She blinked, thrown. Her mouth opened, closed.
"Who the hell do you think you are?" he continued, soft but razor-sharp. "My mother? My wife? My keeper?"
She recovered fast, leaning forward, eyes blazing. "You're not just a doctor, Devon. You're a brand. My brand. And brands don't get caught balls-deep in orgies while the city burns. Image matters. Reputation matters. You fuck this up, you fuck me, you fuck everything."
He smiled then, slow and lazy, the same grin he'd worn in the club when he'd had five women screaming his name.
He shook his head like she was a child explaining why the sky was green.
"You still don't get it, do you?" he said. "I don't belong to you. I don't belong to the hospital. I don't belong to the billboards or the journals or the investors. I belong to me."
Yvonne stared at him, lips parted, fury and something else, frustration, maybe fear, maybe something hotter, flickering behind her eyes.
