Seductive touch

Irene Jones POV

My heart pounded as I struggled to respond, voice trembling.

"Yes?"

"Miss, the Young Master would like to meet you." The man gave a slight bow. Formal. Firm. "I’m Albert, his bodyguard. I’ve been sent to escort you."

For a moment, I stood frozen.

"Are you coming, Miss Jones?" Calm, but insistent.

The question snapped me back. I nodded—mute, numb.

The gown clung like a second skin—too tight, too heavy, as if it knew I didn’t belong here. Every step away felt like peeling off parts of myself, leaving behind pieces of a woman I was never allowed to become.

I wanted to stop him. Ask what was happening. Why? But the words wouldn’t form. My throat locked shut. I didn’t know him. I couldn’t trust him. And worst of all—I had the sinking feeling that trust wouldn’t matter here.

The double doors of the hall opened behind us.

A sleek black SUV waited by the curb.

Tinted windows. Engine humming low.

Albert gestured to it.

"He is inside."

He opened the door.

A broad back, rigid in posture, faced me from the far seat. Dark suit. Barely a movement.

My stomach twisted. Anxiety surged like a current, static humming beneath my skin. My heels wobbled as I stepped forward, each motion mechanical.

Don’t panic. Keep your head down. Don’t make it worse.

I climbed in.

The door closed behind me with a soft, ominous click. I was sealed in.

"So, you must be Irene Jones."

His voice wasn’t loud, but it didn’t have to be. It rolled through the space like thunder—low, deliberate, and unsettling in its calm.

A chill slid down my spine. I stiffened. Every muscle tensed.

"I asked you a question." Sharper now. Measured. Expecting.

He still hadn’t turned. I hadn’t seen his face. But somehow, his presence filled every inch of the car, as if I were shrinking beneath the weight of it.

"Are you deaf? Or perhaps you don’t wish to answer me, Miss Jones?"

My lips parted, but no sound came. My mouth felt dry. My thoughts jumbled into useless static.

"Are you the chosen bride?"

I flinched. Swallowed.

"Yes, I am." My voice was barely a whisper. Even hearing it felt like a betrayal of myself.

"Don’t you think you’re too ugly to be chosen?"

The blow landed hard and fast, laced with venom. My breath hitched. I didn’t know what I’d expected—but not that.

I hadn’t even noticed my veil was lifted. When had that happened? So much had unfolded, I hadn’t felt it go—hadn’t felt anything.

My hands curled into fists in my lap.

He hadn’t even looked at me—hadn’t spared a glance.

So how the hell did he know?

"I don’t know about that," I said, eyes dropping to the floor. My reflection stared back at me in the polished leather of the seat. Hollow. Fragile.

"So who knows?" he scoffed. "You think I’m unaware of how your greedy family replaced you in the bride’s place?"

My heart slammed against my ribs.

No one outside the family knew.

No one was supposed to know.

Before I could respond—before I could even move—he lunged.

My back hit the window with a sharp gasp. Cold glass against my spine. His hand braced beside my head.

And then—those eyes.

Piercing. Green. Icy. Locked onto mine with ruthless precision.

"I hate liars like you."

I tried to breathe but it came out shallow, panicked.

Say something. Fight back. Do something.

"Who the hell are you?!"

A low, mocking chuckle vibrated from his chest.

"Ha. Ha. Ha. Why are you so amusing?"

His smile didn’t reach his eyes. Nothing did. They were void—glinting with some twisted amusement I didn’t understand.

He leaned closer. My body tensed.

His nose brushed my neck.

He inhaled.

No—

"What are you doing, bastard!" My voice cracked, raw with panic.

His grip tightened on my wrist. Not enough to bruise—but enough to make a point.

"So, you can curse too?"

"Who are you? Why the hell are you touching me—speaking to me like this?"

"I am Cyril Myers. Your husband’s cousin."

The name rang with quiet cruelty.

I blinked. Tried to process.

"Then why are you acting like this?" My voice trembled. "I’m your soon-to-be sister-in-law."

That earned a smirk.

His gaze raked over me like he had the right.

"Why waste your life marrying an impotent, ugly man? You're hardly appealing—but how about one night with me? I can give you anything."

What?

I stared at him—rage and humiliation crashing over each other in waves.

He insulted me. Now he wanted me?

"If I’m so repulsive, why do you even want me?"

He leaned in again. Too close. Too calm.

"It's mine to know, not yours."

As he shifted forward, my gown slipped slightly, the fabric catching.

My thigh was exposed.

And his hand—steady, deliberate—rested there.

Flesh to flesh.

Cold. Possessive.

Paralyzing.

"Leave me!"