The invitation had been embossed on heavy cream cardstock, scented with lavender—Alexandra's signature. A Night of Vintage & Velvet. It was exactly the kind of pretentious affair that made my teeth ache, but my father insisted I attend. " appearances, Sofia," he had said. "We must keep up appearances."
So, I wore the dark emerald dress that clung to my ribs and flared at the hips, painted my lips a deep bordeaux to match the theme, and walked into the lion's den.
Alexandra's estate was sprawling, the main hall transformed into a tasting room filled with oak barrels serving as high-top tables. The air was thick with the scent of fermented grapes, expensive colognes, and the low hum of polite, meaningless chatter.
I spotted Marco immediately. It was impossible not to.
He stood near the fireplace, one hand in the pocket of his charcoal grey suit, the other swirling a glass of Pinot Noir he hadn't taken a sip of in twenty minutes. He was listening to Alexandra, who looked radiant in gold, hanging onto his arm like a trophy. Every time she laughed, throwing her head back and touching his bicep, a spike of irrational, acidic jealousy pierced my chest.
He looked miserable. He looked magnificent.
As if sensing my gaze, Marco's head turned. His eyes, dark and unreadable, locked onto mine across the room. There was no nod this time. No polite acknowledgement. Just a heavy, brooding stare that swept down my body, lingering on the exposed skin of my shoulders before snapping back up to my face. His jaw tightened—a subtle flex of muscle that only I noticed.
I started to move toward the bar, needing something strong to dull the ache of seeing him with her, when a pair of hands suddenly covered my eyes from behind.
"Guess who?"
The voice was British, teasing, and shockingly familiar. My heart stopped, then restarted in a confused rhythm. I pulled the hands away and spun around.
"James?"
Standing there, grinning like the Cheshire Cat, was James. My James. Or, he had been my James for seven distinct, sun-drenched months in London. He looked exactly the same: messy blonde hair that he paid a fortune to look unkempt, a boyish grin that displayed a charmingly crooked canine, and a slim-fit navy suit that screamed youth and money. He was twenty-two, vibrant, and entirely safe.
"The one and only," he laughed, pulling me into a crushing hug. He smelled like rain and expensive gin. "God, look at you, Sof. You look lethal."
I pulled back, blinking in shock. "What are you doing here? You're supposed to be in Kensington."
"My father had business in the city. I tagged along. Turns out, Alexandra is a distant cousin of my step-mother. Small world, yeah?" He winked, keeping his hands resting familiarly on my waist. "I was hoping I'd run into you. You ghosted me, you know. Not very polite."
"I didn't ghost you," I defended, though I felt a flush of guilt. "I just… left."
"Without a goodbye kiss. Tragic, really." He leaned in, his blue eyes sparkling with mischief. "I intend to collect interest on that debt."
I forced a laugh, but the hairs on the back of my neck stood up. I felt a gaze burning into the side of my face. I glanced over James's shoulder.
Marco was watching us.
He hadn't moved, but the air around him seemed to have dropped ten degrees. He was no longer looking at Alexandra. He was staring directly at James's hands on my waist. The glass in Marco's hand was tilted dangerously, the wine threatening to spill. His expression was terrifyingly blank, the mask of the gentleman straining at the seams.
"Come on," James said, oblivious to the predator across the room. "Let's get a drink. I need to tell you about what happened in Ibiza."
He laced his fingers through mine, an intimate, possessive gesture, and led me toward the bar. As we walked, I felt Marco's eyes tracking us, a physical weight on my spine.
For the next hour, James was my shadow. He was charming, attentive, and loud. He made me laugh, he refilled my glass, and he touched me constantly. A hand on my lower back, a brush of his shoulder against mine, a finger tucking hair behind my ear. It was innocent enough, the behavior of an ex-boyfriend testing the waters, but in the context of this room, it felt like a declaration of war.
Every time I looked up, Marco was there. Moving through the crowd, always keeping us in his peripheral vision.
"Who's the stiff?" James whispered in my ear, nodding toward Marco. "The older guy. He looks like he wants to murder someone. Probably me."
"That's Marco," I said, my voice tight. "My father's friend."
"Ah. The babysitter," James teased. He shifted closer, his breath fanning my neck. "Well, tell him you're in good hands."
"Sofia."
The voice was deep, authoritative, and cut through the ambient noise like a blade.
We both turned. Marco was standing right behind us. Up close, he looked exhausted, the tension radiating off him in waves. He towered over James, his broad shoulders making James's slim frame look boyish in comparison.
"Marco," I breathed, clutching my wine glass.
"Your father is asking for you," Marco lied. I knew he was lying because my father had left thirty minutes ago for a cigar on the patio. Marco didn't look at me, though. He was staring at James. "And I don't believe we've met."
James straightened up, his grin turning sharp. He sensed the hostility instantly. "James. An old friend of Sofia's from London." He extended a hand.
Marco looked at the hand for a second too long before gripping it. He didn't shake it; he squeezed it. "Marco. Sofia's… guardian for the evening."
James laughed, pulling his hand back and shaking it out subtly. "Guardian? She's twenty, mate. Not twelve. I think she can handle herself."
"I'm sure you do," Marco said softly. The menace in his tone was so low only a dog could hear it. He turned his dark gaze to me. "Sofia. A word? Regarding your father."
"I'll come with," James offered, stepping forward.
"No," Marco snapped. The gentleman facade cracked, revealing the snarling wolf beneath. He took a breath, adjusting his cufflinks, forcing a tight smile. "Private family business, I'm afraid. Excuse us."
Before James could protest, Marco's hand clamped around my upper arm. It wasn't painful, but it was firm, brooking no argument. He steered me away from the bar, away from the crowd, and toward the heavy oak door that led to the wine cellar in the basement.
