Page 32 of Velvet Corruption

And now I was parked outside her house like a fucking creep, watching her step out of her car with her kid in tow, wondering how the hell I’d gotten here.

The house didn’t suit her. It was too polished, too perfect, with its manicured hedges and spotless facade. The kind of place that screamed status, but not soul. Ruby wasn’t that person—she thrived on warmth, on chaos, on things that felt alive.

But she moved through it effortlessly, like it didn’t matter. Like the walls and the shine and the perfect angles couldn’t touch her.

Or maybe like she’d learned not to care.

Her laugh carried across the driveway, soft and unguarded, as she lifted Rosie into her arms. The girl was a miniature version of her—wild dark curls, freckles like scattered stars. She had light green eyes that caught the morning light and sparkled with mischief.

I’d only caught glimpses of her online, scrolling through photos like I had a right. Seeing her in person, even from a distance, hit differently.

A wave of disorientation swept through me—sharp and sudden. It wasn’t recognition, not exactly. More like a hollow ache I couldn’t explain. An instinct to look twice.

There was a familiarity in the girl’s face that unsettled me. Not because I knew her, but because some part of me wanted to.

Ruby’s exhaustion melted away the moment she saw her daughter, her smile warm and genuine in a way that made me feel like an intruder. I shouldn’t be here. I knew that. But the urge to stay, to watch, to see her when she wasn’t wearing her armor was too strong.

This wasn’t part of the plan. It wasn’t Tristan’s directive or some calculated move to dismantle her campaign.

This was personal.

An old obsession, reignited the second I walked into that café and saw her again.

It had been simmering in me ever since Tristan first said her name—a slow, unmistakable pull I’d tried to ignore. But it was there, coiled tight beneath my skin, waiting.

The house lights flickered on as they went inside, and I imagined her moving through the rooms—kicking off her shoes, tucking Rosie into bed, pouring herself a glass of wine. A normal life, one I’d never have, one I didn’t deserve.

But Ruby wasn’t normal; she never had been. That’s what drew me to her in the first place. We could’ve been completely casual, but it was so hard not to fall for her back then. She always made me laugh, but I could never manage to talk her out of anything.

Stunning. Stubborn. Annoyingly smart.

Absolutely, a hundred million percent, my type.

It was intoxicating, infuriating. Dangerous.

And that’s why I couldn’t stay away.

I told myself I was here to learn her weaknesses, to understand her patterns so I could dismantle her campaign. But that was a lie. I wasn’t here for my family. I wasn’t even here for the job. I was here because I couldn’t stop thinking about her—her voice, her eyes, the way she spat my name like it was poison in that cafe. I’d spent years pretending she didn’t matter, and now, I couldn’t think about anything else.

I watched her for hours. My gaze traced her and her daughter moving through the kitchen, upstairs, into a room in the back. I watched Ruby go back downstairs, lights flicking on and off, the glare of the television just visible enough to see.

I watched, for hours, even though I couldn’t see anything.

And then she went upstairs.

I shifted in the driver’s seat, the leather creaking under me, and ran a hand through my hair. The tension had built to a dull ache, low in my stomach, insistent and consuming.

Through the dim glow of the streetlamp, I could still see her silhouette through the front bedroom window. She moved gracefully, her outline flickering between the shadows of the curtains. I let my head fall back against the seat, closing my eyes. The image of her from earlier filled my mind: the line of her jaw, the curve of her lips as they tightened in frustration. The way her mouth had looked as she snapped at me. The way she had always been so good with her mouth.

I used to piss her off for fun…because the sex was always better when we were making up.

Christ.

My hand drifted lower, hesitation warring with deep, sinister desire. I clenched my jaw, trying to fight it, to pull myself back from the edge. But the tension was unbearable, coiling tighter with every breath, every passing second I spent sitting here, thinking about her. Her fire. Her anger.

Her fucking scone. Biting into something she’d tasted…traces of her lipstick on my tongue.

I looked back at her bedroom upstairs. She was alone. Her useless husband didn’t seem to spend nights with her.

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