MARRIED TO THE BILLIONAIRE I HATED

Chapter Eight – The Enemy You Want

Chapter Eight – The Enemy You Want

The car ride to the Vogue meeting was silent—tense, like sitting on a ticking bomb. Zayden sat beside me, crisp in a charcoal suit, exuding power and danger. His fingers rested casually on his knee, but every muscle in his jaw was tight. I wore a fitted white blazer dress, sharp enough to slice through every stare we’d receive. We looked like perfection—like a carefully staged photo, all glamor and grit—but under the surface, we were chaos.

A war dressed in couture.

I kept my gaze out the tinted window, watching the blur of city lights, trying to ignore the heat rolling off his body. Everything about him demanded attention. From the clean lines of his suit to the way his presence filled the entire back seat. He was unbearable to sit beside and impossible to look away from.

The driver pulled into the private entrance of the building, the wheels crunching over polished gravel. A doorman opened Zayden’s door first, and just before I reached for mine, he turned to me.

“Smile,” he said, his voice smooth like velvet hiding a blade. “The editor loves a united couple.”

I forced a smirk. “Fake it like our marriage?”

His eyes flickered—dark, stormy. “Fake it like you faked not wanting me last night.”

My breath caught.

Sharp. Precise. He knew exactly how to gut me with a single sentence.

But I didn’t flinch. I wouldn’t give him the satisfaction. I opened the door myself and stepped out, heels clicking like gunshots against the stone path. I didn’t need to look back to know he was watching me.

Inside, the Vogue meeting was a choreographed dance of pleasantries. Compliments. Posed photos. The editor gushed over how powerful we looked together, her voice syrupy and smug. Plans for a spread titled Power Meets Passion were tossed around. The irony was unbearable. If only they knew what happened behind the glossy façade.

Zayden played his part well. Smirking. Charming. Possessive in just the right ways. He rested his hand on my back during photos, whispered witty responses during small talk, and stared at me like I was the only woman in the room.

But I knew better.

As we were leaving, the editor leaned in, whispering something into Zayden’s ear that made his lips curve into a crooked smile. I didn’t ask what she said—I didn’t want to care.

But I did.

It festered under my skin like a splinter. Small, but painful.

The ride home was quieter, somehow heavier. I stared out the window again, but this time, my reflection stared back with more questions than I had answers for. Why did he get to crawl under my skin like this? Why did I let him?

By the time we got home, the air between us had changed. Thicker. Hotter. Like a match dangling dangerously close to gasoline.

I shut the door behind us, tossing my purse on the console. Zayden walked in like he owned the night—jacket sliding off his shoulders in one smooth motion before landing carelessly on the couch. He loosened his tie, fingers dragging down his throat, and I caught myself staring. Again.

He knew.

“You didn’t like her,” he said casually, as if talking about the weather.

“She fawned over you like a schoolgirl,” I snapped, crossing my arms.

He stepped closer, his voice lazy and dangerous. “Jealous?”

I scoffed. “Of her taste in men? Hardly.”

But he laughed—a deep, low sound that sent heat spiraling through my core. It wasn’t the laughter of someone amused. It was the sound of a predator closing in.

“You keep fighting this, Amira. But I see it in your eyes.”

I turned, pretending to straighten a stack of mail, anything to avoid the truth. “You don’t know me.”

His voice dipped, silken and sharp. “Don’t I?”

I didn’t hear him move, but suddenly his hand was at my waist. Not forceful—just there. Like he had every right to touch me. Like I was his.

“You pretend to hate me,” he murmured, lips brushing dangerously close to my ear, “but your body tells the truth every time I’m near.”

I shivered, cursing the way my skin responded to him—how his voice alone could unravel me.

“This isn’t love,” I said through clenched teeth. “This is war.”

He stepped around me, facing me now, fingers brushing my cheek with maddening tenderness. “Sometimes they look the same.”

My heart thudded violently. I should’ve shoved him away. I should’ve told him to go to hell.

Instead, I whispered, “What do you want from me, Zayden?”

He leaned in, so close our lips were barely apart. “I want you to stop pretending you don’t want me too.”

My body screamed yes.

My pride screamed no.

And in that tiny space between us, something dangerous cracked open.

His scent—warm spice and something darker—wrapped around me like a trap. Every inch of me was on fire. I hated him. I wanted him. I didn’t know where the line was anymore, and worse, I wasn’t sure I wanted to find it.

Then he stepped back.

Just enough to make me ache.

“I’ll be in my office,” he said, a smirk playing on his lips. “Don’t wait up.”

And just like that, he vanished down the hallway.

Leaving me standing there—breathless, burning, and infuriated.

Because he was absolutely right.

This wasn’t love. This wasn’t even hate.

This was obsession. Total, consuming, wild obsession.

And it was devouring me alive.

I collapsed onto the nearest chair, burying my face in my hands. What was happening to me? This wasn’t who I was. I didn’t crumble for anyone. I didn’t burn for a man who manipulated me with a look, a word, a memory.

But here I was.

Wanting more.

Wanting him.

Even when I shouldn’t.

Especially when I shouldn’t.

Because Zayden Knight wasn’t just the enemy.

He was the enemy I wanted.

And that terrified me more than anything else in the world.