —wanted something dirty. Something to provoke sick minds like his own.

But this?

This is homage.

The video shifts, and now Lucy is dancing.

Slowly. Sensually. Between the spread knees of a man in a crisp black suit.

Her dress clings to every delicious curve, her hips swaying with a grace that could bring gods to their knees.

Her hands glide up her own body like silk.

The camera lingers.

Breathless.

And then— he touches her.

Tattooed hands slide around her hips from her man. A man the audience never sees in full.

But I know who they belong to.

Because they’re mine.

My hands.

Javier insisted the man in the suit needed to be real .

Authentic.

He wanted Lucy to perform with someone she already trusted.

So yeah. That’s me in the shadows.

My touch. My mouth brushing her shoulder in a scene lit with flickering candlelight.

It’s not raunchy. It’s art.

But fuck if it doesn’t send a possessive thrill racing through my bloodstream to see the whole damn world watching us like this.

And then the camera pans up.

Cuts to her face.

That beautiful, unforgettable face.

And she’s gazing up at me—not El Tigre.

Not the camera.

Me.

The look on her face?

It undoes me.

So much love. So much raw vulnerability. She’s not acting. This isn’t performance.

That’s my wife. Loving me. Trusting me. Claiming me right back.

And I can feel everyone behind us seeing it, too. Knowing what we are.

I press a kiss to the side of her neck, my lips whispering over her skin as the last note fades and the screen goes black.

“Mine,” I murmur, just for her.

Because if this song was his love letter to the untouchable goddess, this moment is my vow to the woman I hold in my arms.

And tonight, the whole world saw it. Not just our little viewing party.

They all heard it.

Watched it.

Felt it.

Applause erupts from everyone in our yard. Her family is cheering for her. Congratulating El Tigre and his wife on this obvious hit.

But me, I’m only looking at her.

To me, she’s not just the face of Volkov Industries, some brat celebrity, or even the muse behind the music.

Lucy is the very heart of me.

“Let’s get everyone out of here,” I whisper.

Her sapphire gaze heats as it locks onto mine. She nods.

And just like that, I know this woman is mine.

Only mine.

Forever mine.