Lev reaches into his coat, pulls out a thick, unassuming folder, then places it on the table between us. The sound it makes—soft and final—lands harder than a bullet.
“Her family signed the agreement,” he says. “The wedding contracts are drafted. There will be no discussion.”
I don’t touch the folder.
I can’t.
My fingers tingle, my nervous system firing with a volatile mix of dread, fascination, and guilt I despise with every fiber of my being. The paper might as well be electrified. Or cursed.
I hate being cornered.
Hate being dragged back into a past I’ve spent half a decade outrunning.
Hate the idea that Sienna Roth—of all women—will be thrust back into my orbit, tethered to me by law, by name, by fate.
I hate it.
And I hate even more that something dark and hungry inside me doesn’t recoil from the idea.
The fight drained out of me the moment Lev said her name, and I don’t understand why. I don’t understand how one woman—one memory—can dismantle years of discipline in seconds.
Why the fuck is that?
Lev doesn’t wait for my response. His footsteps fade across the concrete, measured and unhurried, and then the elevator doors slide shut behind him.
The hum of its descent vibrates faintly through the floor.
I don’t look up.
I keep my gaze fixed on the folder.
On the proof that Sienna Roth is coming back into my life.
Not as a choice.
But as my wife.
After what feels like an eternity, I reach for the folder and flip it open.
A photograph is clipped inside.
Sienna.
Present-day Sienna.
Older. Sharper. Even more devastating.
Her copper hair is longer now, styled sleek and deliberate. Her mouth is painted a ruthless red, the kind of color that isn’t meant to invite—it’s meant to warn. Her eyes—always bright, always penetrating—hold something colder now.
Something I recognize instantly.
Vengeance.
An unfamiliar heat crawls beneath my skin, slow and treacherous.
She’s coming for me.
She agreed to marry me.
