The Practice Husband: Chapter Two - The Art of the Performance

Forced proximity is a dangerous game when the mutual attraction is this volatile, pushing them to the very edge of their self-imposed boundaries. Every shared look across a crowded room and every moment alone in the elevator acts as a catalyst, accelerating the inevitable. They are trying to treat this as a simple transaction, a means to an end, but their bodies seem to have a much more intense agenda. As they navigate the claustrophobic confines of their shared professional life, the struggle to remain professional becomes a losing battle, and the cracks in their armor are starting to show.

Chapter Two

The Art of the Performance

Alexis

The bar at the St. Regis is a suffocating display of wealth, all polished wood and gold-trimmed glass. My skin feels hypersensitive, tingling wherever Dominic’s hand remains anchored to my waist. I am an observer in my own life, watching myself play this role—the doting, beautiful wife—while my internal landscape is an absolute disaster of adrenaline and attraction.

"Another round?" Dominic asks, his voice smooth, completely detached from the electric charge currently arcing between our bodies. He signals the bartender for a dry martini, extra olives, without even glancing at me. He knows my drink as well as he knows my next move. A pang of something sharp and dangerous pierces my chest.

"You're quiet," he observes, sliding the drink toward me. He’s leaning back now, his posture relaxed, contrasting sharply with the taut, coiled energy I feel radiating from him.

"I'm observing," I reply, tracing the rim of my glass. "Isn't that what the wife is supposed to do? Listen to the titans of industry and offer a supportive smile?"

Dominic chuckles, a low sound that draws a few heads in our direction. He reaches out, his fingers hooking around the back of my neck, pulling me closer so that our foreheads almost touch. It’s an intimate gesture, one that makes the men at the table stop their conversation to watch. "You’re doing more than listening, Alexis. You’re playing the part with a terrifying level of precision. It makes me wonder what else you’re capable of."

"Is that a compliment, Mr. Cross?"

"It’s a warning," he murmurs, his thumb stroking the sensitive skin behind my ear. "Don’t get too comfortable in the lie. The moment you start believing it, you’re vulnerable."

"And you?" I challenge, my voice dropping, emboldened by the martini and the sheer proximity of his body. "Are you vulnerable, Dominic? Or is this just another profitable merger for you?"

He pauses, his gaze darkening. For a split second, the polished mask of the untouchable power player slips, revealing something raw and uncontained underneath. He doesn't answer. Instead, he shifts his grip, his hand sliding down to the small of my back, guiding me to stand.

"We’re leaving," he announces, his tone leaving no room for negotiation.

"We just got here," I protest, though my heart is already racing at the prospect of being alone with him again.

"The point is made," he says, ushering me toward the exit with a firm hand. "I’ve shown everyone exactly who you are, and I’ve seen enough of how they look at you."

The walk to the car is a blur of cool night air and the sudden, jarring silence of the city. Once inside the black SUV, the driver partition slides up, and the world—and the pretense—vanishes.

Dominic doesn't wait. He crosses the distance between us in a single, fluid movement, his hand slamming against the leather of the seat behind my head. He traps me in the corner, his body a solid, impenetrable wall of heat.

"You were looking at them," he growls, his face mere inches from mine.

"I was looking at the room," I argue, though my breath is hitching. "It’s my job to be seen, isn't it? That is, after all, what our contract says I need to master."

You’re paying for my focus, Alexis," he snaps, his hand moving to grip my chin. “And you were looking at the wrong thing." The aggression is shocking, but it’s the possessiveness that sends a jolt of pure, unadulterated need straight to my core. "When we’re in public, you look at me. You talk to me. You breathe for me. I don't care how many 'practice' rules you think we have—you don't acknowledge them."

"You're awfully possessive for someone who's only teaching me something," I gasp, my hands coming up to rest on his chest, feeling the hard, frantic rhythm of his heart beneath his shirt.

"I'm a man who knows what he wants," he whispers, his lips hovering over mine. "And right now, I want to know if you’re as good at this when there isn't an audience."

He doesn't wait for my response. He kisses me—not the polite, performative brush of lips from earlier, but a hard, devastating claim. It tastes of scotch and intensity, a desperate, hungry friction that has me arching into him, my fingers tangling in his hair, pulling him closer. He groans, a sound of pure frustration, and his hand slides down to my hip, pressing me into the seat until there isn't an inch of space left between us.

This isn't practice. This is a collision. And for the first time since I signed that contract, I don't want to be anywhere else.

The air in the back of the SUV is thick with the scent of leather and the heavy, intoxicating musk of Dominic’s cologne. His kiss is a visceral dismantling of every barrier I’ve spent the last three years building. It’s not the measured, elegant courtship of a practice scenario; it’s a desperate, searing collision that leaves me breathless and wanting more. My hands are buried in his hair, pulling him closer, my nails digging into the silk of his jacket as I try to pull him into my own skin.

