Duty Meets Desire

Chapter Four

Zoey’s POV

I slammed my room door hard enough that the frame rattled. My chest heaved, my throat burned, but not a single tear fell. He didn’t deserve them. Not one. Crying would’ve made him worth it, and he wasn’t.

The necklace he’d given me last month caught my eye, dangling on the dresser like a mocking reminder. I ripped it off and hurled it into the trash, the clatter echoing in the silence. My reflection in the mirror stared back—eyes sharp, jaw clenched, mouth pressed into a thin line. Not heartbroken. Furious.

Good.

My phone buzzed. A text from my Mother lit the screen.

Dinner tonight. With Julian. Don’t be late dear.

A humorless laugh slipped out. Of course. The universe wasn’t finished with me. As if catching my boyfriend tangled up with someone else wasn’t enough, now I had to spend the evening with the arrogant billionaire I was being forced to marry.

The restaurant was all glass, gold, and hush money. My heels clicked against polished marble as I walked in, armor wrapped tight around me.

Julian was already there.

Of course he was.

He sat like a king at the head of the table, dark suit molded to him, one hand lazily curled around a glass of wine. His gaze lifted the moment I walked in, sharp, cold, cutting straight through me.

“You’re late,” he said, voice deep and smooth as steel.

I slid into the chair opposite him, forcing a smile that didn’t reach my eyes. “Or maybe you’re just too early. Not everyone has the luxury of living on their own time.”

One brow arched. “Or maybe you lack discipline.” His gaze swept over me in one slow pass, making my skin prickle. “… you look different.”

I tilted my head, feigning boredom. “Different how?”

“Like someone tried to break you. But you’re still standing.”

My throat tightened. Damn him. How could he read me so easily? My ex hadn’t noticed a thing—too busy lying through his teeth. But Julian? One look and he’d cut straight to the wound.

I leaned back, crossing my legs. “Maybe I just didn’t sleep well. Not everyone is cold enough to pass out without a conscience.”

The corner of his mouth tugged upward. “Heartless isn’t the same as careless. Don’t confuse the two.”

I snorted. “Oh, I don’t confuse anything about you. You’re arrogant, insufferable, and allergic to humility. That much is clear.”

“Arrogant?” he echoed, the faintest smirk forming. “Confidence offends the insecure. Is that it?”

“Confidence?” I shot back, leaning forward. “Confidence is earned. Yours is manufactured. Just because the world bows when you walk into a room doesn’t mean you deserve it.”

His eyes gleamed, sharp and amused. “And yet, here you are. Dining with me. Soon to be living with me. Then married to me. Tell me, Zoey—if I don’t deserve it, why do you keep showing up?”

Heat shot to my cheeks, more from rage than anything else. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m here because my deadbeat of a father thought he could think for me after leaving for years and my mother decided my life wasn’t mine anymore. Don’t confuse obligation with desire.”

He sipped his wine leisurely. “I don’t. But desire has a way of sneaking in where it doesn’t belong.” His gaze lingered on me for a moment too long, sending an unwanted shiver down my spine.

I forced a laugh. “You really think you’re irresistible, don’t you?”

“No,” he said smoothly, leaning forward now, elbows resting on the table. “I don’t think it. I know it. The question isn’t if you’ll feel it, Zoey. It’s when.”

I gritted my teeth, refusing to look away. “Keep dreaming. I’d sooner set myself on fire than fall for a man like you.”

His smirk deepened, dangerous. “Careful. Fire is unpredictable. It burns the one holding the match.”

Before I could tear him apart with words, he dropped another bomb. “The wedding date’s been moved up. Two weeks.”

My hand froze on my glass. “What?”

“Our families agreed. Which means,” his voice lowered, every word deliberate, “you’ll be moving into my house tomorrow.”

I laughed, sharp and bitter. “That’s funny. Because the last time I checked, I still live in my apartment. And that’s exactly where I’ll be staying.”

“Not anymore.” His tone was calm, but the steel underneath was unyielding. “You agreed to this arrangement. Fight me on everything else if you want, but not this. You’re mine now. And I protect what’s mine.”

