Craving Touch, I Wed My Ex-Fiancé's Nemesis

The scream was trapped in her throat, a block of ice choking her airway.

Anastasia Beaumont shot up in bed, her silk nightgown plastered to her skin with a cold sweat. Rain lashed against the windowpane, the sound like the low growl of a beast just outside the walls of the Cross manor.

A familiar emptiness clawed at her from the inside, a sensation like her skin was being peeled away, leaving every nerve exposed. Her fingers dug into her own palms, the sharp sting of her nails a desperate anchor against the madness.

She needed to be touched.

The craving was a physical sickness, a post-traumatic symptom left behind by the fire and the screams that had stolen her family six years ago.

Her gaze fell on the silver-framed photo on her nightstand. Juston Cross, her fiancé, smiled out from the picture, his handsome face a perfect, polished mask. The sight of him didn't bring comfort. It made her stomach clench. He hated her illness, hated her neediness. He called it emotional vampirism.

The phone on the nightstand shrieked, slicing through the storm's roar.

Juston.

The name glowed on the screen, a cold command. She took a ragged breath, the air burning her lungs, and forced herself to answer.

"Ana, I need a tie. The blue Caraceni. Bring it to the Greenwich Polo Club. Now." Juston's voice was crisp, devoid of any greeting, laced with the casual authority of a man who never expected to be told no.

"Juston, I'm not feeling well..." she began, her voice a thin thread.

"Don't make excuses," he cut her off, his impatience a palpable wave through the phone. "Half an hour."

The line went dead. The dial tone was a slap in the face. The hand holding the phone turned white at the knuckles. Humiliation was a thick, suffocating blanket, making it hard to breathe.

She dragged herself out of bed. Juston's walk-in closet was a vast, silent testament to his wealth. She found the tie, its expensive silk feeling like a cruel joke in her trembling hands.

She pulled on a simple, unremarkable dress. A glimpse in the mirror showed a pale, haunted face. She looked away quickly, refusing to see the pathetic creature staring back.

The drive into the downpour was a blur. She gripped the wheel of the modest sedan the Cross family assigned to her, the wipers fighting a losing battle against the deluge. The world outside was as murky as her future.

Her symptoms worsened on the road. The craving became a physical tremor. She had to pull over, her hands locked on the steering wheel, knuckles white, until the shaking subsided enough to continue.

Twenty minutes later, the magnificent, castle-like gates of the Greenwich Polo Club loomed ahead. This was the playground of New York's most powerful elite.

A young valet in a crisp uniform opened her door, his eyes flicking from her plain car to her pale face with a flicker of barely concealed disdain.

Anastasia handed him the keys, murmured a thank you, and hurried into the gilded lobby, desperate to escape his appraising stare.

The hall was a swirl of expensive perfumes and quiet laughter. The damp chill clinging to her felt alien here. She was an intruder, even though she was, by name, Juston Cross's fiancée.

She asked the registration clerk for Juston's location. The woman pointed towards a lively terrace, her tone professional but distant.

As Anastasia turned, she overheard the clerk whisper to a colleague. "Looking for Mr. Cross again... Poor thing. Engaged and still treated like an errand girl."

The words landed like tiny, sharp stones against her skin. She quickened her pace, wanting only to finish her task and flee.

But as she moved through the crowd, the touch starvation hit her with the force of a physical blow. The brush of a sleeve, the proximity of an arm-it was all a dizzying, dangerous temptation. She nearly lost her balance, her hand flying out to grip a marble pillar for support.

She gasped for air, her vision blurring with unshed, physiological tears.

And through that watery haze, her eyes cut through the noise and the glitter, snagging on a figure seated in a shadowy corner sofa.

She couldn't see his face, only the sharp silhouette of his profile against the fireplace glow. And his hands.

They were resting on his knee, long-fingered, elegant, and strong. One was draped loosely around a crystal glass of amber liquid.

In that instant, the world went silent.

Every desperate, aching part of her being, all the emptiness and the pain, rushed towards those hands.

A wild, insane thought seized her: if those hands would just touch her, even for a second, all her suffering would vanish.

She stared, mesmerized, a lost pilgrim who had just found her shrine. She forgot where she was. She forgot why she was here.

The man seemed to sense her intense gaze. He turned his head slightly. The shadows hid his features, revealing only the clean, sharp line of his jaw.

Anastasia's heart seized. She stumbled back a step, retreating into the pillar's shadow like a thief caught in the act.

Leaning against the cold stone, her breath coming in short, sharp gasps, she couldn't erase the image of those hands from her mind.

She knew, with a certainty that terrified her, that she was in deep, deep trouble.

She had to force herself away from the pillar.

Anastasia smoothed her dress, plastered a stiff smile on her face, and walked toward the terrace. She saw him instantly. Juston was the center of a laughing circle, a king on his throne.

And at his side, her hand tucked possessively in the crook of his arm, was a petite girl in a white dress.

Chanel White.

Chanel's eyes met hers, and a flicker of triumphant provocation lit them up. She leaned closer to Juston, a silent declaration.

Anastasia stopped before them, holding out the tie. "Juston, your tie." Her voice was barely a whisper.

He took it without looking at her, tossing it onto a nearby table as if it were trash.

Chanel let out a delicate laugh, her voice pitched just loud enough for the surrounding tables to hear. "Juston, you're so good to Ana. Making her come all this way in this awful rain. Unlike me, I had to drive myself."

The words were a masterclass in passive aggression, a sweet-venomed dart aimed right at Anastasia, while showcasing her own special status.

A few of Juston's friends snickered. Their eyes, a mixture of pity and amusement, settled on Anastasia.

Heat flooded her face. Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, but she held herself still. She knew from six long years of experience that any protest would only earn her a harsher, more public humiliation.

