Inside the silent expanse of Oscar’s bedroom, the air was thick with a tension Hannah couldn't shake. As Oscar moved closer, she instinctively leaned back, her heart hammering against her ribs.

“If you don’t want this, then so be it,” Oscar said, dropping his hands to his sides. He looked remarkably carefree, yet his eyes never left hers.

Hannah took a deep, steadying breath. This was part of the deal. “Please,” she whispered, forcing a polite smile. “Hurry.”

Oscar let out a slow, wicked smile. It was dangerously easy to fall for a man like him—a man who played with hearts like they were toys—but Hannah reminded herself that she was no longer a girl who believed in fairy tales.

She held her breath as he approached again. His fingers brushed against the heavy, ornate fabric of her wedding dress. He seemed to be searching for the hidden fastenings, his hands moving over the silk with a slow, deliberate rhythm that felt more like a caress than a task.

“Master Wells, do you even know how to take this off?” Hannah asked, her voice tight. His touch was everywhere, and it was starting to feel far too personal.

“There isn't a piece of clothing in this world I can’t take off,” he said, suddenly leaning in until their noses nearly touched. “Especially yours.”

Hannah’s heart skipped a beat. She had expected him to say "especially a woman's," but the specificity of "yours" sent a jolt of electricity through her. This was the legendary skill of a Lothario at work—the ability to make a woman feel like she was the only person in his world. She remained silent, determined to keep her emotions locked behind a wall of logic.

Then, with a sudden, deft movement she didn't even see, the heavy outer layer of the gown slid to the floor.

“How did you do that?” she gasped, genuinely surprised.

“Give me a kiss, and I’ll tell you,” Oscar replied shamelessly.

Pervert, she thought, though she didn't say it.

He moved on to the second layer, his fingers grazing her skin with lingering intent. By the time he reached the third, Hannah felt as though he was intentionally drawing out the process to seduce her. When his hand moved toward the final layer, she grabbed his wrist.

“I’ll take it off myself.”

“Are you sure?” Oscar asked, a playful glint in his eyes.

“There’s only one left. I can manage.” She stooped down, gathered the scattered, expensive silk, and prepared to retreat.

“Leave the clothes here. I’ll have Mester handle them,” Oscar commanded.

Hannah hesitated, then nodded. She wasn't about to walk away with millions of dollars worth of fabric. “Fine. I’ll give you the last layer once I’ve changed.”

“In case you try to ‘seduce’ me again,” Oscar smirked, “I should remind you that this particular robe is impossible to remove alone. If you don't believe me, try it.”

Seduce him? When did I ever seduce him? She glared at him and retreated into the bathroom, determined to prove him wrong. But after five minutes of fumbling, her frustration peaked. The dress used a ridiculous "dead knot" design tucked right under the armpit. To pull it with one hand was impossible; to use two required a flexibility she didn't possess.

“What a brilliant designer,” she muttered through gritted teeth. Finally, she sighed and walked back out. “Please help me, Master Wells.”

“Giving up so soon?” Oscar didn't move immediately, clearly enjoying her helpless state.

“Just do it.”

As he approached, Hannah’s chest rose and fell with her indignant breathing. Oscar felt his own control slipping; the sight of her, flushed and exasperated, was far more attractive than she realized. He masked his quickening pulse with an expressionless face and reached for the knot.

The moment the silk loosened and began to fall, Hannah’s hands flew up, covering Oscar’s eyes.

Snap. The last of the fabric hit the floor.

Oscar laughed. He was blindfolded by her palms, but he knew exactly what had happened. Hannah was standing there, completely exposed, and her first instinct was to cover his eyes instead of herself.

“Close your eyes!” she commanded.

“What do you think?”

“Could you at least pretend to be a gentleman?”

“Hannah,” Oscar retorted, his voice vibrating against her palms. “If I weren't a gentleman, do you think you’d still be standing there? You’d be lying on my bed by now.”

The logic was sound, but it didn't help her embarrassment. She realized she couldn't reach for her clothes without letting go of his face. “Then behave like one. Don’t look.”

Oscar’s smile widened. He loved this—the way she sounded so fierce while being so vulnerable. “Beg me. Then I won’t look.”

“You... you’re atrocious!”

“Call me 'honey',” he added.

“Oscar Wells!”

“I don’t mind celebrating our wedding night like this,” he threatened coolly. “We can stay like this all night.”

Hannah’s arms were starting to ache from the height difference. She realized he wasn't going to budge. Gritting her teeth, she leaned in, her voice dropping to a soft, sugary sweetness that was more dangerous than any insult.

“Honey.”

The word was so soft it was almost a purr. In that instant, Oscar felt the last of his composure evaporate.