Then he sat up, his lips trailing kisses all over my chest. His hands traced over my body, this time slowed, gentle, deliberate, as his lips traveled lower. And when he reached my scar, everything stilled. The heat, the frenzy—time seemed to pause, the moment suspended between us.
Suddenly, a flood of paparazzi poured out of bushes and behind trees, cameras flashing and clicking furiously. The area was filled with chaos, reporters shouting over one another, their voices overlapping in a frenzy as they threw questions at us.
"Ms. Sinclair! Didn't you ask for a divorce a few months back? Have you changed your mind?"
"Are you back together with Alexander Ashford?"
"Was the gala night just a publicity stunt?"
