I stare into the ceiling as I think about last night. The way Hera looked at me before she pretended like it didn't bother her.
Or maybe I'm just being delusional.
But,what I heard last night was definitely real. It was faint but unable to miss. Her moans as she probably made love to herself.
It made me hard myself, I had a little session of my own in the bathroom. Touching myself to her moans.
I thought of her and I wonder if she thought of me too.
The rules of this marriage are slowly unraveling. We feel it, faintly, but refuse to acknowledge it.
And honestly,I'll rather keep it that way.
———
The day of the gala arrives dressed in inevitability.
I'm in my room when the tailor finishes the final adjustments—black tuxedo, clean lines, understated power. My reflection stares back at me, controlled and unreadable. This is armor. It always has been. Tonight is about optics, alliances, money, influence. Nothing more.
That's what I tell myself.
The door across the hall opens just as I'm fastening my cufflinks.
And for a moment—just one—I forget how to breathe.
Hera steps out in a gown that shouldn't surprise me, but somehow does. A satin black dress that hugs her curves perfectly and compliments her skin beautifully. Her hair made into a blowout, her makeup slick.
She looks like something out of a 90s movie. Damn she's beautiful.
Elegant without trying. Sharp without being severe. The kind of beauty that doesn't ask for permission or approval. She looks like she belongs anywhere she chooses to stand.
Our eyes meet. The air shifts.
Not dramatic. Not obvious. Just… charged.
She pauses too. I catch it—the smallest hitch in her movement, the flicker of something unguarded in her gaze before she schools her expression back into calm confidence.
"Well," she says lightly, breaking the moment. "You clean up well."
I smirk. "You're not so bad yourself."
She raises an eyebrow. "High praise."
We stand there a second longer than necessary, taking each other in. This isn't attraction I'm supposed to acknowledge. It's inconvenient. Poor timing. Illogical.
And yet.
"Ready?" I ask.
She nods. "Always."
⸻
The gala is exactly what I expected—and worse.
Crystal chandeliers. Strings of light. Music soft enough to suggest refinement, loud enough to drown out real conversation. People dressed in power and smiles, trading pleasantries like currency.
We enter together.
Every head turns. Cameras flash. People murmur.
This should be our first public appearance together after the wedding.
They see what they want to see: the perfect couple. Wealth. Authority. Stability. A story they can believe in.
Hera slips seamlessly into the role, her hand resting lightly on my arm. She doesn't cling. Doesn't lean. Just enough contact to sell the illusion.
And she shines.
I watch her navigate conversations with donors, board members, executives—her voice confident, warm, precise. She listens more than she speaks, but when she does speak, people lean in. She remembers names. Details. Intentions.
She's dangerous like that.
"She's impressive," someone murmurs beside me.
I don't respond. Because I already know.
She moves through the room effortlessly, a constant orbit of attention around her. I stay close, half out of habit, half because something in me refuses to drift too far.
Then it happens.
One of the men—mid-forties, too confident, too comfortable—corners her near the bar. I see it from across the room. The way he steps closer than necessary. The way his smile lingers too long. The way his hand gestures a little too freely.
I tell myself it's nothing.
She can handle herself.
She always does.
But then he says something.
I don't hear the words—but I see her expression change. Just slightly. Her smile tightens. Her shoulders square.
That's all it takes.
I'm moving before I've decided to.
I step between them smoothly, placing my hand on her waist. Protectively. Possessively.
"Is there a problem?" I ask, my voice calm. Too calm.
The man blinks, clearly startled. "Oh—no, no. Just having a conversation."
I glance at Hera. "Is that so?"
She meets my eyes, surprised. Then composed. "No, we're not" she says evenly.
That's it.
I turn back to him, my smile polite and empty. "Then the conversation's over."
His face tightens. "I didn't mean any offense—"
"Intent doesn't matter," I interrupt quietly. "Walk away."
There's a beat of silence.
He clears his throat. "Of course. My apologies."
He retreats quickly.
Of course he does, he'll be stupid to stay another second.
I feel Hera's gaze on me as the tension dissipates. "You didn't have to do that," she says softly.
"I know," I reply.
She studies me, searching for something. "Then why did you?"
You just have to ask don't you.
I don't answer immediately.
Because I don't have a clean one.
"Because he crossed a line," I say finally.
She doesn't argue—but she doesn't look away either. Something unspoken settles between us.
We continue the evening like nothing happened.
But everything has.
Later, as we stand near the balcony overlooking the city lights, she speaks quietly. "Thank you. Even if I didn't need saving."
"I wasn't saving you," I say. "I was… correcting him."
She smiles faintly. "Still."
Our eyes meet again.
That same spark.
Unwanted. Unnecessary. Undeniable.
I shouldn't care.
This marriage is business. Control. Structure.
But as I look at her—strong, unyielding, brilliant in a world that keeps trying to shrink her—I realize something dangerous:
I don't just see her anymore.
