The Practice Huband: Chapter Three - The unraelling

 The facade of the "perfect couple" becomes increasingly difficult to maintain as private desires begin to bleed into the public boardroom. While they manage to hold the line during meetings and presentations, the tension is a live wire waiting to snap. Every time they are forced to play their assigned roles, the contrast between the cold professional veneer and the scorching reality behind closed doors creates a dissonance that is impossible to ignore. They are playing with fire in an environment built on ice, and the closer they get, the more likely the entire structure is to collapse.

Chapter Three

Dominic

The Unravelling

The sun spills into the penthouse, cold and clinical. I hate the light—it’s too exposing, too clean for the chaotic, dark mess I feel burning beneath my skin. I’ve spent my entire life perfecting the art of detachment, of viewing people as assets to be managed or obstacles to be overcome. Alexis was supposed to be a contract. A business arrangement. Simple. Clean. Effective.

I find her at the kitchen island, staring into a cup of coffee like it’s a portal to another life.

I’m dressed for a workout, but the gray sweatpants and black tee feel like a costume. My body is tight, coiled like a spring that’s been wound too far. I walk over, my movements deliberate, and place a hand on the counter near hers. The distance between us is negligible, yet it feels like a canyon. Her gaze snaps up, and for a second, I see the reflection of my own frustration in her eyes.

"You didn't sleep," I say. My voice is steady, but my patience is fraying at the edges.

"Hard to sleep when the rules have been incinerated," she replies, her voice rasping against the quiet.

I let out a low, humorless laugh. The sound is harsh in the silent kitchen. "The rules were a safety net, Alexis. You’re the one who decided to cut the rope. You knew exactly what you were doing the moment you walked into my penthouse. Don't act like this is a surprise."

She stares at me, and I see the exact moment she realizes I’m not the untouchable billionaire right now. I’m just a man losing his mind, trapped in a performance that stopped feeling like a script the moment she touched me. I reach out, my fingers hooking into her hair, and tilt her head back. It’s an aggressive, possessive gesture, a direct violation of the professional boundaries I’ve spent years constructing. I should pull away. I should walk out the door and let the professional distance return, but I don't. 

I can’t.

"We do exactly what we’ve been doing," I murmur, my voice dropping to a gravelly register. "We maintain the facade. We show our faces at the charity galas, the press conferences, and the dinners. We play the part of the perfect, untouchable couple. But the moment we are behind closed doors? The facade ends."

"And then?" she whispers, her breath catching as my thumb brushes her lower lip.

"Then," I say, and I don't bother hiding the hunger in my tone, "we see exactly how real we can make this."

---

The day is a brutal, calculated blur of boardrooms and forced pleasantries. I handle the mergers, I crush the competition, and I sign the contracts, but none of it feels real. My mind is a constant loop of her. I sit at the head of the conference table, my eyes ostensibly fixed on the spreadsheets, but every fiber of my being is focused on the thought of her.

The day is a brutal, calculated blur of press conferences and forced pleasantries. I handle the mergers, I crush the competition, and I sign the contracts, but none of it feels real. My mind is a constant loop of her. I’m currently stuck in my office, supposedly reviewing the quarterly projections, but all I can do is watch Alexis as she paces the length of the rug, refining the PR narrative for my next public appearance.

I sit at my desk, my eyes ostensibly fixed on the spreadsheets, but every fiber of my being is focused on her.

I watch her run through the talking points, her poise impeccable, her eyes sharp. She’s navigating the potential fallout of my upcoming interviews with the skill of a seasoned veteran, and it pisses me off that she’s this good. I’m obsessing over the way she holds her pen, the way she bites her lip when she’s thinking, the way she occupies the space in my office, making it feel less like a place of business and more like a stage where I’m the one being scrutinized. She has the audacity to look professional, collected, and entirely out of reach, all while my skin is vibrating with the memory of her touch from the night before.

I interrupt her during the analysis, perhaps unfairly, just to hear her shift her attention from the notes back to me. She doesn't miss a beat, but her eyes flare with a spark of defiance that nearly costs me my composure. Every time she speaks, I find myself dissecting the cadence of her voice, imagining it pitched differently, breathier, against my shoulder. It’s a dangerous distraction. I’ve never let a woman compromise my focus, and yet, here I am, unable to remember the details of a multimillion-dollar acquisition because I’m wondering if she’s wearing lace or silk beneath that skirt. My focus is splintered, and the irony isn't lost on me; I built my empire on the ability to remain impassive, and she is dismantling that foundation with nothing more than a glance.

By 6:00 PM, the drive to the private club in Midtown is a suffocating exercise in restraint. I bury myself in emails, but every cell in my body is tuned to the woman sitting inches from me. I can smell her—a scent that’s become a permanent fixture in my lungs, a dangerous cocktail of jasmine and something uniquely, maddeningly hers.

"You’re doing it again," I snap, finally abandoning the pretense of work. I toss the phone onto the leather seat.

"Doing what?" she asks, turning to me, her eyes challenging.

"Clenching your jaw. You’re overthinking the next few hours." I look at her, really look at her, and the volatile need I’ve been burying all day threatens to surface. "We are going to be charming. We are going to be the perfect, untouchable couple. And when we get home, the game changes."

"Is that a threat or a promise?" she challenges, a flicker of heat in her gaze.

I reach across the space, my hand closing over her knee. Her skin is warm, and the contact is like a lightning strike. "It’s an inevitability, Alexis."

