The auction house was a cathedral of old money—crystal chandeliers casting warm light over mahogany tables, the quiet murmur of wealthy voices bidding on things they didn't need. Emily stood at the edge of the crowd, her hand resting on Marcus's arm, and she let herself believe.
He'd been perfect all evening. Opened doors. Pulled out her chair. His hand at the small of her back as they moved through the room, guiding her past the glances and whispers. She'd caught him looking at her twice—really looking—and each time her heart had stuttered.
"The Monet goes next," he said, his voice low near her ear. "Father wants it for the study."
She nodded, breathing in his cologne—something woody and expensive, the same scent that had haunted her sheets since the first meeting. "It's beautiful."
"It's an investment." He didn't smile, but he didn't pull away either. His hand stayed on her back, warm through the silk of her dress.
The bidding rose in increments, voices calm and unhurried. Emily watched the painting change hands for a sum that could feed a small country, and she thought: this is his world now. My world. Two months ago she'd been in her father's house, staring at a ceiling and waiting for a life that never came. Now she stood beside Marcus Blackwood at a charity auction, the diamond on her finger catching the light, and she felt almost beautiful.
"Marcus." Her mother's voice cut through the hum of conversation. Margaret Hartwell appeared at her elbow, her father a step behind, both dressed in the kind understated wealth that spoke of old family and new money. "There you are, sweetheart."
Emily smiled, reaching for her mother's hand. "Mom. I didn't know you were coming."
"Your father wanted to see the racehorse collection." Margaret's eyes swept over Emily's dress, then Marcus, her approval barely hidden. "You look lovely. Both of you."
Marcus inclined his head, his expression unreadable. "Mrs. Hartwell. Always a pleasure."
"So formal." Margaret laughed, touching his arm. "We're family now, Marcus. Or nearly. Harold tells me the papers are all but signed."
"They are."
"Wonderful." Margaret's smile widened. "And have you two discussed living arrangements? I know the penthouse is yours, Marcus, but I wondered if you'd thought about settling somewhere—"
"Not yet," Marcus said, his voice flat and firmly. "For now Emily and I are staying at the penthouse. She just finished moving in.”
Emily's breath caught. He'd never said anything about this to her. She looked at him, searching his face for some sign of what this meant, but his gray eyes stayed fixed on her mother.
"Oh, how exciting." Margaret clasped her hands. "I'll come by tomorrow, help you get settled. See the place."
"That won't be—" Emily started.
"Of course," Marcus said, cutting her off. His jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. "She'd love the company."
Margaret beamed. "Perfect. I'll bring lunch. We can talk about the wedding details."
The auctioneer's hammer fell somewhere behind them. Emily felt the ground shift under her feet. He'd said yes. He'd told her parents they were living together— insinuated they would buy a home together. Her mother was coming tomorrow. This was real. This was happening.
"If you'll excuse us," Marcus said, his hand sliding from Emily's back to her elbow, "I need to speak with someone before the next lot."
He pulled out his phone, glanced at a message, then pocketed it. "We're leaving. I need to stop somewhere first."
"The auction isn't—"
"Done." He was already walking, his long strides eating the marble floor. "I've gotten what I needed. The rest is noise."
Emily followed, her heels clicking against the polished stone, her heart a wild drum in her chest. He was taking her somewhere. Alone. After an evening of being perfect. She let the hope bloom like a flower in her chest, warm and reckless and unstoppable.
The car was black and sleek, a Mercedes that hummed through the city streets like a predator. Marcus drove in silence, his jaw set, his hands steady on the wheel. Emily sat in the passenger seat, her fingers twisting in her lap, watching the buildings slide past.
They stopped in front of a jewelry store. The kind with no prices in the window and a security guard at the door. Marcus killed the engine and got out, and Emily scrambled to follow.
"Hurry up." he said, already moving, not checking to see if she heard or was following.
Inside, the air smelled of leather and polish. A man in a tailored suit appeared, his smile professional and blank. "Mr. Blackwood. To what do we owe the pleasure."
Marcus nodded, not looking at Emily. He pointed at a ring in the showcase.
“What’s your size?” he demanded.
