The wedding was over, but Amaya's nightmare had just begun.
Adrian's penthouse towered over the city, all glass and steel, like the man himself—imposing, unyielding. He carried himself through the door as if he owned the world. And now, her.
Amaya trailed behind, her heels clicking against the marble floor, refusing to look impressed.
"This doesn't make us married," she spat, tossing the bouquet onto the floor.
Adrian loosened his tie, his sharp gaze pinning her in place.
"On the contrary," he murmured, stepping closer, "it makes you mine—completely."
He cornered her against the window, the city lights spilling around them. His scent—dark, expensive, intoxicating—wrapped around her. Amaya's pulse raced, but she raised her chin.
"You'll never break me."
His lips curved in a dangerous smile. "Sweetheart, breaking you isn't the plan. Keeping you—that's the real game."
She shoved past him, hiding the wild tremor in her chest. If Adrian thought she'd surrender, he was dead wrong. But as her reflection stared back from the glass, a terrifying thought crept in.
What if the real danger wasn't losing to him… but losing herself?