Twisted Vows

Public Lies, Private Fire

The sleek black limousine cruised through the bustling streets of Las Vegas, its polished surface reflecting the neon lights that danced like fireflies in the night. Inside, Ava sat rigidly, a delicate glass of champagne trembling slightly between her fingers, more from nerves than the fizz. The scarlet cocktail dress hugged her curves provocatively, its daring slit running higher than she would normally dare, the neckline plunging just enough to tease but not to offend. The dress had been chosen for her by Kian’s personal stylist, an assistant who seemed to know exactly how to brand her: as his perfect trophy wife, a stunning arm candy worthy of the Thorne name.

She shifted, uncomfortable, smoothing the silk fabric over her thigh. The hum of the engine seemed distant, drowned beneath the storm of her thoughts.

“Stop fidgeting,” Kian’s voice cut through the silence, smooth and commanding. He reclined effortlessly in his seat, the sharp cut of his tuxedo fitting him like a second skin. His silver eyes—sharp and unnerving—glanced toward her legs, then flicked back up to the tight line of her mouth. “You look like you’re about to bolt.”

“Maybe I am,” Ava shot back, her voice low but sharp. “A press conference? A charity gala? You’re treating this like a business pitch.”

“It is business,” Kian said with a cold smile. “My life is the business, and you, Ava, are my biggest investment right now.”

She snorted, the bitterness rising in her throat. “Charming.”

“You agreed to this,” he reminded her smoothly.

“Under duress,” she muttered.

He smirked, that infuriating spark igniting in his eyes. “You kissed me first.”

“That was tequila,” she spat. “Not consent.”

“Well,” he said with mock solemnity, “the tequila had excellent taste.”

Outside, the car slowed as it approached the grand entrance of the Thorne Foundation’s annual charity gala. A swarm of cameras flashed incessantly, the air thick with anticipation. Reporters shouted questions, socialites gossiped loudly, and paparazzi jockeyed for position behind velvet ropes.

“Ready to play happy?” Kian asked, extending his hand.

Ava stared at it, hesitation flickering before she slid her fingers into his grasp. His hand was warm, large, and confident—the very embodiment of control.

“You bail now,” he whispered, his breath warm against her ear, “and I’ll bury you in so much scandal, you won’t write another feature article in your life.”

Her smile was tight and forced. “You’re all heart.”

Together, they stepped out, into the blinding glare of the media frenzy.

Cameras exploded like fireworks. Questions screamed over the crowd.

“Kian! Is this the real deal?”

“Who is she?!”

“Is the Thorne heir officially off the market?”

Kian’s arm slipped possessively around Ava’s waist, pulling her close like a trophy to be shown off. His voice was cool and commanding.

“Everyone,” he said, “meet my wife, Ava Thorne.”

The word hit her like a punch to the gut.

Thorne.

She wasn’t prepared for this. Not the spotlight. Not the questions. Not the lie she had to wear like a mask.

But she smiled.

Because that was the price of survival.

The gala was an intoxicating blur of glitz and ruthless ambition. Kian navigated the crowd with the precision of a predator, introducing Ava as if she were an extension of his empire. His pride was palpable, his smile charming and dangerous.

“Smile wider,” he murmured at one point, a dark gleam in his eyes. “They can smell fear.”

“Go to hell,” Ava muttered under her breath.

“We’re married now, sweetheart,” he whispered. “No turning back.”

Photographers captured every moment—the way his hand lingered just a little too low on her back, the possessive tilt of his jaw as he kissed her temple in front of the board directors.

“I swear, touch me again and I’ll stab you with a canapé stick,” Ava hissed.

He winked. “As long as it’s foreplay.”

The performance was perfect—fake smiles, staged kisses, whispered compliments meant for cameras, not hearts.

Back inside the limousine, the silence stretched heavy and suffocating.

“You’re a natural,” Kian said finally.

“Natural liar,” she corrected sharply.

“That’s exactly what I need.”

She turned to him, eyes bright with defiance despite the exhaustion.

“Is this fun for you?” she asked.

He studied her face for a moment. “No. It’s business. But you... you’re starting to make it interesting.”