Juston seemed to savor the moment. He leaned back, a cruel smile playing on his lips as he looked at her.

"Let's make a bet," he said to his friends, his voice lazy and loud. "I bet Ana would stand here in the rain for an hour if I told her to. She wouldn't dare leave."

The words were a bomb. The chatter around them died. Everyone stared, first at Juston's smug face, then at Anastasia's.

Chanel gasped, covering her mouth in a perfect imitation of shock. "Juston, don't be mean. You'll hurt Ana's feelings." But her eyes danced with unconcealed excitement.

Humiliation. Rage. A soul-crushing despair.

Every emotion she had suppressed for six years erupted at once. The dam of her restraint didn't just crack; it shattered.

She lifted her head, her eyes locking onto Juston's. They were filled with an icy hatred he had never seen before.

Before anyone could react, she raised her hand.

With all the strength in her body, she swung.

Crack.

The sound was sharp and clear, echoing across the suddenly silent terrace.

Time stopped.

Juston's head snapped to the side, a red handprint blooming instantly on his cheek. He was frozen, his mind unable to process that the ever-obedient Anastasia had just struck him.

Chanel was the first to break the spell. "Ana, are you crazy?" she shrieked. "How dare you hit Juston!"

She lunged forward, shoving Anastasia hard on the shoulder.

Already weak and emotionally shattered, Anastasia lost her footing. A small cry escaped her lips as she stumbled backward, bracing for the cold, hard floor.

The impact never came.

Instead, she fell into a solid, warm embrace. A strong arm wrapped securely around her waist, catching her, steadying her.

Her cheek was pressed against the fine fabric of a suit jacket. A clean, cool scent filled her senses-rain-washed grass and a faint hint of sandalwood.

And in that single moment of contact, the frantic, screaming need inside her went silent.

The tremors stopped. The burning ache under her skin vanished. A profound, unprecedented sense of peace washed over her. It was like a cool drink of water after a lifetime of thirst.

Anastasia froze, stunned, greedily soaking in the calm.

Slowly, she lifted her head.

She looked straight into a pair of eyes as deep and dark as a midnight sea.

It was him. The man from the corner.

Ennis Sharpe held her, his gaze sweeping over her pale, defiant face before landing on the furious Juston and the panicked Chanel. His expression was utterly calm, as if he were watching a rather boring play.

His hand was still on her waist. The hand she had craved. Through the thin fabric of her dress, its warmth was a steady, grounding presence, a cure.

Juston's shock finally gave way to a towering rage. The public humiliation of the slap burned hotter than the sting on his cheek.

He ignored the man holding Anastasia. He strode forward and seized her wrist, his grip like a vise. "You're coming with me."

The words were ground out between clenched teeth. He started dragging her toward the club's interior.

The moment Juston's fingers closed around her skin, the familiar, suffocating revulsion returned. The peace she had felt just seconds before evaporated, and the tremors threatened to start again.

Ennis Sharpe released her, his hand falling away. He watched them go, a flicker of something cold and unreadable in his dark blue eyes, before he picked up his untouched drink.

Chanel hurried after them, trying to play the peacemaker. "Juston, don't be angry, Ana probably just-"

"Shut up!" Juston roared without looking back. Chanel froze, her face a mask of shock and embarrassment.

He dragged Anastasia into an empty private restroom, slamming the door shut behind them. He shoved her against the cold, tiled wall.

"Anastasia Beaumont, you've gotten bold, haven't you?" he hissed, his handsome face twisted with fury. "Who the hell do you think you are, hitting me in front of all those people?"

The pain in her wrist and the returning symptoms made her head spin. She fumbled for her purse, needing her medication.

Juston saw the movement. He snatched her bag, turned it upside down, and dumped its contents onto the marble countertop. Several small prescription bottles clattered across the surface.

"These damn pills again!" He picked one up, his eyes filled with contempt. "Can't you live without this crap? You're a useless, pathetic burden!"

His words were poison-tipped knives. Anastasia stared at him, and for the first time, she saw the full, ugly truth of her six years of devotion. It was a joke. A tragedy.

She didn't cry. She didn't beg. She just watched him with a strange, new calmness that seemed to irritate him even more.

While he was ranting, she snatched one of the bottles, twisted it open, and shook a few tablets into her palm. She tossed them into her mouth and swallowed them dry.

The bitter taste coated her tongue. She leaned against the wall, forcing her breathing to even out, waiting for the medicine to chase away the phantoms.

Her silence fueled his rage. He grabbed her chin, forcing her to look at him.

"Don't you forget who pulled you out of the gutter!" he snarled. "Six years ago, you'd be dead on the street if it wasn't for the Cross family! Everything you have, we gave to you!"

He was talking about the fire. The deepest, most sacred wound in her heart.

"My grandfather took you in. I made you my fiancée, gave you a life of luxury. And this is how you repay me?" Juston's voice dripped with the arrogance of a benefactor.

Anastasia's heart turned to ice. In his eyes, she was nothing more than a charity case, a pet who should be eternally grateful.

Her silence enraged him further. He thought it was defiance.

"And who was that guy?" he demanded. "You looked pretty damn comfortable falling into his arms, didn't you?" His tone was laced with a crude, insulting insinuation.

She finally spoke, her voice hoarse but clear. "Juston, you make me sick."

It was the first time she had ever said anything so blunt, so full of revulsion, to him.

He froze, then let out a laugh that was pure fury. "Sick? Good. That's good, Anastasia. It seems I've spoiled you."

He let her go, stepping back to smooth his wrinkled suit. His usual arrogance returned, but his eyes were cold and calculating now. He was looking at her like a disobedient tool that needed to be put back in its place.

"Since you've got so much fight in you," he said slowly, "I have an idea. A way to solve everyone's problems, once and for all."