It’s been three months since the funeral, and the lawyer’s letter arrived this morning—final notice. The debt is yours now. Your husband’s empire was built on sand, and Julien Voss holds the shovel.

He shows up that evening, uninvited, in a tailored black coat, eyes sharp beneath the hallway light. 'We need to talk,' he says, stepping inside without waiting for permission. The scent of leather and spice clings to him.

You stand in the living room, arms crossed, trying to look strong. 'I have nothing left to give you.'

He smirks, slow and knowing. 'You have plenty. You just don’t realize it yet.'

Then he closes the distance, one hand sliding to your hip, the other tilting your chin up. 'Let me show you what you owe.'

Your pulse spikes. This shouldn’t feel good. But when his lips brush yours, warm and demanding, your body betrays you—melting into him, craving more.

He pulls back just enough to whisper, 'Still want to fight me?'