"You are my wife now. I don't like my woman calling another man's name."
Finnick said it calmly, almost lazily. His tone was smooth and indifferent, but the weight behind it pressed down on my chest like a stone.
His dark eyes looked steady, unreadable. There was no shouting, no visible anger. But I felt it. That quiet dominance. That silent claim.
He finished applying the ointment on my chin, his fingers cool and careful. I lowered my gaze and muttered, "Thank you."
"You're welcome." He placed the ointment back on the bedside table with slow precision. Then he added, "I don't like it when someone else leaves a mark on you."
My body stiffened.
The words were simple, yet they carried something territorial. Something instinctive. As if he could sense exactly what had happened without me explaining a single detail.
A faint chill ran through me despite the fever.
"Okay," I whispered, my palms damp with sweat. I didn't know why I felt nervous under his gaze. Maybe it was because I realized he was far more controlling, far more possessive, than I had first thought.
"Rest," he said. He turned his wheelchair toward the door. "I'll sleep in the guest room tonight."
Before I could respond, he left.
The room fell silent again. I lay back against the soft mattress, staring at the ceiling. I wasn't sleepy at all. My body was tired, but my mind wouldn't rest.
The next morning, after another IV drip, my fever eased. I felt stronger, steady enough to return to work. When I stood up to pack my bag, I froze.
My old bag was gone.
In its place sat a brand-new one. Black. Elegant. The logo unmistakable.
"Molly," I called when she came in to tidy the room. "Where's my bag?"
"Ma'am, it was soaked in the rain yesterday. Mr. Norton had someone replace it."
I stared at the Chanel bag on the table.
It was worth more than months of my salary. I would never have bought something like that for myself. My old bag was simple, practical. Now it was gone.
Without much choice, I picked up the new one.
Downstairs, after breakfast, I was about to call a cab when Finnick spoke from behind me.
"I'll send you to the office. You're not fully recovered."
"It's okay," I said quickly. "I can manage—"
But he had already turned his chair and headed toward the door, clearly not waiting for my agreement.
I followed him quietly.
Thankfully, we arrived early. There weren't many people at the office building yet. When the black Bentley stopped, I opened the door quickly.
"Thank you," I said before stepping out.
I didn't look back.
But I could feel his gaze on me as I walked away.
Inside the building, I caught the elevator just before the doors closed. The moment I stepped in, my heart sank.
Fabian was inside.
"Excuse me." I instinctively stepped back, wanting to leave. But he pressed the close button before I could move.
"Why are you avoiding me?" he asked with a cold smirk. "We're in the same department. Do you really think you can avoid me forever?"
I bit my lip and stayed silent.
Up close, I could tell he noticed how pale I looked. I tried to suppress a cough, but it slipped out anyway.
His expression shifted for a second. Something softer flickered in his eyes.
Damn it.
Even after everything, he still reacted to me.
"Caught a cold?" he asked flatly.
"Yes."
That was all I said. The doors opened, and I walked out immediately.
Behind me, I felt his gaze linger.
Later that morning, Fabian stood outside his office holding a box of cold medicine. He had asked his secretary to buy it. He stared at it for a long moment, then clenched his jaw.
As he walked past the pantry, he overheard the gossip.
"Did you see Vivian this morning? She came in a black Bentley!"
"Really? That means her husband must be rich!"
"Are you serious? That ring she wears isn't even impressive. I bet that wasn't her husband's car."
"And her bag! It's Chanel. She used to carry cheap online bags. Someone definitely bought it for her."
Fabian's hand tightened around the medicine box.
Without another thought, he crushed it and threw it into the trash.
Back at my desk, my phone rang.
When I saw the number, my expression turned cold.
I stepped into the corridor before answering. "Why are you calling?"
"Vivian, what's with that tone?" my father's voice came through.
"Nothing. Just tell me what you want."
"Your sister is getting married soon. Come home tomorrow night. Meet your future brother-in-law."
"Home?" I let out a short laugh. "Dad, that isn't my home."
"Watch how you speak to me!" he snapped. "Your sister isn't marrying just anyone. She's marrying the grandson of the Norton family. She wants the whole family present. You're coming."
The line went dead.
I stared at my phone, my thoughts spinning.
Ashley is marrying someone from the Norton family?
A cold feeling crept into my chest.
No wonder she wants me there. She would never miss a chance to show off.
I knew my father. If I refused, he would make a scene. It would only get worse.
It's just a meal.
I'll go.
But as I stood there in the quiet corridor, a strange unease settled in my chest. The Norton family.
My mate's family.
And somehow, I had the feeling this dinner would not be simple at al