I set my glass down carefully, leaning in until we were eye to eye. “Let’s get one thing clear, Julian. You don’t own me. Not my heart. Not my soul. All you’re getting is the performance our families paid for.”

His lips curved in the faintest, most infuriating smile. “We’ll see.”

Something flickered in his eyes—possession, promise, maybe even curiosity—but whatever it was made my pulse spike against my will.

I sat back, forcing a steady breath. “You’re insufferable.”

“And you,” he murmured, eyes never leaving mine, “are the most interesting woman I’ve ever met.”

The words lodged in my chest, unsettling, dangerous. For the first time that night, I realized Julian wasn’t just going to be my problem. He was going to be my undoing.

Julian’s POV

The numbers on the screen blurred in front of me. I’d been staring at quarterly reports for the last hour, and still, the figures refused to settle the way they usually did.

Normally, this was my sanctuary—my office, my kingdom. Here, everything bent to order. Stock projections, acquisition targets, contracts—it all obeyed logic. Numbers didn’t lie. People did.

But today, my mind wasn’t on numbers.

It was on her.

Zoey.

I leaned back in my chair, loosening my tie, letting my gaze drift over the city skyline through the glass wall behind my desk. She had walked into that restaurant last night with fire in her eyes and armor wrapped around her like steel. I’d seen women broken before—some pretended well, some didn’t. But her?

She wasn’t broken. She was furious. Furious at something—or someone.

And for the first time in years, I wanted to know why.

It shouldn’t matter. Our marriage was a deal, a performance. A clause in my father’s will and nothing more. Whether she came to me happy or shattered, it made no difference. But the look in her eyes… damn it, it bothered me.

What had hurt her enough to make her spit fire at me across the table? Who had touched her, lied to her, betrayed her?

I drummed my fingers against the desk, irritated at myself. I didn’t do this. I didn’t speculate about other people’s feelings, least of all a woman I was marrying for convenience. And yet here I was, replaying the tilt of her chin, the defiance in her voice, the way she said I didn’t own her.

As if she hadn’t already branded herself into my thoughts.

I shoved the reports aside. Useless. I wasn’t getting any work done tonight.

By the time I left the office, night had settled over the city. My driver pulled the car up to the front of my building, but instead of heading straight upstairs to my room, I did a full walkthrough.

Tomorrow, Zoey would be moving in.

I’d told her it wasn’t up for negotiation—and I meant it. She was going to live under my roof, in my space, where I could watch her. Where no one else could touch her.

The marble floors gleamed, the air smelled faintly of polished wood and leather. I walked through the grand foyer, into the living room, the kitchen, the hallways. Everything was in order, as it always was. But tonight I looked with different eyes.

“Has the guest room been prepared?” I asked, catching the attention of one of the housekeepers.

“Yes, sir,” she said quickly. “Fresh linens, flowers, everything cleaned this afternoon.”

“Good.” I paused. No. Not good. Not nearly enough. “Change the flowers. She’ll hate lilies.” I didn’t know how I knew, but I did. Too sterile. Too impersonal.

“Yes, sir. What would you prefer?”

“Roses,” I said after a moment. “Red ones. Subtle, not overwhelming.”

The housekeeper nodded and hurried off.

I checked her room myself. Neutral tones, understated luxury. Nothing flashy, nothing that would scream of my wealth. She’d bristle at anything that felt like a display. She wanted dignity, not charity.

I straightened the edge of the comforter with a sharp tug. Damn it. Since when did I care if a woman felt comfortable in my house?

I moved down the hall to my own room. For a second, I pictured her here, standing in the doorway with that same defiant glare. I shook the thought away before it could settle.

This wasn’t about comfort. Or feelings. Or whatever the hell kept me awake replaying our conversation.

This was about control. About showing her that under my roof, she was mine—whether she liked it or not.

And if some bastard had hurt her before? Good. Because now she belonged to me. And I had no intention of letting anyone else break her again.