Was I really someone’s wife now?
Could I call myself married when, just hours ago, I had been running through rain-slicked alleys, heart hammering as Ruslan Baranov’s men chased me, shadows and footsteps closing in from all sides?
Now I was trapped in a gilded cage, overlooking the Pacific, bound to a man whose dominance was absolute and whose patience for my defiance was razor-thin.
He didn’t want me to escape.
He didn’t want me to cheat.
And above all, he didn’t want me to hurt Violet.
On the surface, those rules sounded almost reasonable.
But beneath them was restraint barely held in check, the promise of consequences I could barely imagine—and yet, feel down to my bones.
I swallowed, feeling bile rise in my throat.
My head swam with a mix of rage, fear, and reluctant awe.
His eyes—dark, unyielding, impossibly sharp—held me hostage far more effectively than any chains ever could.
I would watch this new world, this new reality, for a few days.
If it proved unbearable—if those red lines were truly unendurable—then damn them.
I would escape.
I’m better at that than he can imagine.
Even if he controls Italy—or all of Europe—I’ve evaded the strongest men, and I will do it again.
I will not be a prisoner forever.
I am not built to sit trapped under someone’s roof, serving as a pawn in a revenge scheme against my father.
I spoke to myself with the quiet confidence that had kept me alive for years.
I had survived ambushes, traps, and hunters far smarter than any ordinary human;
I had disappeared into shadows that should have swallowed me whole, and I would do it again.
While I remain his wife, if he cheats... I will not hesitate. I’ll cheat back—hundred percent, no regrets.
I could not care less about the consequences.
The only reason I wouldn’t try to escape Vincenzo in the next few hours wasn’t just to test what this marriage would demand of me—it was because running from him meant returning to my old life.
Back to being hunted, racing from pillar to post, fighting for every breath, every heartbeat.
Back into the crosshairs of Ruslan Baranov, a man who swore he would chase me until the day he dies.
And I know that if he ever catches me... he would deliver a punishment so brutal, so absolute, it would make history itself shudder.
“Ciro will arrive in a few minutes to show you to the room you’ll be staying in. Basic necessities should already be there,” he said, his tone clipped and impersonal, as if we were discussing logistics rather than the rules that would determine whether I lived or died under his roof.
It was jarring.
The ease with which he shifted from threats to normalcy.