At the club, the performance is pure torture. I have to sit there and watch other men look at her, and the urge to claim her is a dark, savage pulse in my veins. Every time I touch the small of her back, it’s a territory grab. Every time our knees press together under the table, it’s a countdown. I’m not just playing a role; I’m guarding something that is rapidly becoming my entire world. I watch her laugh at a joke—not mine—and I have to force myself not to stand up and demand that she focus solely on me. My grip on my martini glass is so tight I fear it might shatter.

The dinner feels eternal. I am performing for the investors, but my true audience is her. I watch her subtle shifts in posture, the way she handles the wine glass, the way her eyes dart to mine when she thinks I’m not looking. She is a woman of calculated grace, and I hate how much I want to ruin that composure. I want to see her undone by me, and only me. Every laugh she gives is a betrayal I’m keeping a tally of, even though I know it’s just part of the game.

By the time we leave, I’m done. The veneer is gone. The moment we’re in the garage, I don’t wait for the driver. I’m out of the car, my shadow looming over her, and I grab her wrist. She’s mine to handle.

In the elevator, I don't give her room to breathe. I slam her back against the mirrored wall, the impact grounding us both. I can see the wildness in her eyes, and it’s the only thing that makes sense in my world.

The air in the elevator is thick with the scent of her perfume and the sharp, metallic tang of my own rising adrenaline. I’m drowning in the sensation of her against me. The hard glass at her back, the soft, yielding heat of her body—it’s a sensory overload I’m terrified to pull away from.

"The performance," I growl, my face inches from hers. "You were perfect tonight. You played the doting wife so well that I almost hated you for it."

"You told me to," she gasps.

"I told you to be mine," I correct, my voice a low, gravelly vibration against her skin. "I didn't tell you to smile at those men. I didn't tell you to let them look at you like you were something they could have."

She tries to argue, but I cut her off, my mouth capturing hers in a kiss that is less of a greeting and more of a declaration of war. I lift her off her feet, my hands sliding to her thighs, and the way she wraps her legs around me is a surrender that nearly brings me to my knees. It’s an intoxicating, dizzying rush of power and desperation. I am the man who dictates the terms of every negotiation, but here, in the cold, confined space of this elevator, I am the one being negotiated out of my sanity.

"I'm done with the performance," I murmur, my lips tracing the line of her jaw. "I’m done with the dinner parties, and the polite conversation, and the six-month deadline. You want real, Alexis? I’m going to show you exactly how real this gets."

I carry her into the bedroom, the moonlight turning the room into a landscape of silver and shadow. I kick the door shut and toss her onto the bed, pinning her down. I don't ask for permission. I don't offer apologies.

The weight of her body beneath mine feels like coming home, even though I’ve never wanted a home before. The silk of her dress feels like an insult, a barrier I need to destroy. I want to feel the pulse in her throat, the heat of her skin, the raw, unadorned truth of her.

"Tell me," I demand, my voice a dangerous command. "Tell me you don't want to go back. Tell me you want this to be the end of the game."

"I don't want to go back," she breathes, her hands gripping my face, her eyes filled with an absolute surrender that breaks the final dam inside me. "I don't want to play the game anymore, Dominic. I want you."

I let out a breath I feel like I’ve been holding for a lifetime. I descend on her, not just with passion, but with the intent to claim every inch of her. There is no more artifice. There is only the raw, aching reality of a man who has finally found the one thing he can’t control—and for the first time in my life, I don't want to. I want to burn.

Every touch, every kiss, every frantic movement is a way of claiming the space between us, of burning away the lies we've been living and replacing them with a fire that threatens to consume us both. I lose myself in the heat of her skin, the rhythm of her heart, the sound of her gasps. The world outside the bedroom walls—the boardrooms, the contracts, the PR strategies—all of it fades into insignificance.

My hands trace the curve of her waist before sliding down to grip her hips, pulling her flush against me. Her lips part in a silent invitation that I can't resist. When our mouths meet, it's not gentle—it's hungry, desperate. Her tongue slides against mine as one of her hands tangles in my hair, pulling just enough to make me groan against her lips.

There is only this. There is only her. The way her fingernails dig into my shoulders, leaving crescent marks that will remind me of this tomorrow, the way she arches into me when I trail kisses down her neck, the way she calls my name—it's a symphony of wreckage. I am destroying the version of myself that existed before her, and I am grateful for the ruin.

My fingers work at the buttons of her blouse, then the clasp of her bra. When her breasts spill free, I take one nipple in my mouth, swirling my tongue around the hardened peak while my thumb teases the other. Alexis's back bows off the bed, her breath coming in ragged pants.

My thoughts are no longer measured, no longer strategic. They are consumed by the sheer force of the collision. I hook my fingers in the waistband of her panties, sliding them down her legs slowly, deliberately. My eyes meet hers as I position myself between her thighs, watching her pupils dilate with anticipation.

The control I've guarded for years is nothing compared to the absolute surrender of this moment. When I finally enter her, we both gasp. I start slow, watching her face as she adjusts to me, but her hands on my ass, pulling me deeper, tells me she wants more. I give it to her—harder, faster, deeper until the only sounds are skin slapping against skin and our mingled cries of pleasure.

As I lose myself in the friction and the heat, I realize that the unravelling I feared so much isn't an end at all. It's a beginning. God help me, I never want to be in control again. I want the fire. I want the wreckage. I want every single part of her, and I will tear down everything else to keep it.

When her inner muscles clench around me as she reaches her peak, I follow her over the edge, spilling into her with a guttural cry of her name. We collapse together, bodies slick with sweat, hearts pounding in tandem, completely undone.

Come back for another chapter

Author Note: This chapter pivots to 'public vs. private.' The internal conflict here is about identity—who they are to the board versus who they are to each other. I wanted to show that the performance of being 'professional' is actually what creates the most friction, making the private moments that much more explosive.

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First Edition: April 2026

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