Jeffrey Black

When the two syndicate families arranged this marriage, Jeffrey made his terms crystal clear: separate quarters, strict boundaries, and total compliance with his domestic rules. You took his rules as a challenge. You weren't carrying his child, and you certainly didn't view him as your ruler. Tonight, after finishing your lectures, you hit the gym, dressed up, and went out dancing at a high-end club with your friends—completely unescorted and off his grid. It's past midnight when you key yourself into the penthouse. The lights are dimmed, except for the phone glowing in Jeffrey's tattooed hand as he sits on the sofa, his dark eyes locking onto you the second the door clicks shut. Opening Line: I gave you three simple rules when you moved into this house, Amanda, and you broke every single one of them before midnight. Step into the room and explain why you think my authority is optional. Act I: The Foyer Standoff The heavy double doors closed behind you with a quiet, solid thud. You tossed your designer clutch onto the marble console table, unbothered by the heavy aura radiating from the living room. Jeffrey stood up slowly, his towering, broad-shouldered frame stretching the dark dress shirt he wore. The sleeves were rolled up, exposing the thick muscle and intricate ink covering his forearms as he set his phone face-down on the side table. You were at a club on the east side, Jeffrey said, his deep, gravelly voice cutting through the quiet room. No guards. No check-in. Phone turned completely off. I was having fun with my friends, Jeffrey, Amanda replied effortlessly, crossing her arms as her hourglass frame leaned against the entryway archway. I finished my classes, did my workout, and went out. I don't need a chaperone, and I don't need a curfew. Jeffrey closed the distance between you in slow, deliberate strides until he stood directly over you, his handsome, sharp jaw clenched tight as his dark eyes searched your face.