"Marco, what are you doing?" I hissed as he practically marched me down the stone stairs. The air grew cooler, smelling of damp earth and aged oak.
"Be quiet," he muttered.
He didn't stop until we were deep in the cellar, hidden behind rows of towering shelving units filled with dust-covered bottles. He spun me around, backing me into a rack of vintage reds.
"Who is he?" Marco demanded. He wasn't yelling, which made it scarier. His voice was a calm, cold interrogation.
"He told you. He's James. My ex."
"Ex," Marco repeated, tasting the word like poison. "He touches you as if he owns you."
"He's just friendly, Marco. That's how people my age act."
"He had his hand on your waist. He held your hand. He whispered in your ear." Marco stepped closer, crowding me. He placed a hand on the shelf beside my head, boxing me in. "And you let him."
"Why shouldn't I?" I challenged, my heart hammering against my ribs. "You made it very clear three days ago where we stand. You chose your honor. You chose Alexandra. You don't get to be jealous."
"I am not jealous," he lied through his teeth.
"You are! You're furious because he can touch me in public and you can't. Because he can hold my hand and you have to pretend I don't exist!"
Marco closed his eyes, a shudder running through his massive frame. When he opened them, the green irises were burning. "You are right. I hate it. I hate watching his hands on you. I hate that he is young and free and… appropriate for you. I wanted to break his arm when he touched your hair."
"Marco…"
"He is a boy," Marco growled, leaning down until his nose brushed mine. "He doesn't know what to do with a woman like you. He doesn't know how to handle you."
"And you do?"
"Yes."
The word hung in the cold air.
Marco grabbed my hips, lifting me effortlessly and pressing me back against the wooden slats of the wine rack. The bottles rattled dangerously. He didn't wait this time. He captured my mouth in a kiss that was desperate and punishing. It was fueled by an hour of watching another man touch what he considered his.
I wrapped my arms around his neck, pulling him closer, tangling my fingers in his silver-streaked hair. He groaned into my mouth, his knee driving between my legs, pressing against the center of my heat through the silk of my dress. This wasn't the hesitant kiss in his office; this was a claiming.
"Tell me you don't want him," Marco rasped against my lips, his hand sliding up my thigh, hiking the dress up. His fingers were rough, callous, and electric against my skin.
"I don't," I panted. "I only want you."
"Say it again."
"I only want you, Marco."
He bit my lower lip, his control snapping. His hand moved higher, his touch searing, making me arch off the shelves. I was lost in him, in the scent of his skin and the overwhelming weight of his body against mine. We were hidden in the shadows, reckless and starving.
Then, the heavy creak of the cellar door opening echoed down the stairs.
We froze.
Marco didn't pull away immediately. His hand stilled on my thigh, his forehead resting against mine, his breathing ragged. We were silent, suspended in terror.
"Hello?" A voice called out. It wasn't Alexandra. It wasn't my father.
It was James.
"Sof? You down here? The butler said you went this way."
Footsteps descended the stone stairs. Click. Click. Click.
Marco's eyes flew open. Panic, stark and white-hot, flooded his gaze. He pulled back from me, frantically smoothing his suit jacket, checking his tie. I shoved my dress down, my hands shaking so hard I could barely feel them.
"Stay behind the rack," Marco whispered, his voice barely audible. "I'll intercept him."
"Marco—"
"Stay."
He stepped out from the shadows of the aisle, smoothing his expression into a mask of annoyance, blocking the view of me.
"James," Marco's voice boomed, echoing off the stone walls.
I peeked through the gap between two bottles of Merlot. James had reached the bottom of the stairs. He looked surprised to see Marco, but his eyes were darting around, suspicious.
"Marco, right?" James stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Where's Sofia? You said her dad needed her."
"She went up the back service stairs," Marco lied smoothly. "I was just selecting a bottle for the host."
James tilted his head, his eyes narrowing. He took a step forward. "Funny. I didn't hear the service door open. And you look… flushed, mate."
Marco stiffened. "It's warm down here."
James stepped closer, his gaze drifting past Marco's shoulder. He sniffed the air. "Is that…?" He looked directly at Marco, then at the shadowed aisle behind him where I was hiding. Then, his eyes landed on something on the floor.
Marco followed his gaze.
There, lying in the center of the aisle under the harsh cellar light, was one of my gold earrings. It had fallen off during the kiss.
James crouched down and picked it up. He turned it over in his fingers, the gold glinting. He looked at the earring, then up at Marco, a slow, dark realization dawning on his face. The boyish charm evaporated, replaced by a cold, calculating smirk.
"Well, well," James murmured, standing up and tossing the earring in his palm. He looked toward the shadows where I stood frozen. "You can come out now, Sofia."
I didn't move.
James laughed, a dry, humorless sound. He looked at Marco, not with fear, but with triumph.
"I was wondering why you were staring at me all night," James said, stepping into Marco's personal space, bold as brass. "I thought you were just a protective old family friend. But you're banging her, aren't you?"
Marco's hands curled into fists at his sides. "Watch your mouth."
"Or what?" James challenged, holding up the earring. "You'll tell Alexandra? Or should I go upstairs and give her this back myself? I'm sure she'd recognize it."
Marco went still. Deadly still. The silence in the cellar was suffocating. James had the leverage, and he knew it.
"What do you want?" Marco asked, his voice devoid of emotion.
James smiled, closing his fist around the earring. "For starters? I think you should leave. Now. Sofia and I have a lot of catching up to do." He looked past Marco, his eyes locking onto mine through the gap in the shelves. "Don't we, love?"