Stunned, Emily said nothing. Frustrated he grabbed Emily brought her to the man. The man silently measured her and returned with a small velvet box within minutes. Before she could open it, Marcus turned and left the shop.
Emily's hands trembled as she reached for the box when she got back into the car. Inside, a diamond sat on a platinum band, flawless and brilliant, catching the light and throwing it back in rainbows. It was enormous. Obscene. The kind of ring that made people stare.
"It's—" Her voice cracked. "Marcus, it's beautiful."
"It's an obligation," he said flatly. "Put it on."
She slid it onto her finger. It fit perfectly. The weight of it was foreign and heavy, but she couldn't stop looking at it. The diamond caught every angle of light, and she thought: this is real. He gave me a real ring.
"Don't read into it," he said, as if hearing her thoughts. "My father expects a show. Tomorrow, when your mother comes, you'll have it on. You'll act happy. That's all this is."
She nodded, not trusting her voice. But her heart was already reading into everything—the way he'd chosen a ring that matched her eyes, the way his hand had lingered on her back, the way he'd said next week like it meant something.
"Keep it on you from now on." He said, running a hand through his dark hair. "My father expects to see it. Your parents expect to see it. If anyone asks, I gave it to you properly, at dinner, with a speech about your eyes."
Her cheeks warmed. "You don't have to—"
"I know I don't have to." He turned, his gray eyes cold. "I'm telling you what the performance requires. You smile, you nod, you wear the ring. You don't make this harder than it already is.”
She swallowed. "Okay."
He was trying. She was sure of it— felt it. Beneath the cold words and the cruel edge, he was trying.
The drive to the penthouse was short. The building was a glass tower that scraped the sky, the kind of place that had a doorman who knew your name and an elevator that required a key. Marcus parked in the private garage, and they rode up in silence, the elevator humming as it climbed.
Emily's reflection stared back at her from the polished metal doors. She smoothed her dress, touched the ring on her finger, and smiled. Tomorrow her mother would come. They would talk about the wedding. She would see where Marcus lived. She would start to build a life here.
The doors slid open.
The penthouse foyer was marble and glass, a chandelier dripping light over a grand entrance. Emily stepped inside, her heels echoing against the floor, and she saw her.
A beautful woman knelt on the polished marble, her hands resting on her thighs, her head bowed. She wore a sheer white babydoll that left nothing to the imagination—her full breasts visible through the translucent fabric, her dark nipples peaked against the lace, her long black hair spilling over her shoulders and down her back. She was barefoot, her toes curling against the cold floor, and she did not look up.
Emily's hand went to the ring, turning it on her finger. The weight of it felt different now. Heavier.
Marcus stopped a few feet into the foyer, loosening his tie with one hand. He glanced back at Emily, his expression bored. "This is Sana, I'm sure I've mentioned her before."
He gestured toward the living room, a vast space beyond the foyer, furnished in leather and chrome, floor-to-ceiling windows showing the city lights sprawled below. “Bring her along, Sana."
Sana rose, her movements fluid and practiced, the babydoll shifting against her skin. She crossed to Emily, her dark eyes finally lifting, and she took Emily's hand in hers. Her skin was soft, warm, her grip gentle but insistent.
"Come," Sana said, her voice a whisper. She led Emily to the living room, to a wide leather couch that faced the windows, and guided her to sit. Then she turned to where Marcus had already settled, his legs spread, his hand resting on his thigh, waiting.
Emily sat on the edge of the couch, her hands in her lap, the diamond catching light. She watched as Sana walked to a small console and tapped her phone. Music filled the room, a slow, sensuous track with a heartbeat rhythm, the kind of music that belonged in a bedroom at midnight.
Sana began to dance.
It was not a dance for Emily. It was a dance for him, and Emily was simply allowed to watch. Sana's body rolled and swayed, her hips tracing lazy circles, her hands sliding up her thighs, over her stomach, cupping her breasts through the sheer fabric. Her dark eyes stayed on Marcus, and her lips parted, her tongue wetting them.
"She always dances for me," Marcus said, his voice low and rough. "When I come back. It's how she welcomes me home."
Emily's throat tightened. Home. He'd called it home. And Sana was here, in his home, dancing for him, wearing nothing but lace and submission.
