The pen clicked shut like a gunshot in my skull.
Adrian Vale folded the contract, his sharp fingers brushing mine for a fraction of a second—long enough to send a jolt through me. He looked down at me, his expression cold, unreadable, as if he were inspecting an acquisition instead of a person.
"Good," he said, voice calm, dangerous. "Your mother will be in surgery within the hour."
Relief hit me so hard I almost collapsed, but the sight of him, standing so close, made my chest tighten in a different way.
"Who… are you?" My voice trembled despite my best attempt at steadiness.
Adrian's eyes darkened, sharp and calculating. He leaned in slightly, just enough that I could feel the heat of his body through the crisp fabric of his suit.
"Adrian Vale," he replied. "And starting today, you belong to me."
My stomach flipped. "That's… not what the contract says."
He smiled—a slow, cold, dangerous curve of his lips. "Read the fine print again," he said.
I did. Clause 7: The parties agree to present themselves as a married couple at all times when required by Mr. Vale.
At all times.
I looked up at him, panic creeping in. "This is fake. Just… on paper."
His thumb lifted my chin, tilting my head up toward him, not gentle, not rough—possessive. "Nothing about this will feel fake," he murmured. "You will live with me. Wear my ring. Answer when I call."
I swallowed hard. "And if I refuse?"
He straightened, his black suit impeccably tailored, his hands calm and steady. "Then the money disappears. So does the surgery. And so does your mother."
Silence swallowed me.
He handed me a small velvet box. Inside was a ring—black, heavy, cold. My fingers trembled as I slid it onto my hand.
"That's my good wife," he said.
Then he turned and walked away.
I stayed frozen, heart hammering. I had just sold my freedom.
And… some terrifying part of me, buried deep, couldn't stop the flutter of curiosity—the dark, forbidden kind that whispered, I wonder what it's like to be under him.
By the time we arrived at his home, the city lights had blurred into streaks through the car window.
The house—or rather, the fortress he called a home—rose before us, black stone and glass towering above, like a citadel built to hold secrets.
"This is insane," I muttered, but Adrian didn't answer. He only gave a small, almost amused smile, the kind that made me aware I was nothing but prey under a predator's gaze.
Inside, the air smelled of leather, polished wood, and control. Every surface was sharp, every shadow deliberate.
A woman in a perfectly tailored suit appeared as if summoned. "Welcome home, Mrs. Vale," she said, voice crisp, eyes trained like a soldier.
"Guest room," Adrian said softly. His eyes lingered on me longer than necessary. "Tonight."
I frowned. "Guest room? This isn't temporary—this is my life now."
"You'll get used to it," he said. The words weren't kind; they were a warning.
He stepped closer, again too close, and the heat of him pressed into me, the scent of him invading my senses.
"Rule one," he said quietly, lifting a hand but stopping short of touching me, "you do not leave this house without me."
"Rule two?" I spat, trying to keep my voice sharp despite my trembling hands.
"You do not embarrass me. Smile when I tell you. Speak when I allow it."
"And rule three? I stop being human?"
A flicker of something dark passed across his face.
"You stop pretending you have choices," he said softly.
His gaze lingered, almost painfully, then he stepped back. "Dinner is at eight. Wear something appropriate."
"For my fake husband?" I challenged.
"For my wife," he corrected calmly.
I stood in the mirror, staring at the woman staring back at me. Black dress, sleek hair, posture straight. Wife. The word made my skin crawl and my pulse race all at once.
When he arrived to escort me to dinner, he said nothing. The tension between us was a living thing, electric and suffocating. His hand brushed mine—not a greeting, but a reminder. His control. His claim.
Inside the restaurant, lights shimmered against the glass, music soft but all-consuming. Every table felt like it was watching us. I could feel his gaze burning across my back, warning anyone who dared to look too long.
"Vale," a man said, approaching with a smirk. "Didn't know you were married."
Adrian's hand tightened on my waist, pulling me closer until my body pressed against his. "Recently," he replied smoothly. "She's not fond of sharing."
The man's smirk faltered, his eyes flicking to me again. Before he could speak, Adrian's thumb traced a line along my spine, a subtle but terrifying gesture of ownership.
"She's mine," he said softly, low enough that only the man and I could hear.
The man nodded stiffly and retreated.
I looked up at Adrian, a mix of fury and fear swirling inside. "You didn't have to do that."
"Yes, I did," he said, his voice calm, deadly. "Now they know."
I swallowed. "Know what?"
"That touching you is dangerous," he said, gaze dropping to my lips for a brief moment before returning to his cold calm.
The rest of the evening passed in a blur of whispered conversations, clinking glasses, and my pulse thrumming with tension. Adrian's hand never left my waist, his eyes never leaving me, reminding me, silently, of who owned whom.
Back in the car, I snapped. "You don't own me."
He leaned in, trapping me between him and the door. "I paid for you," he said, voice low and dangerous. "Saved your mother. Signed your name. And you—" He leaned closer, just inches from my lips—"liked it. The way they looked at you. The way I touched you."
"I… that's not true," I whispered.
His thumb brushed my jaw, then my lip, lightly, almost teasing.
"Lie again," he murmured, voice dark, "and I'll show you what true ownership feels like."
He pulled back, opened the car door, and stepped out. "Inside," he said. "Before I forget myself."
I stayed frozen, heart hammering. Because the truth was terrifying—and undeniable.
Somewhere deep inside, I wanted him to.