Serena POV
I packed everything before sunrise.
Not because I had much to bring—but because waiting with nothing to do would've driven me insane. One suitcase. Two bags. A life compressed into a manageable weight.
By the time I was ready, Ethan still hadn't come.
Instead, a black car pulled up. His driver stepped out, flanked by guards in dark suits. Efficient. Silent. Impersonal.
Of course.
I didn't ask where Ethan was. I already knew the answer: control didn't require presence.
The iron gates of the Crowe estate slid open with a low mechanical hum, revealing a world I'd only ever seen in glossy magazines.
My breath caught.
The mansion rose before me—white stone, towering columns carved with ruthless precision, floor-to-ceiling glass reflecting manicured gardens that stretched endlessly on both sides. Fountains murmured along the driveway, water glinting beneath the sun.
This wasn't a home.
It was a fortress.
Guards opened my door the moment the car stopped. I stepped out, suddenly aware of how small I was against something built to intimidate.
Inside, cool air brushed my skin. Marble floors gleamed beneath crystal chandeliers. Staff lined the hall—maids, butlers, security—bowing politely.
Professional faces. Curious eyes.
I heard the whispers anyway.
"That's her…" "Mr. Ethan's wife?" "Not for love…" "A business deal."
So everyone knew.
A young maid approached, forcing a careful smile. "This way, Madam."
Madam.
The word felt foreign—heavy.
She led me through endless corridors until we reached an enormous bedroom. She gestured inside. "This is Mr. Crowe's room."
I hesitated. "His?"
She nodded politely. "Mr. Crowe didn't specify where you would be staying. Since you are his wife, we assumed—"
"It's fine," I said quietly.
I was too tired to fight another battle.
The maids moved quickly. My clothes were unpacked. Dresses hung. Shoes aligned. Everything was handled with respectful efficiency.
I stood there watching, detached.
Nothing about this felt real.
The room was pristine—dark wood floors, cold shades of black and gray. Minimal. Controlled. Untouched.
Not a bedroom.
A command center.
I sat on the edge of the bed just to rest.
Just for a moment.
The door opened.
Footsteps stopped short.
"Why is she here?"
I jolted awake.
Ethan Crowe stood rigid in the doorway, storm-gray eyes fixed on me—on his bed. His expression hardened instantly.
The maids froze.
"Sir," one said carefully, "you hadn't specified Madam's room."
"That means you don't decide for me," he snapped. "Pack her things. You're dismissed."
The words landed like a slap.
"No."
It slipped out before I could stop it.
Ethan's gaze snapped to me. "What did you say?"
"They didn't do anything wrong," I said, standing despite the tremor in my knees. "They explained it to me. I chose this room."
Silence.
His jaw tightened. "You don't interfere in my household decisions."
"They don't deserve to lose their jobs because of me," I said, forcing steadiness. "If you're angry, be angry at me."
For a moment, he just stared—as if recalculating something he hadn't planned for.
Then, without looking at them, he said, "Leave. All of you."
The maids didn't hesitate.
The door closed.
Only then did he face me fully.
"Do not misunderstand this marriage," he said coldly. "It's an arrangement. Nothing more. Don't expect kindness. Don't expect intimacy. And don't expect my bed to be yours."
"I won't," I said softly.
But my chest still tightened.
This wasn't just a marriage without love.
It was a battlefield.
And I had just stepped onto it.