Emily had expected Napa Valley. Grapevines, hills, maybe a wine cellar tour she could pretend to enjoy.
Instead, she got the French Riviera.
"Change of plans," Alexander had said as casually as if he were rescheduling a lunch. They'd landed at a private airfield that absolutely was not California. "Something more… stimulating came up."
Now, six hours later, Emily stood barefoot on the marble balcony of a suite that could have eaten her apartment whole. The Mediterranean stretched out below, bruised pink and gold with the setting sun, the harbor glittering with yachts like floating palaces.
Inside: cream and gold everywhere. Orchids in tall vases. A silver champagne bucket that probably cost more than her annual salary.
On her: a dress she hadn't chosen. Black silk that clung where it shouldn't, paired with heels that made her taller but wobbly. When she'd protested, Alexander had said simply: "You can't attend the Casino de Monte-Carlo gala in jeans, Emily. Consider it a uniform."
Uniform. The word had landed heavy. Like she'd been drafted into an army she didn't sign up for.
A knock at the door. Soft, deliberate. Emily opened it, and her lungs forgot how to work.
Alexander stood there in a tuxedo that fit like second skin. He wore it like armor—every line sharp, every detail exact. Somehow, it made him look even more dangerous.
His gaze slid over her, head to toe, unhurried. Like inventory. "You look…" His pause stretched, making her hyperaware of her own heartbeat. "Perfect."
"I look like I'm raiding someone else's closet," she muttered. But even she could feel the lie in her voice. The gown made her feel—well, powerful. And foreign in her own skin.
"You look like you belong in my world," he said, stepping closer. "Which, as of tonight, you do."
He offered his arm. Old-fashioned, courtly. A contradiction, given how he spoke of owning her. She hesitated, then placed her hand on his sleeve.
The Casino de Monte-Carlo was like walking into a dream she hadn't earned. Marble floors, crystal chandeliers scattering rainbows, diamonds everywhere. Men in tuxedos, women in gowns worth small fortunes. Wealth so dense it was suffocating.
"Stay close," Alexander murmured, his grip tightening slightly. "Monaco attracts predators. You're exactly the kind they prefer."
"Meaning what?"
"Beautiful. Intelligent. Alone." His mouth curved faintly. "They don't know you're mine yet."
Before she could fire back, they were swallowed by the crowd. Alexander moved like he owned the air itself, introducing her to diplomats, tech moguls, royalty in everything but name. People shifted for him, deferred to him. Even here, surrounded by power, he seemed to hold more.
"You're adapting well," he told her later at the bar. "Most people choke the first time they taste real power."
"Is that what this is?" Emily asked. "Power?"
"What else would you call it?" His smile was blade-sharp. "Tonight, you're envied. Every man here wants you. Every woman wants to be you."
She scanned the stares, the whispers that trailed after them. "They're wondering why I'm here at all."
"They're staring because you're beautiful, mysterious, and on my arm." He leaned closer, voice dropping to that dangerous whisper. "That makes you untouchable. Powerful."
She opened her mouth to argue—in your world, not mine—but he was already drifting away. "Business," he said. "Tedious."
And just like that, she was alone.
"You look like you need air."
The voice came from behind. Warm. Emily turned. A man with sandy hair, lean build, kind eyes. Aristocratic, but easy. Effortless.
"I'm Henri," he said, offering his hand. "Prince Henri of Montpelier. But leave the title at the door, please."
Her eyes widened. Of course. Monaco. Princes just walked around at parties. "Emily Chen," she said, taking his hand. "And yes. Air would be perfect."
They stepped onto the terrace. Breeze, salt, freedom. For the first time since boarding Alexander's jet, Emily felt her lungs expand properly.
Henri was easy. He asked about her work, really listened when she explained. He told her about his foundation, how he tried to make change in small, tangible ways. For a moment, she forgot where she was. Forgot Alexander.
"You have an interesting escort tonight," Henri said eventually, tone careful. "Drake isn't known for bringing company. Be careful with him, Emily. He's brilliant, yes. But dangerous. He… collects beautiful things. And he doesn't always let them go."
Before she could ask more, she felt it. That shift in the air. That magnetic pressure she was learning to recognize.
Alexander stood in the doorway, eyes locked on her and Henri. Calm voice. Not calm eyes. "Emily. I've been looking for you."
Henri straightened beside her. Polite, but something in his posture sharpened. "Alexander. I was enjoying your companion's company."
"How considerate." Alexander crossed the terrace with predator's grace, close enough now that his presence seemed to fill the space. "I trust the conversation was… informative."
The threat in his tone was subtle but unmistakable.
"Actually," Alexander said, extending a hand to her, "we were just leaving. Weren't we, darling?"
It wasn't a question. Not really. Not in public.
Emily placed her hand in his, heart pounding. "It was lovely meeting you, Henri."
"The pleasure was mine," Henri said, eyes steady on Alexander. "Perhaps we'll see each other again."
Alexander's grip tightened. "Perhaps."
The ballroom swallowed them again, curious stares trailing behind. Emily felt the anger coiled in Alexander's body, the sharp set of his jaw.
In the elevator, gold panels reflecting their too-close figures, he asked lightly, "Enjoying yourself?"
"Henri was just being polite," Emily said.
"Henri was hunting," Alexander corrected. "He saw something he wanted."
"Not everything is about possession and control," she shot back.
His laugh was short, humorless. "In my world, it's only about possession and control. Learn that, or you'll get hurt."
The elevator slowed, but he didn't move back. Instead, he braced his hands against the mirrored wall on either side of her head. His body caged hers in.
"You're mine," Alexander said, low and rough. "Not Henri's. Not anyone's. Mine."
Her pulse hammered. "I'm not a possession."
"No," he said, gaze flicking to her mouth. "You're more dangerous than that."
The elevator stopped, but neither moved.
"You don't know," he murmured, breath brushing her skin, "how close you are to being kissed."
Emily's breath caught. Every rational thought screamed to shove him away. To remember what he'd done. Who he was.
But her body didn't listen.
The doors chimed. A soft warning. A chance. And Emily realized—whatever she chose next would change everything.