The car glided through the city like a black shadow, devouring distance in silence. Lena kept her face turned toward the window, but her reflection betrayed her—the stiff jaw, the pale cheeks, the fear she wouldn't admit aloud.
Adrian sat beside her, unbothered, his posture the embodiment of control. Not once did he speak during the drive. He didn't have to. His presence filled the car, pressing against her chest with suffocating weight.
She told herself not to look at him. Yet her gaze betrayed her, darting sideways at the man who had just rewritten her fate with a few strokes of ink. He looked exactly as he had in the café—cold, impenetrable. But here, away from the noise and people, he seemed even more untouchable.
The city lights faded. Skyscrapers gave way to winding streets lined with manicured hedges. Finally, the car turned into a gated estate. Iron gates parted, and Lena caught her breath.
The mansion before her rose like a fortress, its marble façade glowing under warm golden lights. A sprawling garden surrounded it, perfectly sculpted, every flower and hedge in place. It was the kind of home she had only ever seen in magazines—a place built not just for living, but for declaring power.
The car stopped before the grand entrance. Two servants rushed forward, umbrellas in hand, shielding Adrian as he stepped out. The rain had softened to a drizzle, but the gesture was ceremonial, practiced.
Lena hesitated until the driver opened her door. She stepped out, her cheap heels clicking against polished stone. Her clothes clung damply to her body, embarrassingly plain against the opulence around her. She felt like an intruder, a stain on the perfect picture.
Adrian's voice broke the silence. "Follow me."
She did, her steps trailing behind him as he ascended the marble stairs.
The doors opened to reveal a vast foyer bathed in golden light. A chandelier glittered overhead, its crystals scattering light like stars. The air smelled faintly of cedar and expensive polish. Marble floors stretched endlessly, leading to winding staircases and elegant archways.
Lena froze. This wasn't just a house—it was another world.
Adrian handed his coat to a waiting butler, then turned toward her. His gaze swept her from head to toe, lingering on her soaked sleeves and scuffed shoes.
"You'll need new clothes," he said, his tone detached, as though noting the weather. "Something… suitable."
Her cheeks burned. "What I wear is none of your business."
His brows arched, faint amusement flickering in his eyes. "You're wrong, Lena. Everything about you is my business now."
Her fists clenched at her sides, nails biting into her palms. She wanted to scream at him, to tear up that cursed contract and shove it in his face. But then she remembered her mother—alive because of this man—and the words died in her throat.
Adrian nodded to a maid. "Show her to her room."
Lena blinked. Her room. Of course. Not their room.
The maid bowed respectfully and led Lena up the sweeping staircase, down a long corridor lined with paintings and doors that looked like they belonged to a palace. Finally, she opened one.
Lena stepped inside. The bedroom was larger than her entire apartment. A four-poster bed draped in silk stood in the center, with cream walls, polished oak floors, and a balcony overlooking the garden. A vanity sat against one wall, a wardrobe against the other, and even the air smelled faintly of roses.
It was beautiful. It was suffocating.
The maid bowed again. "Dinner will be served in one hour, Madam."
Lena flinched. Madam. The word stabbed at her. She wanted to correct the woman, to scream that she wasn't his wife, that this wasn't real. But what was the point? The contract made it real enough.
When the door closed, silence pressed in on her. She sank onto the edge of the bed, her hands clutching the blanket. The softness only made her feel smaller, weaker.
A knock startled her. She stiffened. "Come in," she said reluctantly.
The door opened, and Adrian stepped inside.
Lena's stomach twisted. "What do you want?"
He didn't answer at once. He strolled to the balcony, his tall frame silhouetted against the light rain outside. Finally, he turned to her.
"This is your home now," he said evenly. "You'll find the wardrobe stocked tomorrow. If you need anything, the staff will provide it."
She rose to her feet, anger pushing through her fear. "Don't pretend this is kindness. You don't want a wife, Adrian. You want a prisoner."
His eyes darkened, but he didn't deny it. He stepped closer, slow, deliberate, until she could feel the heat of his body, smell the faint spice of his cologne.
"Prisoner?" His lips curved slightly. "Perhaps. But remember—you walked into this prison yourself. No one forced your hand."
Her throat burned. "I did it for my mother."
"And I," he said, voice dropping, "will hold you to it. Every. Single. Day."
Her heart pounded painfully. She hated the way his nearness unsettled her, the way old memories clawed at the edges of her mind—the warmth of his hand when he once held hers, the softness in his eyes that no longer existed.
She took a shaky step back. "Stay away from me."
His gaze lingered, unreadable, before he finally stepped back. "Dinner. One hour."
He left without another word, the door clicking shut behind him.
Lena collapsed back onto the bed, her chest heaving. The mansion felt colder now, its beauty a cage, its silence a weight pressing down on her.
And yet, beneath the anger and fear, a dangerous thought stirred.
What if the Adrian standing before her tonight—the man cloaked in ice—wasn't the real Adrian at all? What if the boy she once knew was still buried beneath that armor of pride and vengeance?
She shook her head violently. No. That Adrian is gone. And if I don't harden myself, this one will destroy me.
Still, when she closed her eyes, it wasn't the cold words she remembered. It was the fleeting flicker of something raw in his gaze—the hint of hurt he had tried so hard to hide.
Her fists clenched. This war between them had only just begun.