Dominic pulls back just an inch, his forehead resting against mine. He’s breathing as hard as I am, his chest heaving against my own, and his eyes are dark, stormy pools that hold no trace of the professional detachment he wore just an hour ago.

"Shit! This is not… " he rasps, his voice rough and uneven, "what we agreed to."

"You started it," I whisper back, my voice trembling. I’m leaning into him, my body traitorously seeking the friction of his, the heat of his hands on my hips, the raw, unadulterated weight of him. I feel exposed—not just by the way my dress has ridden up, but by the fact that he has managed to strip away the Alexis St. James persona in mere minutes.

He lets out a harsh, jagged laugh and shifts, pulling back just enough to create a sliver of space between us. It’s an agony, a sudden cooling that leaves me shivering. "I did. I started it. And I would do it again, except we are currently being chauffeured through Manhattan by a man who is paid to see absolutely nothing."

He reaches out, his thumb catching my lower lip, tracing the path his teeth just took. The touch is bruising, possessive, and it makes my knees weak. "We need to get to the penthouse. We need to talk about the rules."

"The rules," I repeat, the words feeling alien on my tongue. "Is that what we’re calling this?"

"The rules are the only thing keeping us from crossing a line that can't be uncrossed," he says, his jaw tight. He sits back, adjusting his cuffs, the mask of the billionaire businessman slipping back into place with a precision that should be reassuring but is, in fact, terrifying. "Tonight was a test, Alexis. You passed. But don't mistake a momentary lapse in discipline for a change in the contract."

I stay silent, the sting of his words lingering in the air. I want to argue, to tell him that there was nothing lapse with the way he held me, the way he claimed me in that car. But I don't. I just stare out the window as the city flashes by—a blur of neon and glass—feeling the phantom sensation of his hands still burning against my skin.

When we finally arrive at the penthouse, the silence is deafening. Dominic walks ahead of me, his steps long and purposeful. He doesn't look back to see if I’m following, but I do. I follow because I’m drawn to him, because the gravity he exerts is impossible to resist.

Inside, the suite is vast and echoing, a stark, modern cathedral of glass and shadows. Dominic doesn't stop until he reaches the study. He pours two glasses of whiskey, the amber liquid catching the light, and hands one to me without looking at me.

"The gala at the St. Regis was a success," he says, his voice detached, as if he’s reporting on a quarterly merger. "The board members are convinced. My associates believe we are the picture of domestic stability. The objective has been met."

"And the rest of it?" I ask, my hand trembling as I lift the glass to my lips. The burn of the alcohol is a welcome distraction from the fire still raging in my blood. "The kiss? The… collision?"

Dominic turns then, his eyes burning with a dark, intense light that makes my breath hitch. "The kiss was a calculated risk. I needed to see if the chemistry was as palpable as I suspected it was when you hired me. I needed to know if you were truly committed to the performance."

"And? Am I committed enough for you?" I challenge, my voice dropping, my eyes locked on his.

He walks toward me, slowly, deliberately, until he’s looming over me, his shadow swallowing me whole. He reaches out, his fingers sliding under my chin to force me to look up at him. "You’re more than committed, Alexis. You’re lethal. And that is exactly what makes you so dangerous to my peace of mind."

He leans in close, his voice a mere vibration against my skin. "We are going to finish this contract. We are going to play the part of the devoted couple until the ink on the final document dries. But you need to understand one thing, and you need to understand it right now."

"What’s that?" I whisper, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"There is no more 'practice' after tonight," he murmurs, his lips grazing my ear, sending a shiver down my spine that threatens to undo me. "From here on out, every touch, every look, every moment we spend alone… it’s going to be real. And I think we both know that neither of us is going to survive it."

He pulls back, leaving me reeling, his expression unreadable as he walks toward the bedroom. I stand alone in the study, the echoes of his words vibrating in the silence, and for the first time, I realize that I’m not playing a part anymore. I’m exactly where I want to be—trapped in a web of his making, and terrified that when the six months are up, I won't know how to walk away.

I take another drink, the liquid smooth and hot, and watch him go. The game has changed, and I’m playing for keeps. And heaven help me, I think I’m already losing.

I set the glass down on the desk with a quiet clack that echoes in the stillness of the penthouse. I shouldn't follow him—I know that. I should walk out the front door, hail a cab, and retreat to the safety of my own place. But the thought of that empty space feels like a prison compared to the gravity pulling me toward his bedroom.

I’m not playing a part anymore.

I cross the floor, my footsteps silent on the marble, and push the heavy door open. The room is dark, save for the faint, silver moonlight spilling across the duvet. He is already there, a shadow in the dim light. I don't say a word. I just move toward him, ready to show him exactly how real I can make this.

Come back for another chapter

Author Note: Chapter two is all about the 'leaks' in their armor. We’re moving from the agreement to the reality of working side-by-side. I wanted to highlight the physical anxiety that comes with being forced to be near someone you’re trying to ignore. It’s that specific 'office romance' ache where you have to remain composed while your entire nervous system is screaming.

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

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First Edition: April 2026

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