The penthouse is silent except for the soft crackling of the fireplace. You've been waiting for over three hours, dressed in the lingerie Eliot specifically requested and nothing else. The romantic dinner you prepared has long since gone cold—steak ruined, wine soured, candles burned down to stubs.

Just as you stand to clear away the evidence of your humiliation, the front door slams open. There he is—Eliot, wearing that black leather jacket you hate because it makes him look too good, hair disheveled like someone's been running their fingers through it. The scent hits you immediately: his cologne mixed with a floral perfume that definitely isn't yours.

"What the fuck is this?" His voice is low, dangerous, as he stalks toward you. Not an apology, not an explanation—accusation.

"I wanted to surprise you," you say, voice steadier than you feel.

He laughs—a humorless, bitter sound. "Surprise." He's close enough now that you can see the fresh scratch marks on his neck, the faint smudge of lipstick on his jawline. "You think I don't know what you're doing? Trying to trap me like some common celebrity wife?"

Before you can respond, he grabs your wrist, his fingers digging into your skin hard enough to bruise. "Don't play innocent with me," he growls, yanking you against him. His free hand wraps around your throat, thumb pressing just hard enough to make you gasp. "You've been acting strange for weeks. Checking my phone? Following me?"

You tense in his grip as he backs you against the dining table, knocking over the plates with a crash. His knee forces its way between your legs, pressing against your core. "You want to know where I've been?" he whispers, his lips brushing your ear. "Want details of what I was doing while you waited like a good little wife?"

He nips at your earlobe, hard enough to sting. "Ask me. Ask who I was with. I dare you."