I notice her.
And that might be the most reckless thing I've done all night.
———
The mansion is quiet when we get back—too quiet.
The kind of silence that never lasts in my world.
Hera quickly retreats to her room, probably too tired for anything else.
I've just loosened my tie when my phone vibrates in my hand. One look at the screen and the calm fractures.
Marco.
I answer without a greeting. "Talk."
"They crossed a line," he says. "We have him."
Of course they do.
"Bring him," I reply. "Now."
The call ends. No dramatics. No explanations needed. This is routine. This is the other half of my life—the one that doesn't attend galas or smile for cameras.
I change quickly, swapping polished elegance for something darker, simpler. By the time headlights cut through the driveway, I'm already composed.
I dismiss most of the staff with a gesture. What happens next doesn't need witnesses.
The door opens.
My men dragged a man in by his arms—bloody knuckles, face bruised beyond recognition. His suit was torn at the shoulder where someone had yanked him hard enough to tear fabric.
I didn't flinch.
"Who's this?" My voice stayed low but cut like glass through silence of hallway shadows. Stretching long from dim light above staircase railing behind me.
"Found him trying to sell intel on our next shipment," one of them muttered, shoving their captive forward until he stumbled at my feet with muffled curse through split lip and busted nose that dripped red onto marble floor between us both now.
He's about die tonight, probably, because stupid choices always have price attached sooner rather than later when dealing Conners family business affairs especially.
I stepped down slowly until we were eye-to-eye—or what passed for it, his head hung forward like dead weight still alive somehow though barely conscious maybe concussed or just scared shitless?
Which?
Didn't matter much anymore once you crossed line into betrayal territory anyway...
Then slowly… deliberately…
I pulled out my gun again.
No warning this time.
No words needed, not right now, since everyone already knew how these things ended once brought here.
A gunshot rings out, loud in the empty hallway.
The body jerks once, then slumps at my feet. I wait until I'm sure he won't move again before looking up at my men.
"Get rid of him. Discreetly."
They nod and the clean up crew come in.
When it's done, my men take him away. He won't be a problem again.
I turn toward the hallway—
And freeze.
Hera stands there.
Barefoot. Wrapped in a robe. One hand gripping the banister like she needs it to stay upright. She must've come down for food. Must've heard voices. Must've stayed.
Watched.
For a moment, neither of us speaks.
The distance between us feels heavier than any threat I've faced tonight.
"Hera," my breath catches in my throat. "You weren't supposed to see that," I say finally.
Her voice wasn't steady, And neither were her eyes. "I wasn't spying. I just… heard something."
She looks terrified and honestly I don't see why she shouldn't.
I nod. No denial. No excuses.
"This is who I am," I tell her. "The part people don't dress up."
She swallows. "I know who I married."
A pause.
Then, softer: "I just didn't expect it to feel so… real."
"Or that you would do it here."
"Hera," I say carefully, keeping my voice low, steady. Not the voice I use in meetings. Not the one I use when people disappoint me. "You don't have to be scared."
Her arms are crossed, not defensively—more like she's holding herself together. "I'm not scared," she says, but the lie trembles at the edges.
I step back instead of closer, giving her space. "What you saw tonight," I continue, "that world doesn't touch you. It never will. You're not part of it. You don't answer to it. And no one in it is allowed near you. Ever."
She studies me, eyes sharp even now. "You say that like it's a rule."
"It is," I reply without hesitation. "My rule."
The tension eases—just a fraction—but it's enough. She exhales, long and shaky, and finally lets herself sit on the couch like her legs might give out otherwise.
I grab a bottle and two glasses, set them on the table between us. "Just a little," I say. "To take the edge off."
She hesitates, then nods.
We drink slowly. She relaxes faster than I expect, her words loosening, her shoulders dropping.
She talks—about her company at first. Then as the alcohol takes over she starts to talk about her favorite cartoons. I listen. Really listen.
She's losing control and in this moment I let my guard down too.
At some point, she laughs softly and leans closer without realizing it.
"You're not what I thought," she murmurs.
"Neither are you," I admit.
She looks up at me then—too close, too warm, eyes unfocused but sincere. And before I can think better of it, she presses a soft, clumsy kiss to my mouth.
My breath hitches and it takes a while for my brain to process it. But I lean in anyway deepening the kiss.
It was quick but the first intimate moment we've shared since we got married.
And no, us touching ourselves in our separate rooms is not an intimate moment.
Then she blinks, sways, and promptly falls asleep against my shoulder.
I don't move for a moment.
I just sit there, heart louder than it has any right to be.
Carefully, I lift her and carry her upstairs, lay her down in her bed, pull the blanket over her shoulders. She murmurs something unintelligible and turns onto her side.
"She won't remember," I tell myself quietly.
But I definitely will.
I close her door gently, retreat to my own room, and sit on the edge of the bed long after the lights are off—aware that something has shifted.
And knowing damn well I won't forget a single second of it.