[MAYA]
"My wife's battle with severe clinical depression is the very foundation of my new methodology."
Julian's voice echoed off the marble walls of the restroom corridor. His fingers clamped around my right wrist. The grip was punishing, hidden perfectly beneath the sleeve of my oversized, outdated navy gown.
Three media reporters stood before us, practically buzzing with excitement. Flashbulbs popped in rapid succession, blinding me momentarily.
"Mr. Vance, how does Maya's recovery integrate into your 'Unconditional Acceptance' framework?" a woman with a digital recorder asked.
"It requires immense patience," Julian answered smoothly. He offered the reporters a practiced, sorrowful smile. "Living with a partner who suffers from emotional dysregulation is a daily test of empathy. But as I write in chapter four, we must hold space for their brokenness."
I tried to yank my arm free. "I am not broken."
Julian's nails bit deeper into my skin. "As you can see, the defensive mechanisms are still quite active."
"You spilled red wine on me," I said, my voice rising. I pointed to the dark, wet stain blooming across the cheap chiffon of my skirt. "You bumped into my glass on purpose."
"Maya, please," Julian murmured. He adopted that same soothing, infuriating tone he used in our kitchen. "Your paranoia is flaring up again. Let's not make a scene in front of the press."
"I want to go home."
"We are going to take one nice photo for the foundation's press release."
"No."
"Just one photo, Mrs. Vance," the reporter coaxed, stepping closer. "Show us the united front."
"She struggles with reality testing," Julian told the journalist, his tone dripping with clinical pity. "Social settings often trigger her flight response. I usually limit her exposure to these events, but tonight is vital for the foundation."
The foundation. The one he bought with Chloe.
My stomach churned violently. I stared at the man I had married, watching him spin my perfectly valid anger into a psychiatric symptom for his own PR campaign.
"Let go of my wrist," I demanded.
"Smile for the camera, darling," Julian instructed.
He shifted his weight. He released my wrist and reached up, aiming to wrap his arm heavily around my bare shoulders. The cloying, heavy scent of his cologne hit my nose, bringing a wave of nausea. It was the exact same cologne he wore when he packed his bags to see his pregnant mistress.
"Do not touch me," I snapped.
I violently shoved his chest.
My sudden movement threw me off balance. The heel of my right shoe slipped off the edge of the marble step behind me.
Gravity grabbed hold of my body.
I flailed backward, my arms cutting through the empty air. I braced for the brutal impact of the stone stairs, squeezing my eyes shut.
The crash never came.
A pair of arms caught me mid-air.
They did not grab my shoulders. They did not catch my elbows.
A large hand, clad in rough, unyielding leather, clamped firmly around my exposed left waist. The side cutout of my old dress offered no barrier. The friction of the thick glove against my warm, bare skin sent a violent shockwave up my spine.
The stranger pulled me flush against a chest as solid as iron.
"Careful."
The voice vibrated right next to my ear. It was a low, freezing baritone that instantly commanded the entire hallway.
I froze.
A sharp, biting scent of winter frost and cold cedar washed over me, violently cutting through the nauseating cloud of Julian's cologne. The absolute contrast anchored my spinning mind. My back remained pressed tightly against the man's tailored suit. I felt the slow, even rhythm of his breathing. I felt the absolute, undeniable power radiating from his frame.
For the first time all night, my hands stopped shaking.
I tilted my head back slightly.
Silas Sterling stared straight ahead. The billionaire tech magnate and the sole underwriter of tonight's charity gala possessed features carved from granite. His jaw was locked tight. His dark eyes bypassed me entirely, fixing a lethal glare directly onto my husband.
The reporters lowered their cameras immediately. The hallway plunged into a suffocating silence.
Julian's practiced smile vanished. He stood at the top of the short staircase, his hands hovering awkwardly in the air.
"Mr. Sterling," Julian managed to say, his voice losing its usual smooth cadence. "Thank you for catching my wife. She is... unwell tonight."
Silas did not respond.
He also did not let me go.
One second passed.
Two.
Three.
The leather of his glove remained locked onto the curve of my waist. His thumb pressed firmly into my skin, a gesture so deeply possessive it made my pulse hammer wildly in my throat. He was touching me right in front of my husband. Right in front of the cameras. The warmth of his hand seeped through the thick leather, branding my side.
Four seconds.
Five.
Julian's eyes darted from Silas's face down to the gloved hand gripping my waist. A muscle in Julian's cheek twitched. The therapist persona cracked, revealing the insecure, controlling man beneath.
"I can take her from here," Julian offered, taking a half-step forward.
Silas finally released his grip.
He dropped his hands to his sides, the leather creaking softly in the quiet corridor. I stepped forward, my legs trembling for an entirely different reason now. I crossed my arms over my chest, suddenly hyper-aware of the cold air hitting the spot where Silas's hand had just been.
Silas shifted his gaze down to my ruined dress. He studied the massive red wine stain soaking the navy fabric.
Then, he looked back up at Julian.
The billionaire's expression remained utterly devoid of warmth. His dark eyes evaluated my husband with the cold precision of a predator observing a very small, very foolish prey.
"Mr. Vance," Silas said, his voice echoing sharply off the cold stone walls. "Is this the 'unconditional acceptance' you wrote about in your book?"
Julian opened his mouth, but no sound came out.
Silas adjusted the cuff of his jacket. "It seems your actions fall short of your words."
