Chapter 3

His voice was calm, but every word landed clean. The room went quiet.

Cross Sr.'s hand stilled on the pocket watch.

"Marcus, when did the two of you meet?"

"What does this have to do with you?"

"I'm your cousin."

"So?" Marcus picked up his tea and took a sip. "I brought her here. Whether you want to accept her is up to you."

Mrs. Cross looked like she was about to be sick.

But I noticed Damon. He was sitting in the corner, drinking glass after glass, his eyes locked on the barely eight-inch gap between me and Marcus.

"Lucky you," he suddenly said, his voice rough. "Still happy scraping up someone else's leftovers."

Dead silence fell over the room.

Cross Sr. slammed his hand on the table. "Damon!"

Marcus wasn't angry. He actually smiled.

He glanced at me — something amused flickering in his eyes — then looked back at Damon.

"You call her leftovers. But let me ask you something — were you even worthy of her in the first place?"

The glass in Damon's hand shattered.

Red wine dripped down his fingers. He shot to his feet and glared at me.

"Sloane, you ruthless bitch."

I opened my mouth to respond, but Marcus pressed his hand over mine.

"Call her Aunt."

Damon's jaw went tight.

Marcus pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and calmly wiped his fingers, like he had all the time in the world — like he was simply waiting for an impatient child to mind their manners.

Every pair of eyes in the room was on me.

Envy. Amusement. Fury.

I stood there in front of the whole room, my heart pounding so hard I thought it would burst from my chest — but I kept my back straight.

Marcus turned his head, his voice low, just for me.

"Don't be scared. I'm right here."

Damon finally spoke.

"Fine." He pointed his bleeding finger at my face. "Aunt."

Then he smashed a priceless vase and stormed out the door.

Mrs. Cross stood up to go after him, but Cross Sr. called her back.

"Marcus," the old man sighed. "Take your wife and eat."

I caught the corner of Marcus's mouth curve into an almost imperceptible smile.

He stood up and took my wrist with the hand he hadn't used the handkerchief on.

His fingers were burning hot.

"Let's eat."

At the dinner table, everyone was whispering.

I kept my head down and ate, my mind spinning.

My phone lit up.

Nicole: How did it go?!

Me: He smashed a vase. And called me Aunt.

Nicole: ...

Nicole: I've officially seen everything now.

I was about to reply when a hand found mine under the table.

Marcus's fingers were long and strong. One by one, he pried open my clenched fist and pressed his warm palm flat against mine.

I looked up at him.

He was calmly sipping his soup, expression completely unbothered, like nothing had happened at all.

But under the table, his thumb was slowly brushing back and forth across the back of my hand.

My stomach was in knots the entire meal.

By the time it finally ended, Marcus pulled me into his car — not toward home. He drove straight to an office building I'd never been to before.

"Why are we here?"

He didn't answer. He swiped his card and stepped into the elevator. It went all the way to the top floor, and when the doors opened, the letters on the wall in front of us stopped me cold.

Thorne Group.

I froze.

He walked me into the CEO's office, pulled a document from the drawer, and dropped it on the desk.

"You didn't read what you signed."

I picked up the prenuptial agreement and flipped through a few pages. My eyes went wide.

The last page — the additional terms — read: Party A, Sloane, formerly held the position of Vice President at Thorne Group, tenure of two years and three months, resigned due to personal marriage-related reasons.

"You..."

"Three years ago, I was the one who recruited you." Marcus leaned back against the desk, arms folded, his gaze steady. "From the headhunter search to the project launch — I was involved in every step personally. Your first acquisition proposal? I was the one who approved it."