He offered his arm.
Polished. Controlled. Commanding.
Like everything else about him—immaculate, untouchable.
A man carved in glass and shadow.
And I—
I stood there, breath caught in my throat, knuckles trembling at my sides. I wasn't breathing. I wasn't blinking. Just... frozen. Like a statue made of silk and fear.
His eyes held mine—unblinking. Piercing.
Then they dropped—lingering on my lips, crawling up the slope of my cheek to the rim of my glasses, then down again. He studied every inch of my face like he was trying to remember something long buried. Or daring it to surface.
Each second under his stare peeled something off me.
A flicker of light caught on the ring at his finger—gleaming, cold, deliberate.
A symbol. A seal. A threat.
I could feel the pulse in my neck. Cold sweat traced a path down my spine beneath layers of lace and satin. My gown felt suffocating. Too tight. Too wrong. But I couldn't move.
He was too close.
His scent reached me—sharp and woodsy, undercut with citrus. Power had a smell. And it clung to him like a second skin.
Then, without glancing at the crowd, without breaking the fragile wire of his gaze, he spoke—
"Ladies and gentlemen… please welcome my beautiful wife—Eriyana Alric Thronwell."
His voice rolled out like velvet over steel.
And the name—Eriyana Alric Thronwell—dripped from his mouth like something he'd carved on his tongue. Heavy. Intentional. As if each syllable was molded in gold… and blood.
As if saying it made it true.
As if saying it claimed me.
The room erupted in applause.
A sound too loud. Too artificial. Too cruel.
I stood paralyzed. My pulse thundered in my ears.
Then came his whisper—just a breath near my ear.
"May I?"
I couldn't answer. I didn't even know what he was asking.
I blinked. My lips parted. No sound.
He didn't wait.
His arm slid around my shoulders. Warm. Firm. And devastatingly careful. He didn't hurt me—he held me. Like something fragile. Like I might shatter in front of all these people.
I tensed—just for a second. A flinch so small it could be mistaken for breath. But it was there.
His fingers spread against my back, grounding me. Familiar. Possessive.
He turned to face the room with me pressed to his side.
And smiled.
God… that smile.
I hadn't seen it in five years. Not in photos. Not in dreams. It was dazzling. Disarming. Haunting.
It looked like a ghost.
Maybe it was fake. Maybe it wasn't. I didn't know.
But it was his.
"And also," he said, his voice ringing again, "a new member of our board."
I flinched.
What?
"A new partner," he added smoothly, voice like silk armor. "With forty-five percent shares in Thronwell Pvt. Ltd."
Silence.
The air froze.
Forty-five.
Not five.
Not ten.
Forty-five.
I stared at him. My mind—blank. My lungs—tight.
A pressure gathered in my chest like a scream locked behind bone.
Why me?
Why now?
What was this—revenge? Redemption? Punishment? A crown of thorns masked as a throne?
I turned my head toward him, slow and stiff, like I was moving through cold syrup. My heartbeat stuttered, and ice replaced my blood.
But he wasn't joking.
His smile said otherwise.
That same crooked tilt—the one from a boy who once wrote me songs and kissed poems into my palms—now worn by a man who looked like he'd buried that boy six feet deep.
My lips parted. I wanted to scream. To demand answers.
But nothing came out.
The applause returned, louder this time.
Or maybe I was shrinking.
Maybe I was fading.
My heart pounded like a war drum. My knees trembled. Lights flared too bright. The heat was suffocating. I felt like I was collapsing inward—but his arm stayed firm. Holding me up. Like a tether. Or a leash.
The crowd surged.
A waiter approached with a tray of champagne. A glass extended toward me.
"Congratulations, Mrs. Thronwell."
I didn't even lift my eyes.
Before I could move, his voice sliced the air.
"She doesn't drink."
It wasn't a refusal.
It was law.
Unapologetic. Icy.
"I… I'm sorry, sir."
The waiter retreated in a flurry of apologies and silver trays.
"Excuse us," he said then, already leading me away. "If you'll allow me, I'd like a dance with my beautiful wife."
That word again.
Beautiful.
As if he meant it.
As if I could be.
His hand took mine. My palm was cold, clammy—but his was warm. Solid. Sure. The contact sent heat spiraling up my arm, blooming against the hollowness inside me.
I followed.
Not because I wanted to.
Because I didn't have the strength to resist.
The music shifted—slow, orchestral, romantic.
Lights dimmed.
The crowd formed a circle around us. We stood in the center, a picture-perfect lie painted in lace and tailored cruelty.
I could feel every eye.
Some curious. Some hungry. Some gleaming with malice.
A camera flash popped. Someone murmured my name. I tugged at my dress with my free hand, pulling fabric over my chest, trying to make myself smaller. Invisible.
But there was no escape.
Not here.
Not in his arms.
My legs trembled. My breath caught behind my ribs. Vision blurred—not from tears. From shame.
It coated my skin like frostbite. Crawling.
Then his voice again—quieter now.
"Don't look around."
His hand slid to my waist. He pulled me flush against him, and I gasped.
My body jerked—not in surrender, but in instinct. A protest in my muscles before they froze again. A flinch that burned.
Not from fear.
From contact.
"Just me," he breathed. "Only me. Do you understand?"
The world tipped.
My breath stilled.
How did he know?
No one knew.
Not about how eyes on my skin made it itch. Not about how crowds made me want to disappear. Not even him—not when he was Darian.
My Darian.
But he wasn't that boy anymore.
He used to have music in his blood. Ripped jeans. A guitar on his back. Rebellion in his smile.
Now?
Now he was steel and silk. Suits cut sharp as razors. Authority coiled beneath his skin like smoke.
He didn't enter rooms.
He claimed them.
His eyes—deep blue, darker than night—flashed under the lights. His hair was slicked back with precision. Not a single piece out of place. He smelled expensive.
He smelled dangerous.
He spun me once.
I felt like a doll.
Weightless. Hollow.
A ghost inside a puppet.
I had trained for this. This waltz. This moment. I had rehearsed every step.
But not him.
Not the man he became.
He was taller now. Broader. Towering.
The boy I loved was clumsy and alive.
This man?
He was marble.
I floated in his arms, my dress catching light like liquid silver. The hem flared around us—a flower blooming for a funeral.
My body wasn't mine. My breath wasn't mine.
I wasn't dancing.
I was being moved.
And I was searching.
Searching his face for the boy who used to hum lullabies and steal kisses behind curtains.
But there was nothing.
No warmth. No softness.
Only a void.
Only calculation.
And maybe… hatred.
Did he hate me?
After everything?
Why did it feel like I was the one who broke him?
The thought burned. Unfair. Bitter. Real.
And then—I whispered.
So soft it barely reached the space between us—
"…Darian."
He stopped.
Sharp. Complete.
His whole frame went rigid. The music faded into static in my ears.
His gaze snapped to mine.
The room vanished.
Only his eyes remained—ice and fire, memory and war.
His grip on my waist tightened. No longer careful. No longer gentle.
Pain bloomed under his fingers.
I bit my lip—hard—and his eyes followed the motion. Down to my mouth. My trembling jaw. Something flickered behind his gaze.
Something I couldn't name.
Then it lifted—to my glasses.
He spoke, low. Controlled.
"Alric," he said. "For you. For them. For everyone."
And then softer—slow, deliberate—
"Eriyana."
He said my name like it was both crown and curse.
A warning.
A threat.
I didn't speak.
Didn't cry.
Didn't breathe.
I just nodded.
Like a good little wife.
Like a marionette tugged by invisible strings.
Like something beautiful.
And broken.