Chapter 12

"Boss, should I check on Ms. Serena? Make sure she’s doing alright?"

Simon’s voice cut through the silence of my office, pulling me back to a reality I was trying to ignore. He had picked up on my unspoken concerns—proving once again why he was my most trusted assistant.

I ran a hand through my hair, fighting the instinct to agree immediately. My pride was currently in a death match with a gnawing sense of worry.

"Transfer the downtown penthouse into her name," I decided finally, my voice clinical. "And make sure she has sufficient funds. She shouldn’t be struggling financially because of our... situation."

Simon nodded, his face a professional mask. "I’ll handle it right away, sir."

"Good. Now leave me," I ordered. I needed solitude, though I wasn't entirely sure I liked the thoughts that came with it.

As soon as the door clicked shut, I reached for my lighter. I lit the aromatherapy diffuser myself—a task she usually handled. The familiar scent—sandalwood with hints of vanilla—filled the room instantly. It was the olfactory signature of Serena. Only then did the iron tension in my shoulders begin to melt.

I stretched out on the leather couch and closed my eyes. Despite my attempts to strategize for tomorrow’s board meetings, my mind betrayed me. It drifted to the delicate curve of her neck, the soft light in her eyes when she talked about her designs, and the way she smelled after a long day.

The fragrance pulled me under, and sleep finally claimed me.

In my dreams, she came to me.

"Ryan," dream-Serena whispered, her breath hot and sweet against my ear. Her body pressed into mine, her soft curves fitting against my frame like a key in a lock.

"You’re soaked, sweetheart," I growled in the dream, my hands sliding beneath the silk of her nightgown. I found her slick and ready, and the evidence of her desire made my blood boil with a primal need.

"Only for you," she breathed, her eyes darkening as she straddled my lap. "No one else makes me feel this way."

I gripped her hips roughly, positioning her over me. "Because you belong to me," I snarled, my possessiveness flaring. "Say it."

"I belong to you," she moaned, sinking down onto me in one fluid, agonizingly perfect motion.

The heat of her nearly undid me. I gripped her ass hard enough to leave marks, guiding her as she rode me with a desperate, beautiful abandon.

"Look at you, taking me so perfectly," I growled, watching her as she surrendered to the rhythm. "You were made for me."

She threw her head back, exposing the elegant column of her throat. Seeing her lost in pleasure—completely surrendered to my touch—ignited a fire I couldn't extinguish. I flipped her onto her back, driving into her with a punishing, desperate force.

"This is mine," I whispered against her skin, marking her neck. "No matter who tries to take you from me."

Her nails raked down my back as she wrapped her legs around my waist, anchoring me to her. "Yes, yours," she gasped. "Always yours."

I felt her tighten around me, the climax approaching like a tidal wave. "Look at me when you come," I commanded, gripping her chin to force her gaze to mine. "I want to see exactly who is making you fall apart."

Her eyes—those beautiful eyes I had spent days trying to ignore—locked onto mine as the orgasm crashed through her. The raw vulnerability in her expression, the way she whispered my name like a prayer, pushed me over the edge. I buried myself in her, marking her as mine in the most primitive way possible.

As the pleasure receded, I pulled her against my chest, unwilling to break the connection. In this world, she curled into me willingly.

"Don’t leave again," I whispered into her hair, my voice cracking with an emotion I never allowed myself to show when I was awake.

Dream-Serena looked up at me with eyes that saw right through my carefully constructed walls. "Then give me a reason to stay."

I jolted awake, my body tense and uncomfortably aroused.

The dream had felt terrifyingly real—her scent, her touch, the warmth of her skin. Now, I was left with nothing but the fading aroma of sandalwood and the cold, sharp realization of her absence.

Why the hell would I dream about her?

It wasn't because I missed her. No. I probably just hadn’t had sex in a while. It was a normal biological reaction—nothing more. That’s all it was.

But as I sat up and looked around the lounge, I started noticing the ghosts of her presence. The cushions on the couch were still arranged exactly how she liked them. The stash of vitamins she used to nag me about were still lined up neatly in the drawer.

I hadn't noticed them before. Or maybe I just hadn't cared. Now, without her, the room felt... hollow. Like an essential piece of the architecture had been removed.

Still, it didn't mean I missed her.

I checked my watch, surprised to find I’d slept for over three hours. It was the most restful sleep I’d had since the day she walked out.

I reached for my phone and pulled up her contact info. My thumb hovered over the call button for a long, agonizing minute before I tossed the device aside in frustration.

What would I even say? That I missed her? That I suddenly realized she meant something more than a contract? No. Ryan Blackwood doesn’t beg. Not even for his wife.

I paced the room, the dream having shaken something loose in my chest—a mixture of desire and a territorial possessiveness I couldn't explain away. Finally, the silence of the room became unbearable. I snatched up the phone and pressed the call button.

The automated message was immediate and jarring: "The number you have dialed is not available."

I frowned, my heart skipping a beat. I tried again. Same result.

She had blocked me. She had completely cut me out.

The realization hit me like a physical blow to the gut. She wasn’t bluffing. She truly meant to leave me behind. For the first time in years, I felt something dangerously close to panic.