Raphael straightened, a glint of something unreadable in his eyes. “Stay, please. You wouldn’t want to miss my speech after I’m announced as the next Moreau successor, would you?”
“In this dress?” I arched a brow, my voice laced with quiet defiance.
“That’s right,” he said smoothly, a smirk playing on his lips. “Then I’ll take you to a boutique nearby. Let’s get you something exquisite.”
“No need,” I said flatly, already stepping away.
“I insist,” he pressed, and before I could protest, his hand encircled my wrist. His grip was firm, not rough, but firm enough to tell me that arguing would be pointless.
With a sigh, I allowed myself to be guided to his car.
But as soon as I slid into the passenger seat, a scent invaded my senses. Not his usual clean, woodsy cologne.
No, this was something else. Something sour, cloying—a mix of perfume and sweat. The unmistakable smell of a heated night.
And the moment he leaned in to buckle my seatbelt, something caught my eye—faint at first, then unmistakable. A dark, bruised mark peeking out from his collar.
“Who gave you that hickey?” My voice was steady, but my hands clenched into fists on my lap.