The morning began like every other—quiet, controlled, precise.
She had forced herself to eat breakfast, dressed carefully, and reviewed the day's schedule. But she didn't notice her pulse quickening every time the door opened, every time a shadow moved across the room.
He hadn't appeared yet.
Her phone vibrated.
Him: We leave in thirty. Be ready.
Thirty minutes. Enough to panic. Enough to plan. Enough to spiral into the endless questions she refused to ask aloud:
Who is he meeting today? Why does it matter? Am I supposed to just… follow?
She swallowed the lump in her throat and forced her hands to steady.
By the time they stepped into the black car, the sun had barely risen, painting the city in soft golds and pale blues.
"You're tense again," he said, voice calm, almost amused.
"I'm not tense," she replied automatically.
"You are," he said. "Tension is visible. You can't hide it from me."
She exhaled sharply. "I don't need you noticing everything."
"You already don't like that I notice it," he said evenly. "And yet, you can't stop me."
Her jaw tightened.
The drive was silent, save for the soft hum of the tires on asphalt. She watched the city blur past, trying to distract herself, trying to forget the way he seemed to invade her mind without touching her.
When the car stopped, they were in front of a private art gallery. A gala. An exclusive, invitation-only affair where wealth and influence were displayed like trophies.
She paused at the entrance, taking a deep breath.
"This is your world," she said quietly. "Not mine."
"Exactly," he replied. "That's why you're here. You don't belong to it… yet. But you will learn quickly."
She didn't respond.
Inside, the gallery was a maze of polished floors, sparkling lights, and impeccably dressed guests. Waiters moved silently, offering champagne and hors d'oeuvres. Cameras flashed sporadically, but she felt detached, like an observer of someone else's life.
Until she saw her.
A woman with golden hair, emerald eyes, and a smile that didn't reach her eyes—leaning against him, laughing at something he said.
Her chest tightened.
Her stomach twisted.
Her fingers curled instinctively around the clutch in her hand.
He caught her gaze across the room.
"You're noticing her," he said softly.
"I… I'm not," she muttered, though her voice trembled.
"You are," he said, calm, measured. "And that's fine. Jealousy is human. But do not mistake it for weakness."
She wanted to say something sharp, something cutting, but the words stuck in her throat.
The woman approached them, still smiling.
"Ah, you must be…" she began, extending a hand.
He shook it briefly. "Yes. This is my wife."
Her heart stopped.
His wife.
The woman's smile faltered slightly. "Oh… of course. Congratulations."
She forced herself to nod politely, though her mind was screaming.
He didn't move, didn't flinch. He simply guided her subtly to the center of the room, a quiet declaration that no one would overlook.
Her pulse raced.
The evening dragged on. Every interaction, every smile from a stranger, every whispered comment about her new role, felt like a test. She was aware of him at every turn. His gaze, his subtle touches—brief, controlled—kept her tethered in a way that left her both frustrated and longing.
And then came the moment.
A young, confident man approached him, clearly attempting charm. She didn't know the man, but the way he leaned in, laughed a little too closely, brushed his hand near his shoulder, set her nerves on fire.
Her chest tightened.
He noticed. Of course he noticed.
"Stay calm," he murmured, leaning slightly toward her, his presence a physical tether.
"I am calm," she hissed.
"You are not," he said softly.
Her teeth clenched. "I don't need your commentary."
"Then don't need it," he replied, voice low, teasing—but with an edge that warned against defiance.
The man lingered too long. Too close. She felt her hands clench, her nails digging into her palms.
His gaze darkened. Not threatening. Not angry. Controlled.
But ominous.
He leaned closer to her ear. "Do you want me to intervene?"
Her breath hitched. "No," she whispered, though her stomach was twisting.
He smiled faintly. "Good. Because I want to see how far you can stand on your own."
Hours passed. Conversations, photographs, champagne, laughter—it all blended into a blur of noise and color. Yet throughout it, every thought she had circled him. Every glance. Every subtle touch. Every soft word.
She hated that she noticed them. Hated that she craved them.
Finally, when the gala began to wind down, he guided her to the terrace overlooking the city.
"Why here?" she asked, voice tight.
"To see clearly," he said simply. "The city. The world. And how small everything else feels compared to what matters."
She stared at him. "And what matters?"
His gaze swept over her. "You. This. Us."
Her chest tightened.
"This… us?" she repeated, voice barely audible.
"Yes," he said. "You are mine to protect, to guide… to challenge. And you, whether you like it or not, are learning how to accept it."
She shook her head, trying to breathe past the surge of heat in her veins.
"I don't belong to anyone," she said, voice trembling.
"Not yet," he corrected softly. "But you will. And it will be… complicated."
Her stomach lurched. "Complicated isn't enough," she whispered.
"I never said it would be easy," he said, voice low, almost intimate.
The wind whipped around them, carrying the distant city sounds like faint echoes. They stood in silence for long minutes, neither moving, neither speaking. Every heartbeat, every breath, every glance between them thickened the air.
Then he leaned slightly forward, close enough that her hair brushed his arm.
"Do you feel it?" he asked softly.
She swallowed hard. "Feel what?"
"The pull," he said. "The tension. The chaos. The… sparks."
Her chest tightened painfully. "I don't—"
"You do," he interrupted, calm, certain. "You can fight it, deny it, hide from it… but it exists."
She looked away, unable to meet his gaze. Heat pooled in her chest, spreading to her fingers, her toes, her stomach.
"Good," he said softly, almost a whisper. "Because you will need it. Every ounce of it. If we're going to survive this… marriage, you'll need to feel it. And not just for yourself."
She didn't speak. She couldn't.
Because she already knew the truth.
The sparks weren't going away.
And neither was he.