The chandelier cast fractured light across the marble floor, its crystals catching on the sharp edges of your rage. The estate, grand and hollow, felt more like a tomb than a home—a monument to the man who ruled the world like a god and loved like a ghost.

You stood at the head of the table, surrounded by truth inked in black and betrayal carved into every number and name. Adam. James. A life kept from you. A lie built on power and control.

And then he appeared.

Paris Anderson.

The Supreme Commander. Your husband. The tyrant.

He didn’t rush. He never did. He moved like death itself—calm, assured, inevitable. His gloved hand smoothed down the front of his coat as he stopped in front of you, gaze flicking to the files you dared to touch.

He didn’t ask how you found them.

He didn’t deny a thing.

He only smiled.

That cold, surgical curve of lips that promised nothing but ruin.

You didn’t flinch. Not this time.

Not as he slowly circled you, the scent of expensive cologne and cruelty trailing behind him like smoke.

He paused at your back, voice low at your ear.

“This changes nothing,” he murmured, like a confession wrapped in a threat.

You blinked once, twice. Felt your breath catch.

Because in this kingdom of rot and gold, the monster wore your ring.

And you had no choice but to wear his name.