At the penthouse, Ava stepped out of the elevator, her heels clicking against the marble like a countdown to a mistake she couldn’t undo. The air inside was crisp, expensive—like Kian himself. A scent lingered in the space: woodsmoke, citrus, danger.

She didn’t wait for him to follow. The moment the door slid shut behind them, she reached for the zipper of the scarlet dress. It slid down her back like a sigh, the silk pooling around her feet in a whisper of temptation.

Kian leaned against the doorway, undoing the top button of his tuxedo shirt, his eyes dark, devouring. “Keep stripping,” he said, voice thick with hunger. “And I might start thinking you like me.”

“Get over yourself,” she snapped—but her voice was breathy, the edge softened by the way her pulse fluttered beneath her skin.

“I intend to,” he murmured, stalking toward her. “All over you.”

Before she could shoot back a retort, he was in front of her—so close, she could feel the heat radiating from his body. His hands gripped her waist, thumbs stroking the bare skin just above her hips. She sucked in a breath, but it was already too late.

The game had begun.

“You need more than a shower,” he said, tilting her chin up with maddening tenderness.

“And you need therapy,” she whispered.

He smirked. “Already paying for it. But tonight, you’re my medicine.”

Then his mouth was on hers—hot, demanding, claiming. Their kiss wasn’t gentle; it was war. His tongue swept into her mouth like he owned it, like she’d never tasted anything else before. And maybe she hadn’t. Not like this.

Kian lifted her in one swift motion, her legs wrapping around his waist instinctively. Her back hit the cool glass wall, the glittering skyline of Vegas behind her like a chorus of stars gasping in sync. Her breath hitched as he pressed into her, hard and unyielding.

Her hands tangled in his hair, tugging, anchoring. He groaned into her mouth, the sound vibrating through her chest.

“Tell me to stop,” he growled.

She looked into his storm-grey eyes, breathless and burning. “Don’t you dare.”

Clothes disappeared—jacket flung, shirt torn open, buttons scattering like broken promises. His chest pressed against hers, bare skin meeting bare skin in a clash of heat and adrenaline.

His hands roamed her body with reverence and recklessness—one cupping her breast, the other slipping between her thighs. She gasped, arching against him as he found her already slick and aching.

“You’re soaked,” he said, voice like molten velvet. “All this anger. All this fire. You want me just as bad.”

“Shut up,” she hissed.

“I’d rather make you scream.”

And he did.

He dropped to his knees, mouth replacing his fingers, tongue teasing, licking, devouring. Ava clutched the glass behind her, nails scraping, head thrown back as pleasure shot through her like lightning. Her moans echoed in the vast, silent room, raw and unfiltered.

When he rose, his mouth glistened, and his eyes were pure sin. “Now it’s my turn,” he said, undoing his belt with slow, deliberate precision.

She didn’t look away. She couldn’t.

He didn’t rush. He took his time entering her—inch by agonizing inch, until she was stretched full around him, her breath stolen from her lungs. His hands braced against the wall beside her head, his body pinning hers with possessive power.

He moved with ruthless rhythm—deep, slow, then suddenly fast. Ava matched him thrust for thrust, clawing at his back, biting his shoulder, swearing his name like a curse and a prayer.

“You’re mine,” he growled into her neck.

“This isn’t love,” she gasped.

“No,” he agreed, slamming into her harder. “It’s control. And tonight, it’s all mine.”

Their bodies crashed and tangled like a storm, reckless and raw. The windows fogged, the city disappeared, and the only thing that existed was the ragged sounds of s*x, breath, skin, and heat.

When they finally collapsed in bed, sweat-slicked and spent, her body trembled from the aftershocks. Her wrists still bore faint red marks from his silk tie. Her lips were swollen, her thighs sore. She had never felt more exposed—or more alive.

Ava lay silent, staring at the ceiling as the sheets tangled around their legs.

“You don’t love me,” she said into the darkness.

“No,” Kian admitted beside her, voice hoarse.

“But I want you.”

She turned her head, eyes searching his. “And when that fades?”

His hand found her hip beneath the sheets, dragging her closer.

“Then I’ll want you angry. Wild. Defiant. I’ll still want you.”

She didn’t answer. Because she wasn’t sure what terrified her more:

The fact that he meant it.

Or the fact that—deep down—she wanted him to.