The dining table stretched like a battlefield—crystal glasses, silver cutlery, and silence sharp enough to cut.
Amaya sat across from Adrian, stabbing at her food, refusing to meet his gaze. Every bite tasted of poison, every moment suffocating.
"Still sulking?" Adrian asked smoothly, sipping his wine. "Wives are supposed to smile."
"Prisoners don't smile," Amaya shot back.
He chuckled, low and dangerous. "Then maybe you'll enjoy what I have planned."
Before she could respond, the door opened. A woman walked in—elegant, stunning, her eyes lingering a little too long on Adrian. She kissed his cheek like an old flame.
Amaya's blood boiled. "And who is she?"
Adrian's smirk deepened. "An old… business partner."
The woman's laugh was soft, intimate. "Adrian, you never told me you were married."
Amaya gripped her fork so tightly her knuckles whitened. Was this a game? A test? Or just another way Adrian planned to torment her?
When the woman finally left, Adrian leaned back, watching Amaya's stormy eyes.
"Jealousy doesn't suit you, sweetheart."
Her chest burned, but she masked it with ice. "Don't flatter yourself. I don't care who warms your bed."
But the fury in her voice betrayed her. Adrian's gaze sharpened, satisfied.
"Oh, you care," he whispered, "more than you want to admit."