The clock on the mantel ticked with a rhythmic, mechanical cruelty, marking every second of the three years Seraphina had spent as a ghost in the Sterling manor. It was their wedding anniversary—a day the press celebrated as a union of gods, but which Seraphina experienced as the anniversary of her incarceration. She sat on the edge of the velvet sofa, her skin pale against the dark fabric, clutching a white folder. Within its pages was the only gift she wanted: an end.
When the heavy oak doors finally groaned open at 2:00 AM, the scent of cold rain, expensive tobacco, and a trace of another woman's perfume preceded him. Silas Sterling entered the room like a localized storm. He was disheveled, his tie loosened, his dark hair falling over his eyes in a way that should have looked vulnerable but only enhanced his predatory aura.
"You're still up," he noted, his voice a low, gravelly vibration that sent a jolt of primal fear—and an unwanted spark of electricity—through her veins. He didn't look at her as he tossed his jacket onto a chair. "Pour me a drink. The Grayson merger is a bloodbath."
"I didn't stay up to be your maid, Silas," Seraphina said, her voice surprisingly steady. She stood and placed the folder on the mahogany coffee table. "I stayed up to give you this. I've already signed the papers. I want nothing from the Sterling estate. No alimony, no property, no shares. I just want my freedom."
Silas froze mid-motion, his hand hovering over the crystal decanter. The silence that followed was pressurized, heavy enough to make her ears pop. He turned slowly, his gaze dropping to the bold, black letters on the folder: DIVORCE AGREEMENT.
A dark, melodic laugh escaped his throat—a sound devoid of humor. He walked toward her, his footsteps silent on the plush carpet, narrowing the distance until Seraphina was forced back against the cushions. He picked up the papers with a deliberate, agonizing slowness.
Rip.
The sound of high-quality vellum shredding was deafening in the quiet room. Silas didn't stop until the documents were a pile of jagged white confetti at his feet.
"Freedom?" he whispered, leaning down until his lips almost brushed her ear. He gripped her chin, his thumb pressing into her jaw with a force that promised bruises by morning. "You were bought and paid for, Seraphina. When your father was on the verge of bankruptcy, I didn't just buy his company—I bought his most valuable asset. You. You don't get to resign from being my wife any more than a shadow gets to leave its owner."
"I am not a commodity!" she cried, her eyes flashing with a defiance he hadn't seen in years.
"Tonight, you are," he growled.
He lunged. Before she could scream, his hands were on her, his fingers tangling in her hair as he forced her head back. His mouth crashed onto hers—not with passion, but with a brutal, territorial hunger. This was a reclamation. Every touch was designed to remind her that her body was a territory he had conquered long ago.
He pinned her to the sofa, his weight crushing the breath from her lungs. "You moaned my name like a prayer for three years, Seraphina. Don't act like a virgin now just because you've found a spine. If you're so desperate to leave, remind me why I should let such a useful toy go."
The struggle was brief and futile. Silas was a man who moved mountains in the business world; a hundred-pound woman was nothing to him. When it was over, he stood up, adjusting his cuffs with the same clinical indifference he used after a boardroom execution.
"Clean this up," he commanded, gesturing to the shredded papers, and walked away without a second glance.
The humiliation didn't end with the sunrise. By mid-morning, Seraphina's phone was a buzzing hive of malice.
"Have you lost your mind?" Her mother's voice shrieked through the speaker before Seraphina could even say hello. "Silas's secretary just called to 'review' our credit line. If you divorce him, your brother's medical bills won't be paid, and your father will be in a cell by Friday! You go back to that house, you get on your knees, and you do whatever it takes to make that man happy. You are a Sterling, Seraphina. Act like it."
Seraphina stared at the dead screen, the crushing weight of her reality finally snapping something deep inside her. She wasn't a wife. She wasn't a daughter. She was the collateral for a debt that would never be paid.
She spent the afternoon in the library, trying to find a loophole in her existence. When the door opened, she expected a servant. Instead, it was Silas. He was watching her from the shadows of the hallway, his eyes unreadable.
He walked toward her, his gaze tracking the way her dress clung to the curves of her body—a body he had claimed just hours ago with such violence. He found himself irritated by her silence. He wanted her to scream, to beg, to do anything other than sit there like a dying swan.
"My mother called," she said softly, not looking up. "You've already tightened the leash."
"I told you, Seraphina. You're mine," he said, stepping into the light. He reached out, his fingers grazing the skin of her neck where a faint red mark from his teeth was still visible. He felt a sudden, sharp jolt of desire that made his blood boil. He hated her for wanting to leave, but he hated himself more for the realization that the thought of her belonging to anyone else felt like a physical mutilation.
He leaned down, his hand sliding into the hair at the nape of her neck, pulling her close until he could smell the jasmine on her skin. "I'm going to the club. When I get back, I want you in my room. Wearing the lace I bought you in Paris. If you're going to be a prisoner, you might as well look the part."
"I hate you, Silas," she whispered, her eyes meeting his with a cold, hollow light.
"Good," he hissed, his pupils dilating as he felt her pulse jump under his thumb. "Hate is a much more honest emotion than the fake love you've been peddling for three years. Feed that hate, Seraphina. It'll make tonight much more interesting."
He left her then, but as he walked toward his car, Silas Sterling felt a strange, unsettling tremor in his chest. He had the power, the money, and the woman. But as he looked back at the darkened window of the library, he realized he didn't feel like a victor. He felt like a hunter who had just realized his prey was the only thing keeping him alive.
The evening gala was a nightmare of forced smiles. Silas kept her pinned to his side, his hand never leaving the small of her back—a gesture the public saw as affection, but Seraphina knew was a warning.
Among the guests was Aunt Beatrice, the matriarch of the Sterling clan, who smelled of old money and fresh bile.
"Still no heir, Seraphina?" Beatrice's voice was like a serrated blade. "Three years and your womb is as barren as the Sterling bank accounts are full. Perhaps Silas needs a wife who can actually produce a legacy."
Seraphina felt Silas's grip tighten on her waist. She waited for him to agree, to join in the sport of breaking her.
"Aunt Beatrice," Silas said, his voice dropping to a terrifying, quiet hum. "My wife's fertility is a topic for my bedroom, not your dinner table. If I hear another word about her 'value,' I will personally oversee the liquidation of your husband's trust fund. Do I make myself clear?"
Beatrice paled and scurried away. Seraphina looked up at Silas, confused. "Why did you do that?"
"Because you're mine," he said, his eyes darkening as he stared at her lips. "And nobody gets to destroy what belongs to me. Except me."
He dragged her out of the ballroom and toward the elevator, his intent clear. The hunt wasn't over. It was just beginning.