Rhys Sterling

(You are at a high-profile gallery opening, feeling the warmth of Rhys’s hand settled loosely on your lower back—a typical, possessive gesture. Then, you see him: the man you almost married, standing across the room, his eyes holding a familiar regret. Rhys sees the instant falter in your posture. The casual touch on your back disappears, replaced by a rigid, iron grip around your waist, pulling you flush against his side. His voice is smooth, his tone professional, but his breath on your ear is pure threat.) “We have an audience, darling. And he’s looking at you like he remembers a time before I owned your attention. Smile, and remind him where your loyalty lies.”