The next morning hit like a fist.
I didn't remember falling asleep, only the way exhaustion dragged me under sometime after three a.m. Even then, I slept like prey does: in shallow breaths, waking at every creak of the penthouse walls. Being in Adrian's territory felt like sharing a bed with a wolf. Even when he wasn't in the room, the air carried the imprint of him. Cold, sharp, alert.
I rolled out of bed the moment sunlight sliced through the curtains. For a second I forgot the ring on my finger. The gold band caught the light… and it all flooded back.
My brother.
The contract.
The man who owned thirty days of my life.
A soft chime sounded — a notification from a sleek black tablet left on the nightstand.
7:30 A.M.
Get dressed.
Breakfast.
Meeting at 9.
—A.V.
The way he signed messages — initials only, not a single wasted word — irritated me more than it should've.
I showered quickly, letting the hot water burn away some of the fear. I chose a simple black dress I found hanging in the closet, tags still attached. Expensive. Elegant. Exactly the kind of thing a mafia wife was supposed to look like.
As I stepped into the dining area, Adrian was already there.
Of course he was.
He stood near the window, sleeves rolled back, phone in hand, posture effortlessly commanding. Morning light flashed off his watch, the same cold metal gleam as his eyes when he looked up.
"You're late," he said.
I wasn't. Again. But I just sat down, refusing to give him the reaction he wanted.
He closed his phone and took the seat opposite me.
The silence stretched.
Adrian finally leaned back. "We're attending an event tonight. A charity gala. It'll be your first public appearance as my wife."
I stiffened. "I thought the marriage isn't until—"
He cut me off. "As far as the world knows, we're already tied. It's safer that way."
Safer for who? Certainly not me.
"You'll be introduced. Photographed. Watched." His cold gaze held mine. "And if you embarrass me, even once — even slightly — it will be the last mistake you make."
I felt the words lodge in my chest like shards.
"Do you understand?"
I hated that I whispered, "Yes."
He rose from his seat. "Good. Finish eating. Then we train."
"Train?" I echoed, confused.
He glanced over his shoulder. "You're about to step into my world. You need to learn how to survive it."
———
He took me to a private room on the lower level, a space lined with mirrors, padded floors, and racks of weapons. Cold air coiled around me as I walked inside.
"You never know when someone will try to get to me through you," he said. "So you'll learn how to handle yourself."
I blinked. "You're teaching me to fight?"
"No." He crossed the room, grabbed a small knife, and tossed it to me. I barely caught it, fumbling. "I'm teaching you to not die."
Before I could respond, he moved. His arm slid behind my back, his hand closing around the wrist holding the knife. My spine collided gently with his chest.
My breath hitched. Heat rushed up my neck.
His voice brushed my ear, low and steady. "You hold it wrong. Anyone could take it from you."
He shifted my grip easily, his fingers guiding mine with an unsettling softness.
"Better," he murmured. "Again."
For the next hour, he taught me how to stand, how to balance, how to disable an opponent quickly. I hated how good he was at this. I hated more how close he had to be to correct my posture, how every correction felt like a test I didn't want to pass.
And yet… I learned.
Because surviving mattered more than pride.
"Enough," he finally said. "We'll continue later."
I set the knife down, breath shaky.
"And tonight," he added, walking past me, "remember your place."
I glared at his back. "Which is?"
He paused at the doorway.
"Beside me," he said quietly. "Not against me."
And then he was gone.
Leaving me alone with shaking hands, a twisting stomach, and a truth I didn't want to acknowledge:
I might learn to survive him.
But I was terrified I'd also learn how to understand him.