Chapter 160: The Devil’s Wife’s Moment Of Joy

​She pushed her chair back with a sharp scrape, spun on her heel, and stalked toward the quiet, ivy-draped garden path leading away from the dining patio.

​Julian didn’t hesitate. For once, he didn’t throw out a sarcastic defense; he just shoved his hands into his coat pockets and stalked straight after her, vanishing past the high boxwood hedges.

​Valerie, completely unfazed by the sudden departure, casually turned toward the terrace bar. "I’m going to make sure they put extra ginger in Damian’s drink. Don’t move."

​The second his sister cleared the table, Damian’s hand tightened on Anastasia’s thigh. With one smooth, uncompromising motion, he rose and hauled her out of the booth by her wrist, pulling her around the corner into the secluded alcove beside the stone ivy trellis, hidden entirely from the rest of the patio.

​He pressed her back against the cool stone wall, his large frame blocking the light, his dark eyes locked onto hers with quiet, lethal gravity.

​"You pushed me out of my own lift, Anastasia," Damian murmured, his voice a low, gravelly rasp that brushed against the curve of her ear. "And then you order me bitter roots in public. What exactly happened to obeying me unconditionally, my doll?"

​Ana looked up at him, her pulse leaping against the hollow of her throat, though her chin remained defiant. "You followed me to lunch like an overbearing watchdog, Damian. You deserved both."

​Damian didn’t step back. His free hand slid up to cup the side of her neck, his thumb resting right over the frantic beat of her pulse, his gaze dropping to her mouth.

​"Lock me out again," he rasped, the edge of a dark, possessive promise rough in his throat, "and I won’t wait for an elevator ride to show you who owns the building and the entire street."

***********************************

​A few yards down the shaded gravel path, completely unaware of the tension behind them, Julian caught up to Clara.

​"Clara, stop," Julian said, his voice stripped of every trace of aristocratic arrogance, sounding rough, raw, and tired. He stepped in front of her, blocking the narrow walkway between the flowering hedges. "Just give me two minutes. No jokes. No family name. Just two minutes."

​Clara stopped, her arms crossed tight against her chest, her emerald eyes flashing like struck flint. "You have sixty seconds, Julian. Use them carefully."

​Julian ran a hand roughly through his dark hair, his shoulders slumping as he looked down at Clara. The defensive, sardonic edge that usually shielded him was gone, leaving him looking exhausted and genuinely contrite.

​"I’m sorry," Julian began, his voice quiet, almost hesitant. "For what Valerie said back there. She made a scene, she embarrassed you in front of everyone, and you didn’t deserve that." He dragged a breath through his teeth, grimacing slightly at the confession he was about to make. "The truth is... I was asking her for romance advice. About you."

​Clara blinked.

For three full seconds, she stared at him in utter silence, processing the words. Then, a sharp, disbelieving laugh burst from her lips, echoing off the garden trellis.

​"Romance advice?" Clara asked, shaking her head as if he had lost his mind. "You were seeking relationship counsel from Valerie Sterling? A girl who is practically six years younger than you?"

​Julian shifted uncomfortably, a dull flush creeping up his neck, but he didn’t look away. "Age is just a number. And besides... aren’t women generally wiser than men when it comes to these things?"

​Clara crossed her arms, her amusement chilling into a sharp, pointed stare. "Women are wiser in a lot of things, Julian. Not just romance. But you’re usually too blind to see that."

​Julian’s breath caught in his throat. He instantly recognized the familiar frost settling into her emerald eyes, realizing he had somehow walked straight into another trap of his own making.

​He didn’t want another argument. He didn’t want another cold wall built between them.

​Without hesitation, Julian stepped forward, cutting the space between them in half. He moved close enough that the shadow of his broad frame fell over her, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to hold his gaze.

​"Then teach me," Julian said, his voice dropping low, stripped entirely of irony or aristocratic polish. "I want to be with you, Clara. I want to get to know you... what makes you laugh, what you hate, your likes, your dislikes, everything. I don’t care about the games, and I don’t care about the rest of this city. I just want one chance to prove to you that I’m genuinely interested."

​Clara opened her mouth to shoot back a sharp retort, to brush him off as an entitled boy playing at courtship, but Julian didn’t let her speak.

​He reached out, his fingers hesitating for a split second before lightly brushing the sleeve of her coat, his hazel eyes completely exposed and pleading.

​"I like you, Clara," Julian murmured, the words raw and quiet in the warm afternoon air. "So much that it genuinely aches my heart."

​The sharp words died on Clara’s tongue.

