"Recruit X, we are approaching the target."
Her eyes were on the computer screen, her hands on the keyboard.
But her eyes?
They were half-closed—as if she was meditating... no, feeling something deeper. Like she was inside the walls, crawling through shadows with them.
Suddenly, her body shook. She jolted out of her chair. The screen flickered, and in the dim security feed, blurry dark figures tip-toed under the surveillance cameras. But then—a shadow.
A flicker across the wall.
Predator instincts kicked in. Her back straightened. Her breath slowed. Danger was foreplay.
"Recruit 44, copy that—a guard is approaching Recruit 25," she said, eyes snapping to the door.
She could feel it. Like the ghost of a breath on her neck. There would soon be a knock.
On the other side of the line, there was a CRACK—then a scream, raw and guttural.
A thud.
The sound of a body giving up.
And she smiled.
Not one of joy. But that sly, slow curl of a woman who just tasted power on her tongue.
"Taken off, Recruit X."
Her grin widened. A wicked kind of glee—one no one was allowed to see. One that hinted at pleasure in pain.
"Excellent job, Recruit 44! We will reconnect exactly after two hours."
She took her earpiece off and closed the laptop, just as the door creaked open.
"Pack your bags, Tracy," said her father without warning. "We will be going to court. Wear something white, like a dress or a gown—there will be a photo shoot."
Her stomach clenched.
White?
Photo shoot?
That wasn't fashion.
That was a signal.
And in this house, celebration only ever came with punishment.
Tracy nodded, obedient as always, masking every instinct screaming inside her.
She opened her closet.
"This one?" she asked, holding up a dress like a weapon she knew too well.
"No," her father snapped. "It doesn't look like the wedding type."
Wedding?
Her breath hitched. Her eyes flickered.
What wedding?
But she didn't dare ask. She had enough scars to remember what happened when she asked.
---
Rupert's eyes opened. A naked woman lay beside him, twisted in sheets like a forgotten sin. He shifted away.
She didn't even stir. Like she was sedated. Or boring. Or both.
Too lusty. Too stupid. Too stubborn.
But the problem was… he didn't hate it. He didn't like it either.
He just existed through it.
Then his phone rang.
He answered without looking. "Dad?"
"Don't 'daddy' me, Rupert!" his father shrieked. "Get down to the estate. We gotta talk."
Rolling his eyes, Rupert grabbed his coat and shirt, left the woman in bed like a used excuse, and slammed the door behind him.
Half an hour later, he stood in the grand living room—polished floors, overpriced chandeliers—and his father sat on the couch, sipping tea like this was a brunch chat.
"Son, I've made an important decision," his father announced.
Rupert didn't care. Not until the next words slapped the breath out of him.
"You're getting married."
Rupert blinked. "I'm getting what?"
He laughed. Laughed like it was a joke. But the buzzing in his ears told him otherwise.
"Yes. You are getting married," said Daniel Johnson with a sickening calm. "I've set the bride and all the papers. You'll finally learn how to take care of a family."
Rupert stood, anger spiking like flames up his spine. "You can't do this to me! I'm not marrying some random girl!"
"If you don't, I'll confiscate your cards and accounts. Everything."
With that, his father walked off, muttering under his breath, leaving Rupert alone in a room full of luxury and zero control.
"Who the hell is that girl?" he muttered.
Probably another gold-digger with a designer bag and zero brain cells.
The courtroom wasn't silent.
It was charged—like the final breath before a bomb goes off.
Tracy sat stiffly in her seat, hands folded on her lap. Knuckles pale. Her white dress itched. Her shoes were a size too big. None of it was hers.
She wasn't allowed to own anything.
Then she felt it.
Eyes. Cold. Calculating. Peeling her apart like layers of a secret.
She didn't dare look up.
But she felt it—the same sharp, humiliating attention she'd felt during those auctions.
That gaze that measured her like meat.
Across the aisle, Rupert Johnson sat like he was carved from marble. Jet-black suit. Jaw tight. His fingers drummed his thigh. And those eyes?
Locked on her.
Not her face.
Not her dress.
Her stillness.
Her silence.
The way she didn't fight back.
He hated that about her. Hated how interesting it made her.
"Stand," the clerk barked. Tracy rose, slow, smooth, like she was walking into a lion's mouth in heels.
Rupert's eyes were nightfall. Dangerous. Quiet.
Hers weren't empty. Not quite.
There was a flicker—something hiding beneath.
He noticed.
He leaned forward slightly.
"You may now sign the papers," said the judge.
Rupert moved first. Grabbed the pen like a dagger and signed with one swift stroke, slicing through the moment.
Tracy followed.
No hesitation. No trembling.
She just signed.
And when she turned, handing him the pen, their fingers brushed.
Her skin? Ice.
His? Fire.
Neither flinched.
But both felt it.
"Do you, Rupert Johnson, take Tracy—?"
"Yes."
So quick. So sharp. Like he wanted it done. But that look? Oh, that look was anything but emotionless.
"And do you, Tracy Hawkins, take Rupert Johnson as your husband?"
She breathed in.
"I do," she said.
Soft. Controlled. A whisper wrapped in wire.
No flutter. No smile.
But her lips? They twitched.
A smirk?
A crack in the mask?
A threat?
He leaned in, like he wanted to whisper something filthy in her ear. But he didn't.
He just let the silence speak for them.
And just like that, the clerk declared them married.
The room erupted. Cameras flashed. A thousand pictures snapped. But between the two of them—
Static.
His grip on her hand was too tight.
Her palm didn't flinch.
And somewhere in that courthouse… a war had just begun.
A war they both secretly wanted to lose.