The Don's purchase

Not yours to want

"I’m all done, Mrs."

Raya said as she excused herself to get her things ready to leave. As usual, she had done a stunning job—every bruise was efficiently covered, not a single trace left behind, like they had never existed at all. This was why Wilbet trusted her so much.

And the dress… a work of art. A slender, simple silk gown from the archives of an ostentatious designer whose name escaped me. But it was breathtaking. Must have cost a pretty penny too. Anything to impress Malcolm Laurent, am I right?

I stared at the woman in the mirror. She wasn’t me. She looked fearless. Stunning. The kind of woman people whispered about. The kind of woman others envied or wished they could be. But I was far—far—from that.

I picked up the velvet box Wilbet had slid toward me earlier that morning at breakfast. Inside, nestled like temptation itself, lay the diamond necklace. I lifted the sparkling stones with careful hands and fastened them around my neck.

It felt like a noose.

A very expensive noose.

This was what my husband worked so hard for people to see—

A beautiful wife, dripping in wealth.

How else would he establish himself among the elite we were dining with tonight?

I stood from the ottoman and stared once more into the mirror, my reflection elegant and hollow, before a sharp knock interrupted my thoughts.

“We’re going to be late. Raya left a few minutes ago. What the hell are you doing?”

“Just a minute, dear,” I called back, quietly. “I’ll be out soon.”

Still staring at myself, I willed my face not to look empty or soulless. The last thing I needed was for anyone to know how miserable I truly was.

Taking a deep breath, I stepped out of the dressing room, flashing Wilbet a practiced smile.

“We’re going to be late,” he said again, voice tense.

“No, we’re not. Malcolm is rich. The rich never start at the appointed time,” I replied breezily. “Now stop frowning—you’ll get wrinkles.”

He was tense, more than usual. I had expected worse—a shove, a slap, something to destroy this perfectly curated image Raya had painted on me. But instead, he just nodded and took my hand, leading me out toward the car.

He was probably more nervous than I was.

The ride to the Laurents’ estate was blessedly quiet. And I was grateful for that. Wilbet not talking was something I could definitely get used to.

Our car pulled into the magnificent driveway, which looked like something from an antique oil painting—stone archways, soft glowy lights, cobbled entrances, and a quiet opulence that screamed wealth in whispers.

We stepped out. Wilbet adjusted his tie for the third time tonight, the nerves radiating off him.

Good. This should be fun to watch.

We were ushered into a stunning dining hall. The chandeliers alone looked like they could buy a small country. And the silverware? Probably had its own security detail.

The guests were already seated. The low hum of conversation filled the air. But when we walked in, all heads turned.

Only one gaze held.

His.

Malcolm Laurent stood at the head of the table, speaking quietly to a pair of European dignitaries. As we approached, he didn’t even look at Wilbet—his eyes went straight to me.

Silence. Then a slow, deliberate smile.

“Ah, Wilbet,” he said, extending a hand. “Glad you could make it.”

“Thank you for the invitation. It’s an honor, truly.”

“Of course. And this must be your wife.” His gaze swept over me, hot and unashamed.

“Aziza,” I said, offering my hand.

He brought it to his lips, brushing a kiss there. Chaste. Lingering just a second too long to be polite.

“Beautiful name.”

We were led to our seats. Wilbet was two seats away from me. Malcolm—directly opposite.

It was strategic. Clearly.

But like everything else tonight, Wilbet didn’t say a word.

Dinner flowed. Beautiful entrees. Light conversations. Everyone was enjoying themselves—even Wilbet, who jumped at every opportunity to insert himself into a conversation he barely understood. It was almost pitiful to watch.

Soon, we were ushered toward a massive ballroom. Music floated in the air, something soft and romantic already playing.

Before I could process it, Malcolm’s hand wrapped around mine. Firm. Unapologetic.

He led me onto the dance floor.

He didn’t ask.

He didn’t need to.

The room shifted to make space for us—as if the world itself bent slightly in his presence.

The string quartet started something slow and elegant.

I placed a cautious hand on his shoulder. His other hand rested just above the small of my back—fitting, grounding, not invasive.

“I didn’t realize you danced,” I said.

“I don’t,” he replied, gaze fixed on me. “Only when the company is worth it.”

I gave a small, practiced smile. “You should say that louder. My husband might get jealous.”

Malcolm’s eyes flicked briefly toward the room. “Your husband is busy talking over a conversation he doesn’t understand. He won’t notice. He rarely does, does he?”

My smile didn’t falter, but something inside me tensed.

“I don’t like where this is going,” I said evenly.

He leaned in slightly—just enough to make my pulse skip.

“Not a game,” he said. “A proposal.”

“Of what?” I asked. “You dancing with me until my husband feels emasculated?”

“I don’t need to dance to do that,” he replied smoothly. “But no. I’m offering you a life without pretending.”

My steps faltered slightly.

What did he mean by that?

He adjusted without missing a beat, guiding me effortlessly.

“You don’t have to wear jewelry to cover bruises,” he added, voice softer now. “Or smile like a hostage in a photograph.”

I drew in a breath, steadying myself.

How did he know?

“You’re mistaken if you think I’ll trade one cage for another. No matter how… pretty yours looks.”

Malcolm’s gaze sharpened, but he remained unreadable.

“You think I’m offering a cage?” he said. “You don’t know me, Aziza.”

“I know enough. Men like you don’t just take—they consume.”

“And men like Wilbet,” he said, voice suddenly cooler, “can’t even afford what they already own.”

I blinked.

“He’s drowning, Aziza,” Malcolm continued. “Drowning in debt. Favors he can’t repay. The deal with the ministry fell through. The house? Leased under a false name. And you…” He spun me slowly, voice dropping. “…you’re just one more thing he’s trying to use to stay afloat.”

I stopped moving. Just for a second.

“Why are you telling me this?”

“Because I don’t want to watch you go down with him.”

“And you think you’re the alternative?” I asked, raising a brow. “That I’ll fall at your feet the moment I realize my husband’s pockets are empty? You must think me a fool, Mr. Laurent.”

His eyes softened, but there was still heat in them. Controlled. Purposeful.

“No. I think you’re smart enough to know when the building’s on fire. And strong enough to walk out before it burns.”

I exhaled slowly. “You don’t know me.”

“I’d like to,” he said. “But only if you want me to.”

The music drew to a close.

His hand lingered at my back a moment longer than necessary.

“I’m not yours to want,” I said, stepping back.

He smiled—just barely. “Not yet.”

I gave a slight curtsy. “Have a lovely evening, Mr. Laurent.”

I walked off the floor, heart pounding.

His final words echoed behind me like a promise.