The song built, and Sana moved with it, her body a promise and a prayer. She turned, her back to Marcus, and bent forward, letting the babydoll fall open as she looked over her shoulder, her full breasts swaying, her hair brushing the floor.
Marcus watched, his hand resting on his crotch, his expression hungry.
Emily's fingers found the ring again, turning it. This is real, she told herself. This is temporary. He's just—he's working through something. He'll see me. He'll see what I can give him.
Sana crawled to him.
It was slow and deliberate, her knees pressing into the thick carpet, her hands finding his thighs, her mouth finding his zipper. She didn't look at Emily. She didn't need to. Her focus was absolute, her devotion complete.
Marcus leaned back, his head resting against the leather, his arms folding behind his head. He watched Sana with half-lidded eyes, his chest rising and falling in slow, steady breaths.
Sana freed his cock. It was thick and hard, already slick at the tip, and she took him in her mouth without hesitation, without preamble, as if this were the most natural thing in the world.
Marcus groaned, a low sound from deep in his chest, and his eyes closed.
Emily watched.
Sana's head moved in rhythm, her lips stretched around him, her hands gripping his thighs. The sound of it—wet and hungry and intimate—filled the room, louder than the music, louder than the city beyond the glass.
Emily's thighs pressed together. She could feel the heat building between her legs, a shameful, traitorous heat that she couldn't stop, couldn't hide. She watched Sana's full lips slide along Marcus's cock, watched his hips tilt up to meet her, watched the way his hand came down to tangle in her black hair, guiding her, owning her.
Emily's hand drifted to her own lap, pressing against the ache. She pinched her eyes shut for a moment, then opened them. She couldn't look away.
Sana's head went lower, her throat taking him deeper, and she swallowed around him, her throat working. Marcus groaned again, his fingers tightening in her hair, and she stayed there, her nose against his body, her throat full of him, until he pulled her off.
"Stand," he said, his voice strained.
Sana rose, her lipstick smudged, her chin slick with spit. She stood between his spread legs, and she looked at Emily.
"Do you want to taste him?" Sana asked, her voice soft, almost kind.
Emily froze. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. She stared at Sana's dark eyes, at her wet lips, at Marcus's cock still hard and gleaming between them.
Say yes, a voice screamed in her head. Say yes, this is your chance, this is how you win him.
But her tongue was lead, and her heart was pounding too hard, and she couldn't speak.
Sana smiled, a small, knowing thing, and walked to her before she leaned down. Her lips met Emily's.
The kiss was soft. Gentle. Sana's mouth tasted like salt and Marcus, and Emily's eyes fluttered closed, her body leaning into the touch without permission, her hands rising to grip Sana's arms.
Then Sana pulled back, leaving Emily breathless and confused, and turned back to Marcus. She straddled his lap, her thighs gripping his hips, and she reached down to guide him into her.
Marcus's shirt was gone in a heartbeat, his hands finding her waist, her breasts, her throat. He pulled the babydoll down, baring her full breasts, and took one in his mouth, sucking hard, his teeth grazing her nipple.
Sana moaned, her head falling back, her hips beginning to move. She rode him in slow, deep rolls, her body grinding against his, her wetness slicking his thighs.
Emily watched, her hand pressed between her legs, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps. The diamond on her finger caught the light as she moved, a cruel reminder of the promise she'd believed in only minutes ago.
Marcus flipped Sana onto her back, his body covering hers, his hips driving into her with a force that made the couch shift. The sound of it—the wet, rhythmic slap of skin on skin—filled the room, and Sana's moans grew louder, her fingers finding his back, her nails raking red lines across his shoulders.
"Yes," Sana gasped. "Yes, Marcus, yes."
He grunted, his hands gripping her hips, his fingers digging into her soft flesh. He thrust deep and hard, his body pounding into hers, the couch sinking with each impact. Sana's large breasts bounced with every stroke, and Marcus watched them, his eyes dark and hungry, his breath ragged.
Emily's hand moved faster, her fingers pressing through the wet fabric of her dress, her eyes fixed on the scene in front of her. She imagined herself beneath him, those hands on her hips, that mouth on her neck. She imagined his weight, his heat, the sound of her own name falling from his lips.
"Marcus," she whispered, the word escaping before she could stop it, soft and desperate, lost under Sana's moans.
