Stripping For My Devil Ex Husband

​Ana quietly buried her face in her hands for a split second, praying Damian wouldn’t fire her best friend on the spot, though Damian’s expression morphed into pure, cold amusement at Clara’s sheer audacity.

​Across the room, Jullian Montgomery froze.

​His playful smirk vanished instantly, replaced by a sudden, violent shift in demeanor. His eyes widened, his posture snapping rigid as an aggressive, competitive fire flared across his features.

​"Forty percent higher?" Jullian barked, slamming his palm flat against the marble mantelpiece, getting entirely pumped with sudden, vindictive adrenaline. "That slick, silver-spooned bastard is poaching our talent out from under our noses? Oh, hell no."

​Jullian pushed off the hearth, rolling up the sleeves of his crisp linen shirt with raw, unfiltered fury.

​"Forget asking my father for polite corporate history," Jullian declared, pacing the floor with a dangerous grin. "Let’s put this Dante Sullivan six feet into the damn ground. I’ll personally freeze every maritime shipping route his supply chain touches before the week is out."

​Ana blinked in disbelief at Jullian’s sudden, dramatic outrage, while Clara merely rolled her eyes at the sheer, unhinged theatrics of powerful men.

Damian didn’t join in Jullian’s theatrical fury. Instead, his obsidian eyes narrowed into two sharp slits, his mind instantly stripping away the corporate facade to reveal the lethal machinery beneath.

​"Shut up, Montgomery," Damian rasped, his cold, quiet tone laced with lethal edge.

​Most men in the city would have frozen in their tracks under that tone. Damian Sterling had clawed his way out of nothing, building an empire of blood, shadow, and self-made wealth through sheer, brutal dominance. But Jullian Montgomery wasn’t most men.

Backed by centuries of ancestral old money and dynastic backing, Jullian viewed Damian’s terrifying aura with the relaxed nonchalance of a man who couldn’t be bought, threatened, or intimidated.

​Jullian merely offered a lazy, irreverent smirk, leaning back against the mantle without an ounce of fear in his eyes, silently gesturing for Damian to continue.

​Damian’s gaze shifted to Clara, unblinking and mercilessly analytical.

​"Two weeks ago," Damian said, his baritone dropping an octave into pure, calculated gravity. "Right around the time Vance’s internal assets were flagged, Sullivan Global suddenly reaches out with an above-market offer to an auditing manager who happens to be my fiance’s closest personal confidante."

​Clara’s unimpressed expression flickered, a sudden knot of tension tightening in her throat.

​"You think Sullivan was shopping for talent?"

Damian scoffed, a dark, dangerous edge cutting through his words.

"I’m so sure he wasn’t hiring a portfolio manager, Miss Clara. He must have been planting a hook. He wanted direct access to Sterling’s internal cash flows, or a convenient hostage on his payroll the second the Vance collateral blew open. If you had walked into that interview, you would have been leveraged in a subterranean vault before you signed the contract."

​The color drained from Clara’s face. The harsh reality hit her like ice water... The prestigious corporate leap she had proudly considered was nothing more than a calculated syndicate snare, with her cast as the bait.

​Jullian’s easy posture vanished for a split second, a genuine, protective shadow crossing his features as he stepped subtly closer to Clara’s chair, his competitive fire burning with real venom now.

​Before anyone could say another word, the sharp, rhythmic click of designer heels echoed across the marble threshold.

​"What on earth is being put ’six feet into the ground’ in my formal drawing room?"

​Victoria Sterling strode in, looking every inch the immaculate society matriarch in a tailored dove-gray suit. Her sharp gaze swept the room, instantly taking in Jullian’s sudden edge, Clara’s pale shock, and Damian standing firmly over Anastasia.

​Ana’s heart leaped into her throat, but Damian’s hand tightened subtly on her waist, his face instantly settling into a mask of bored corporate calm.

​"A hostile acquisition, Mother," Damian replied smoothly, without missing a beat. "Sullivan Global is attempting to encroach on our maritime supply logistics and poach senior management. Jullian was merely expressing his... lack of professional enthusiasm."

​Jullian cleared his throat, snapping on an effortless, aristocratic grin that completely hid the syndicate bloodlust in his eyes. "Just routine corporate defense, Mrs. Sterling. You know how passionate I get about our shipping lanes."

​Victoria leveled a cool, assessing stare at Jullian, clearly not buying the performance for a second, before her eyes landed on Clara. Taking in the white medical bandage taped beneath Clara’s blouse, Victoria’s posture softened just fractionally with refined hospitality.

