At 6:30 PM, Blaire walked into Declan's study.
She was wearing an emerald green gown. She held a stack of papers in her hand.
Declan was at his desk, signing documents. He looked up. His eyes swept over the dress, lingering on the slit up her thigh.
"Nice dress," he said.
"I have a contract," Blaire said, slamming the papers on his mahogany desk.
He raised an eyebrow. "Another one?"
"A Marital Agreement," she said. "Since you insist on this charade. Clause one: No unnecessary physical contact in private. Clause two: No entering the bathroom while occupied. Clause three: All public appearances must be scheduled and approved by both parties forty-eight hours in advance. Clause four: Outside of these appearances and necessary cohabitation, our private lives will remain separate."
Declan picked up the papers. He read the first page.
He laughed. A dark, rich sound.
"Appearances?" he asked.
"Yes."
He stood up. He held the papers in both hands.
Then, he ripped them in half.
Blaire gasped. "What are you doing?"
He stacked the halves and ripped them again. Then he dropped the confetti into the wastebasket.
"I don't sign contracts I don't intend to keep," he said.
He walked around the desk. He backed her against the bookshelf.
"I am a dictator, Blaire. Not a democrat. You don't get to set terms."
"You can't just-"
"I can. I own the mortgage. I own the company. And on paper, I own you."
He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers brushed her jaw.
"You want to hate me? Fine. Hate me. But don't try to manage me."
Suddenly, his phone rang on the desk.
He glanced at it. His expression darkened.
He pressed the speaker button.
"What," Declan barked.
"Declan?" A voice came through. Slurred. Weepy.
Jeffery.
Blaire's blood ran cold.
"I... I made a mistake, man," Jeffery sobbed. "Cathi... she's crazy. She's not who I thought she was. She just wanted the money."
Blaire covered her mouth.
"You're pathetic," Declan said coldly.
"Is Blaire there?" Jeffery asked. "Tell her I'm sorry. Tell her I'm coming back. I can fix this."
Declan looked at Blaire. He saw the tears welling in her eyes. He saw the shaking.
His jaw tightened.
"You're not coming back," Declan said. His voice was ice. "You abandoned her. You humiliated her. If you step foot in New York, I will destroy you. Stay where you are, Jeffery. Rot there."
He hung up.
The room was silent.
"He wants to come back," Blaire whispered.
"He's a fool," Declan said. "Are you still in love with him?"
She looked up. "I hate him. I hate him for leaving. I hate him for making me feel like I wasn't enough."
Declan nodded. He seemed pleased by that.
He stepped closer. He cupped her face in his hands. His thumbs wiped away a stray tear.
"Good," he said. "Use that hate. Tonight, we are going to walk into that gala, and you are going to look so happy, so radiant, that Jeffery will see the photos and wish he was dead."
"Revenge?" she asked.
"Revenge," he agreed. "Let me make you the envy of the city, Blaire. Let me show them what they lost."
Blaire looked into his eyes. For the first time, she didn't see a shark. She saw an ally. A dangerous, violent ally.
"Okay," she whispered.
"Okay."
He offered his arm.
They walked to the elevator. She slipped her hand into the crook of his elbow. She squeezed.
He looked down at her hand, then at her. He smiled. A real smile.
"That's it, Queen," he murmured. "Let's go to war."