​The garden went completely still around them. Clara froze, her breath suspended in her chest, staring up at him in wide-eyed, stunned silence... completely unprepared for the raw, unvarnished honesty bleeding through the cracks of Julian Montgomery’s pride.

***********************************

Back in the dim, stone alcove by the ivy trellis, Damian’s patience finally snapped.

​He stepped closer, his heavy frame boxing Anastasia so firmly against the cool wall that there wasn’t an inch of daylight left between them. With a low, weary exhale, he let his forehead drop forward, burying his face directly into the warm crook of her neck.

​His dark hair brushed against her jaw, his heavy, rhythmic breaths heating the sensitive skin beneath her ear.

​Ana bit her lower lip, a sudden shiver tracing down her spine. She placed both palms flat against his chest, trying to shove him back just enough to draw an even breath, but he didn’t budge. He was solid stone, unyielding despite the tight bandages wrapped around his ribs.

​"Push all you want," Damian murmured, his voice a rough, muffled rasp against her pulse. "I am counting the days until these stitches come out, Anastasia. And the exact second they do... this little streak of joy you’ve been enjoying is over."

​A playful smirk tugged at the corner of Ana’s lips despite the breathless heat rushing through her veins. Her fingers curled slightly against the wool of his lapels, leaning into the danger rather than shrinking from it.

​"So what you’re saying is... I still have plenty of time to play with you," Ana whispered mockingly, tilting her head just enough to tease him. "Starting right now. Let’s go back to the table, Damian. It’s time to get that lovely root soup down your throat."

​Damian let out a low, dark chuckle against her skin.

​Instead of pulling away, his lips parted, dragging a slow, deliberate heat across the softest hollow of her throat... grazing the exact spot that made her breath hitch sharply in her chest.

​"Enjoy it while it lasts, doll," Damian rasped, his teeth grazing her skin in a silent, possessive warning before he finally lifted his head, his obsidian eyes black with intent. "Because when my time comes... I’m going to enjoy tormenting you far more than you ever enjoyed teasing me. Mark my words."

***********************************

Back at the penthouse, the sleek Italian-marble kitchen had descended into absolute, unapologetic chaos.

​"I can’t take it anymore," Valerie groaned, violently tearing open a crinkly bag of frozen crinkle-cut potatoes. "Between monitoring a stubborn CEO’s blood pressure and playing relationship therapist for Julian Montgomery, my nervous system is shredded. I need grease, sodium, and trans fats immediately or I will implode."

​Ana giggled, tying her dark hair into a messy knot as she set a heavy cast-iron skillet over the gas flame.

"Say no more."

Without bothering with measurements or kitchen tongs, Ana casually dumped a mountain of waffle fries, curly fries, and shoestring potatoes straight into the sizzling hot oil, letting out a satisfied laugh as the grease crackled loudly across the polished marble backsplash.

​The heavy sound of polished leather shoes descended the floating glass staircase.

​Damian walked into the open living room, phone pressed to his ear, his voice clipped and cold. "Have two units stationed at the my estate’s lower perimeter. If someone tries to reach through third-party couriers, flag it immediately."

​He rounded the corner toward the dining island and stopped dead. His dark brows furrowed into a deep, horrified scowl at the carnage before him... three discarded plastic wrappers, salt granules coating the quartz counter, and a cloud of deep-fried steam billowing toward the high ceilings.

​Damian abruptly ended the call and tossed the phone onto the nearest barstool.

​"What in the world are you two doing?" Damian snapped, stepping toward the island with lethal disapproval. "You’re turning my kitchen into an industrial biohazard."

​Valerie didn’t even look up from shaking a bottle of seasoned salt over the pan.

"Listen to him. He doesn’t even enter this space unless he’s grabbing cold water, and suddenly it’s his kitchen."

She threw an exaggerated look of pity at Ana.

"Poor Ana. Honestly, how do you even breathe the same air as him every day without losing your sanity?"

​Damian let out a sharp, dismissive scoff, crossing his arms over his broad chest. "She breathes just fine..."

​He was cut off mid-sentence.

​Ana suddenly sniffled.

With perfection, she dropped the stainless-steel spatula, pressed the back of her hand dramatically over her eyes, and collapsed into Valerie’s shoulder, letting out a pitiful, trembling faux-sob.

​Damian froze.

​Beneath the shield of Valerie’s sleeve, Ana angled her face just enough to flash Damian a wicked, triumphant smirk, her hazel eyes gleaming with pure mischief.

​"Oh, Valerie, you have no idea," Ana whimpered, her voice trembling with tragic, wounded sorrow.