​"I see," Victoria said crisply. "Well, whatever boardroom war you boys are orchestrating, you will not conduct it over the heads of recovering guests."

​She stepped further into the room, addressing Clara with smooth, undeniable authority. "You must be Anastasia’s friend, Clara. You look pale, my dear. Northwood has twenty guest suites, and you will not be subjected to Damian’s chaotic business meetings while you are healing."

​Victoria turned slightly, nodding to the butler waiting in the foyer. "Walter, have the east garden suite prepared for Miss Clara. She will rest there under house hospitality."

Her eyes flicked toward Jullian with a knowing, pointed look.

"And Mr. Montgomery, since you are so profoundly invested in corporate defense today, you can personally ensure her luggage is settled before you drag my son into any more shouting matches."

​Jullian laughed softly, giving a mock-salute to Victoria that would have gotten anyone else thrown off the estate. "At your command, Mrs. Sterling."

​Clara opened her mouth to protest being managed, but Victoria’s aristocratic aura left zero room for argument.

​"East wing, Jullian," Victoria commanded smoothly, turning on her heel to leave the room. "And Damian... remember my rules about your stitches."

Jullian effortlessly lifted Clara’s overnight bag with one hand, matching his long, leisurely stride to her slower, guarded pace as they moved down the sunlit corridor of the east wing.

​"I am entirely capable of carrying a ten-pound duffel bag, Mr. Montgomery," Clara said, her voice dripping with dry disdain.

​"And I am entirely capable of carrying it for you," Jullian replied smoothly, a lazy, aristocratic grin curving his lips. "Consider it my civic duty to ensure you don’t aggravate that collarbone. Besides, you’re the first person in five years to casually tell Damian Sterling to his face that you were shopping resumes with his sworn enemy. I’d carry your luggage across the entire continent just for the entertainment value."

​Clara stopped abruptly outside the French double doors of the garden suite, turning to face him with her arms tightly crossed over her chest.

​"Let’s get something straight," Clara said, her sharp eyes narrowing into two icy points. "I know how men like you and Damian operate. You throw around ancestral names, private security details, and endless vaults of cash, thinking every woman around you is a damsel waiting to be managed. I don’t need your chivalry, I don’t need your charm, and the second this syndicate mess is resolved, I am out the front gates."

​Jullian didn’t look offended in the slightest. Accustomed to debutantes and socialites hanging on his every word, Clara’s absolute refusal to be impressed was a breath of fresh air... and undeniably captivating.

​He leaned one broad shoulder against the doorframe, setting the bag down with an amused tilt of his head. "Duly noted, Miss Clara. But until those gates open, you’re on my watch. Try not to hurt my feelings too badly while you’re recovering."

​Clara rolled her eyes, stepped past him into the luxurious, sun-drenched suite, and shut the heavy wooden door firmly in his face.

​Jullian let out a low, appreciative chuckle in the empty hallway, shaking his head before turning on his heel toward the study.

________________________

​Meanwhile, back in the quiet drawing room, the playful tension of the morning had completely dissolved into heavy, suffocating gravity.

​The moment the doors clicked shut behind Jullian, Damian’s hand tightened around Ana’s waist. With a slow, deliberate pull, he turned her around, backing her gently against the solid pillar until she was completely caged between his towering frame and the wall.

​"Damian," Ana breathed, her hands resting cautiously against the firm expanse of his uninjured ribs. "Your mother just left..."

​"I don’t care about my mother’s words, and I don’t care about anyone else," Damian rasped, his hooded obsidian eyes burning with a dark, possessive fire.

​He lifted his hand, his long, calloused fingers wrapping around the side of her throat, his thumb tracing the exact contour of the dark plum bruise beneath her collar. The memory of how close Dante Sullivan had come to ensnaring her entire life through Clara made a muscle twitch violently in his jaw.

​"Your friend thinks she can run the second the dust settles," Damian murmured, leaning down until his warm, cedar-laced breath brushed against her parted lips. "Let her try. But you, Anastasia..."

​His fingers drifted upward, tracing the sharp, delicate line of her jaw with an intoxicating blend of reverence and raw ownership.

​"You don’t get to run," he whispered, his voice dark, velvet, and absolute. "You belong under my roof. In my bed. By my side. Tell me you understand that, doll."

​Ana looked up into the bottomless depths of his dark eyes, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs. The terror of her father’s betrayal was still fresh, but here, trapped against Damian’s unyielding chest, the fierce, dark protection of his hold felt more grounding than any freedom she had ever known.