We’re not alone for long. Soon, the other wives join us, and the conversation turns sweet and friendly. I find myself laughing for the first time in days.
Apparently, they all have a group chat where they curse their husbands out, and they promise to add me to it as soon as I get a new phone. I warn them to prepare to read me cussing out Mike every single day. They laugh, saying the Rusnak men are all terribly possessive and annoying, so they’re guilty of cursing out their husbands just as much.
The reception stretches into the night, but a pit of dread fills my stomach as we head home in the car. We sit in the backseat, and every nerve in me is hyperaware of every move he makes. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t touch me. The silence is thick, almost suffocating, yet the tension pulses between us with every turn of the wheels.
I force my mind elsewhere, trying to calm the storm inside me, but my body refuses. I can feel him beside me, controlled and restrained, yet radiating the same authority and danger that has haunted me for days. I clutch my hands together in my lap, willing myself not to react, willing myself to survive this night.
The city lights blur past, but I notice the way his eyes glance toward me occasionally. Each time, my heart hammers. I hate it, I hate him, and yet part of me…can’t look away.
We arrive home and climb the grand staircase. I’m about to turn toward my suite when Mike stops me.
“We’re not sleeping apart,” he says. “Your things have been moved to my suite.”
I frown. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
He tilts his head. “I’m sorry. I assumed you’d know. Married couples don’t sleep apart. The staff will notice. They’ll talk. We don’t want that to spread.”
He’s right.
But still….
I scoff. “We’re only married on paper. I don’t acknowledge it.”
He doesn’t respond. Instead, he studies me with that unreadable, intense gaze. “You must be tired. Rein in your temper, come in, shower. I had one of my staff get you a full wardrobe of nightwear.”
The thought is tempting. The idea of shedding this dress for something simple, soft, comforting…it tugs at me.
I follow him into the suite.
The room is immense. Marble floors gleam under the soft chandelier light. Velvet drapes frame tall windows overlooking the garden, the city beyond sparkling like scattered diamonds. Expensive, understated furniture—deep leather chairs, polished wood tables—marks a space that is both luxurious and cold, the kind of wealth that radiates power and control. Every surface, every detail, whispers order, authority, and a subtle intimidation I can’t escape.
I walk toward the window and stare down at the garden below, trying to focus on anything other than the man behind me. I feel him moving, deliberate and quiet, the weight of his presence impossible to ignore. Even without turning, I warn him.
“I hope you know I won’t let you touch me.”
I turn slowly when he chuckles. It’s a low, knowing sound that makes my stomach twist.
He removes his jacket slowly. “I won’t touch you unless you ask.”
But the edge in his voice betrays him—he wants to. He wants to touch me.
The air between us thickens.
He steps close, close enough that I can feel his breath against my skin. His fingers trace the edge of my jaw lightly, like a question. I tremble but don’t pull away.
“Afraid?” he murmurs.
“Of you? Always.” I mean to snap, but my voice is a breathless whisper. I curse myself inwardly.
Heat builds in my chest, in my skin. Every nerve alive. And yet, he steps back deliberately, giving me space. Control.
Then—suddenly—glass shatters in the hallway. The sound cracks through the suite like a gunshot.
I jerk back instinctively. His eyes snap to the source, sharp, cold, and lethal.
“Stay here,” he orders, voice clipped, as he marches toward the door.
Like hell I will. I move before I think, following impulsively as he pushes the door open. I peek from behind him, my pulse hammering.
