Page 27 of Vance

The meeting convenes, with Julian Williams—ever the professional—taking the lead in the discussion regarding the logistics of our current real estate venture. I half listen, my attention on the woman seated next to me. Her brow is furrowed in concentration as she listens intently and takes notes, clearly working despite the bombshell I dropped just moments ago. It’s why I chose her. She’s not just a pretty face—she’s smart. She’ll make a remarkable Ashford someday.

“Excuse me,” Sophia interjects, her voice clear and steady, when the discussion turns to the persistent residents at the project, a major point of contention for her. “With all due respect, the remaining residents aren’t just ‘holdouts.’ They’re people who have lived there for decades. It’s their home. Strong-arm tactics will only galvanize them, turning this project into a media frenzy. I am currently working on relocation packages that will gain their trust and move them out of the building with dignity.”

Timothy scoffs, a sneer twisting his lips as he leans back in his chair. “And what would you know about dignity, sweetheart?” His tone drips with condescension. “None of us are going to sit here and take project advice from some slut who managed to bag a fancy title and an Ashford by spreading her legs.”

My body coils like a spring. I spin in my seat, connecting my fist with his jaw in a crunch that echoes through the otherwise silent boardroom. The force of the blow sends him toppling sideways, his chair scraping against the floor as he crashes to the cold marble. I’m on top of him before he—or I—can even register what’s happened. Straddling his chest, with my knees pinning his arms, my fist flies and connects with his nose. A red spray of blood splatters across his formerly pristine shirt.

Grabbing the front of his ruined shirt, I yank him up until our faces are inches apart. “Maybe you didn’t quite hear me when I introduced her,” I snarl with a dangerous growl I barely recognize as my own. One that sounds a lot like my father. “That’s Sophia Ashford. She’s my fucking wife. You will not disrespect her. You will afford her the same respect you do me, my brothers, and my mother. You will look at her when she speaks, and you’ll listen to what she has to say. And if you ever have the audacity to speak to her like that again, I’ll cut your fucking tongue out of your mouth. Am I understood?”

Timothy, his face a bloody mess and eyes wide with terror, nods frantically. “Yes,” he chokes, blood coating his teeth. “Yes, Mr. Ashford.”

“Good,” I huff. “Now, I think you owe my wife an apology.”

He turns his head, his gaze finding Sophia’s over the lip of the table. “I-I’m sorry, Mrs. Ashford.”

Rising to my feet, I use my hold of his shirt to bring him with me. As he finds his footing, I smooth his shirt and straighten his slightly askew tie before giving him a condescending pat on the chest. “Are we prepared to have a seat and listen to the newest member of the board now?”

My answer comes in the form of a silent, fervent nod as he picks his seat up and retakes his place at the table.

The meeting—now a hasty, uncomfortable affair—adjourns no more than ten minutes later. I don’t spare Timothy a second glance before walking from the room. Sophia follows me silently to my office, her footsteps echoing my own.

She shuts the heavy glass door behind us as I walk around my massive mahogany desk and take a seat in my leather executive chair. She stands a few feet from the threshold, her chest rising and falling with each ragged breath as her eyes burn with a fire that I find both infuriating and arousing.

“Why in the hell did you do that?” she demands, shaking with rage as she storms across the room. “You didn’t have to hit him.”

“Sophia. I’m going to need you to watch your tone when you speak to me,” I insist, my voice calm and even.

“Or what?” she spits, planting her hands on her hips. “Are you going to hit me, too?”

In a movement too fast for her to refute, I grab her wrist and yank her forward. She stumbles between me and the desk, her ass resting on the polished edge as she finds her footing between my splayed legs. With my body caging her against the hard wood of my desk, she’s trapped.

“For as brutal as I am, sweetheart, I do not hit women… unless it’s my hand across their ass when they forget how to behave.” I watch the bob of her throat when she swallows hard, my thoughts suddenly flooded with images of her across my knee.

After releasing her wrist, I dust my hands up and down the outside of her toned thighs. Running them over the luxurious fabric of her soft skirt, her muscles tightening beneath it. My eyes flit between her wide, defiant gaze and the glass wall of my office, a transparent barrier separating us from my employees on the other side. Anyone could look up and see us, her pressed against my desk with my hands touching her. The thought sends a dark thrill through me.

I slide my hands higher, inching her skirt up as my thumbs brush against the sensitive skin of her inner thighs. She shivers, a tiny involuntary tremor. “Because you’re still learning Daddy’s rules, I’ll grant you some leniency and not bend you over my desk with an audience,” I whisper my silken threat.

A flicker of relief crosses her face, and I can’t stop the smirk that spreads over mine. Her thinking I’m going to let her little outburst go is fucking adorable. “But you still need to be punished.”

In a swift, decisive movement, I push her skirt obscenely high. With the desk the only thing keeping the office from an unfettered view of her—a fact that seems to both terrify and excite her—goosebumps prickle over her flesh as the cool air of the office hits the bare skin of her upper thighs. I hook my fingers over the delicate string of her lacy panties and slide them down the curve of her hip and lower her skirt, hiding what is mine from the world once again.

“Mouthy little wives don’t get to keep their panties.” I drag them to her knees before dropping them and letting them dangle around her stilettos. “Be a good girl and give those to Daddy.”

She hesitates for a fraction of a second, her eyes burning through me with a hatred so pure it’s fucking beautiful. With a defeated sigh, she lifts one of her Manolo-clad feet and steps out of the scrap of lace. She repeats the motion with the other foot before bending over to collect them from the floor.

Her fingers brush against mine when she places them into my outstretched hand. Crumpling them in my fist, I bring the lace to my face and breathe in the sweet, intoxicating scent of her arousal. A wicked smirk plays at the corner of my lips as I tuck them into my suit pocket. “Now, would you like to ask your question again? In a tone more suitable for addressing your husband.”

She takes a deep breath, trying to find her composure. “Why?” she whispers, her voice barely audible. “Hitting him? And the VP position?”

“Simple.” I lean back in my chair and stare up at her. “Ashfords are to be respected. Disrespecting my wife is no different from disrespecting me. For that, he had to be made an example of. As for your VP position, it buys us another vote on the board. A reliable one.”

A flicker of understanding passes through her eyes as she processes my words. She probably thinks she has me all figured out, but it’s not that simple. It’s not just about respect and her vote, not really. Putting her at the heart of my world—surrounding her with my influence and power—is about remaking her piece by piece. It’s about breaking her down and building her back up in my image. And as she glares at me, her eyes burning with a fire I’ve both created and seek to control, I look forward to the challenge.

My phone buzzes sharply against my desk, cutting through the sterile silence of my office.

VANCE

My office. Now.