Marcus didn't hear. He was lost in Sana, his mouth finding hers, his tongue sliding against her teeth as he kissed her deep and hard, his hands still gripping her, his hips still driving.
Sana wrapped her legs around him, pulling him deeper, her heels digging into his back. Her nails raked his skin, and she arched beneath him, her body tensing, her moans rising to a sharp, keening cry.
"Fuck," Marcus groaned, his body shuddering, his face buried in her neck. "Fuck, Sana."
They held each other through the aftershocks, their bodies slick with sweat, their breathing ragged and loud in the quiet room. The music had long ended. The only sound was their gasps, and the distant hum of the city below.
Marcus pulled out, his cock wet and softening, and he lay back, his chest heaving. Sana lay beside him, her eyes closed, her lips parted, a sheen of sweat covering her skin.
"Go take a shower," Marcus said softly, the hunger satiated. "I'll be in soon."
Sana nodded, rising on unsteady legs, her babydoll hanging off one shoulder. She padded out of the room, her bare feet silent on the marble, and disappeared down a hallway.
Emily sat frozen on the couch, her hand still pressed between her legs, her dress wet and ruined. She stared at Marcus, sprawled naked on the leather, his cock soft and glistening, his eyes closed, his breathing slowing.
He opened one eye. "Still here."
She couldn't speak.
"Get a towel," he said, gesturing vaguely at his lap. "Wipe me off."
Emily's heart stopped, then raced. She rose on shaking legs, her dress clinging to her thighs, and found a towel hanging near the bar. She brought it to him, kneeling before him, her hand reaching out.
He watched her with that flat, bored expression. "You can use your mouth, if you want."
Emily froze. The towel hung in her hand. The diamond glittered on her finger.
She could. She could show him. She could prove she was worth more than just watching, more than just being the one who waited. She leaned forward, her mouth opening, her tongue reaching for him.
His cock was soft— tasting of salt, musk, and another woman's heat. Emily took him in her mouth, closing her eyes, trying to remember what her ex-boyfriend had taught her. She sucked gently, her tongue tracing patterns she hoped were pleasing, her hand cradling him the way she'd seen Sana do.
She thought she was doing well. She thought he might groan, might sigh, might give her some sign that she was enough.
Marcus sighed, but it wasn't the sound she wanted. It was impatient. Disappointed.
His hand found the back of her head, and he pushed her down, taking control, forcing her deeper. She gagged, her eyes watering, but she didn't pull back. She wanted this. She wanted to be good enough.
He drove her rhythm with his grip, shallow and rough, using her mouth like a tool. She tried to keep up, tried to breathe, tried to show him she could learn.
Then he shoved her off.
Emily fell back, her hand on the carpet, gasping. She stared at his cock, still soft, still unresponsive. She hadn't done anything. He hadn't—he hadn't even gotten hard.
"You really are useless," Marcus said, his voice tired. "Best for you to just watch and stay quiet."
He stood, naked and unconcerned, and walked toward the hallway where Sana had disappeared. The bathroom door opened, steam rolling out, and she heard Sana's voice, soft and welcoming.
The door closed.
Emily sat on the floor, the towel crumpled beside her, the diamond still heavy on her finger. She touched her mouth, tasted salt and failure.
But he'd let her touch him. He'd put his hand on her head, guided her. He'd given her a chance, and she'd almost done it right. If she'd just been better, slower, more like Sana—if she'd just known what to do—he would have responded. He would have seen her.
She rose on shaking legs, her dress wrinkled and damp, and walked to the massive window. The city sprawled below her, a thousand lights in the dark, and she pressed her palm against the cold glass.
The ring caught the light, and she smiled.
She had touched him. That was progress. That was a door opening, just a crack. Tomorrow her mother would come, and they would talk about the wedding, and Marcus would see her in his home, in his space, wearing his ring. He would get used to her. He would need her.
She would be patient. She would be perfect. She would wait until he forgot Sana and all the others, until he saw what was right in front of him.
The bathroom door was still closed. She could hear the water running, and beneath it, a soft, rhythmic sound that might have been Sana's laughter.
Emily didn't listen. She held up her hand, watching the diamond catch the starlight, and she believed.