Bound by Contract, Owned by Hate

The Morning After Shame

Chapter 7

(Sophia's POV)

Morning light cuts across the penthouse like a blade.

I wake up sore, sticky, and furious with myself.

My body aches in places I refuse to acknowledge; between my thighs, my hips where his fingers bruised me, my neck where his mouth left marks. The black silk sheets are tangled around my naked body, and the scent of him is everywhere. s*x and spice and victory.

Xander is gone.

Thank God.

I sit up slowly, wincing. The floor-to-ceiling windows mock me with the same view where he f****d me last night; bent over, exposed to the entire city while he came deep inside me. No condom. No discussion. Just raw possession.

I press my thighs together and feel the evidence of what we did. My stomach flips with equal parts shame and unwanted heat.

"What the hell is wrong with me?"

I drag myself to the bathroom, avoiding my reflection until I can’t. The woman in the mirror looks wrecked, kiss-swollen lips, finger-shaped bruises on her hips, a dark hickey just above her collarbone. I look like a woman who’s been claimed.

By the devil.

I scrub myself raw in the shower, but his touch is branded deeper than skin. Every time I close my eyes I hear his voice: “This p***y is mine for the next year.”

By the time I step out, wrapped in a towel, the penthouse is no longer empty.

Xander stands in the walk-in closet wearing nothing but black boxer briefs, looking unfairly perfect in the morning light. Broad shoulders, defined abs, that V-line that disappears into fabric I now know far too well. He’s selecting a tie like yesterday didn’t happen.

His eyes meet mine in the mirror. Dark. Possessive. Satisfied.

“Morning, wife.”

“Don’t call me that.” My voice is hoarse from screaming his name last night.

He turns, slow and predatory. “You screamed it loud enough. Multiple times.”

Heat floods my face. I hate how my body reacts to his voice.

I storm past him to grab a blouse, but he catches my wrist and pulls me against his chest. His skin is warm. His c**k is already half-hard against my stomach.

“Last night changes everything,” he murmurs, lips brushing my ear. “You can pretend to hate me all you want in public. But in here? You’re mine to f**k whenever I want.”

I shove him hard. He lets me go, but his smirk says he knows the truth.

“I was weak. It won’t happen again.”

“Liar.” He buttons his shirt, watching me drop the towel and dress like he has every right to. “The media knows. Our ‘love story’ is trending. Phoenix Holdings released a statement praising the union. We have our first public appearance tonight; charity gala at the Met. You’ll smile. You’ll cling to my arm. And you’ll let them photograph us like the perfect newlyweds.”

I zip up my pencil skirt with shaking fingers. “I know how to act.”

“Good.” He steps close again, adjusting the collar of my blouse so it hides the hickey. His fingers linger. “Because if you slip, I’ll drag you into the nearest private room and remind you exactly who you belong to now.”

My core clenches at the threat. I hate myself for it.

I step back. “Your family destroyed mine. Don’t think a few orgasms erase fifteen years of blood.”

His jaw tightens. For a second I see something flicker behind the arrogance, doubt? Guilt? But it’s gone before I can name it.

“Get ready,” he says coldly. “My driver will take you to Laurent Luxe. Act normal. Tonight at seven, you’re mine again.”

He leaves without another word.

Later that afternoon

My office at Laurent Luxe feels like a sanctuary until the notifications start exploding.

#VossLaurentWedding trends number one.

Photos from the gala last night are everywhere, of us glaring at each other, then the “romantic” kiss after signing. The internet is eating it up: enemies-to-lovers fairytale.

Lila bursts in. “Sophia, the board is thrilled. Stock is up twelve percent. But… there’s something else.”

She slides her tablet across my desk.

It’s an old article from ten years ago, resurfaced: “Laurent Luxe Poison Scandal, Family Empire Crumbles.” Next to it, new speculation: “Is the Voss-Laurent Marriage a Cover for Past Sins?”

My mother’s face stares back at me from an old photo.

I close the tab fast.

“Handle it,” I tell Lila, voice tight. “I don’t care what it takes.”

By six-thirty I’m back at the penthouse. A team of stylists has transformed the living room into a glam station. They dress me in a backless crimson gown that clings to every curve. When Xander walks in wearing a black tuxedo, his eyes go feral.

He dismisses the stylists with one sharp look.

We’re alone.

He circles me like a shark. “Turn around.”

I do, slowly. His hand trails down my bare spine, possessive.

“No underwear,” he notes, voice rough. “Good girl.”

“I’m not your good girl.”

“Not yet.” He spins me back and kisses me deep, claiming, no anger this time, just raw hunger. When he pulls away, my lipstick is ruined.

He wipes the smear from my mouth with his thumb. “Tonight, you play the part. But remember the second we’re back here, that dress is coming off and I’m burying myself inside you again.”

My thighs press together. My body is already wet for him.

I hate how much I crave the hate.

The ride to the Met is silent tension. His hand rests on my thigh the entire time, high enough to tease but not high enough to satisfy.

As we step onto the red carpet, cameras flash like lightning.

Xander pulls me close, hand possessive on my waist, and whispers against my temple for the photos:

“Smile, Mrs. Voss. Or I’ll make you scream it later.”

I smile.

But inside, the war rages hotter than ever.

Because last night wasn’t enough.