His thumb moved from her jaw to her throat. It wasn't a choke hold, but the weight of his hand was heavy, possessive. The alcohol on his breath was sharp.
The adrenaline from the confrontation at the gala, combined with the liquor, had shifted something in him. The cold detachment was gone, replaced by a dark, murky hunger. He looked at her not as a liability, but as something he owned.
"Fulfill your obligations, Dosha," he murmured.
He lowered his head. His lips brushed the sensitive skin just below her ear.
Dosha went rigid. Every muscle in her body locked up. It wasn't fear, exactly. It was revulsion. It was the physical rejection of a lie.
He moved to capture her mouth.
Dosha jerked her head to the side.
His lips landed on her hair.
Casper froze. He pulled back slowly, his expression blank with shock. He looked at her as if the furniture had suddenly started speaking. No one rejected Casper Stuart. Not in business. Not in bed.
"You're playing games?" he asked, his voice dropping an octave. "You think hard to get raises your value?"
Dosha took a breath. She ducked under his arm and put three feet of distance between them. She pointed a shaking finger at his collar.
"You have lipstick on your shirt, Casper. Dior 999. It's Sienna's shade."
Casper glanced down at the red smudge on the white fabric. He flicked it with his finger, unbothered.
"So? You are jealous."
"No."
Dosha walked to the bookshelf. Her hands were steady now. She pulled out the thick, leather-bound binder that contained their Prenuptial Agreement. She opened it to page 142.
"According to the Health and Safety Clause, Section 3," she read aloud, her voice clear and clinical. "If one party engages in high-risk sexual behavior outside the marriage, the other party reserves the right to refuse physical intimacy until a comprehensive health panel is provided by a certified physician."
Casper stared at her. A laugh bubbled up in his chest, a harsh, incredulous sound.
"You're quoting the contract?"
"I am managing risk," Dosha said. She didn't look up from the page. "I don't want a disease, Casper. That is a liability I cannot afford."
He crossed the room in two strides. He snatched the binder from her hands and slammed it onto the coffee table. The sound was like a gunshot.
"I am your husband," he snarled. "Not a vendor."
"Then stop acting like a breach of contract."
He stared at her. He was looking for the hurt. He was looking for the wife who cried because she loved him. But all he saw was a mirror of his own coldness. And it infuriated him.
"Fine," he spat. He stepped back, straightening his jacket. He regained his composure, pulling the mask of the CEO back into place. "If you want to follow the rules, we will follow the rules."
He turned toward the guest wing of the penthouse.
"Don't be late for the family breakfast tomorrow," he threw over his shoulder. "Mother is expecting us. That is another one of your obligations."
He slammed the door to the guest room.
Dosha let out a breath she felt like she had been holding for an hour. She sank onto the sofa.
A greyhound, sleek and silver, padded silently into the room. Asset. He nudged her hand with a wet nose. He was technically Casper's dog-a status symbol, a purebred-but Casper never fed him, never walked him.
Dosha buried her fingers in the dog's fur. Her hand was trembling now.
She looked at the contract on the table. It was her shield. But looking at the closed door of the guest room, she realized it was also the bars of her cage.
She got up and walked to the master bedroom. She locked the door. She engaged the deadbolt.
