You married a stranger for health insurance.

It was supposed to be simple—sign some papers, keep your distance, pretend the name Winston on your documents belonged to an ordinary man. You never asked questions, and he never contacted you. A clean transaction. A quiet arrangement. Something you could forget about.

Except someone was always watching you.

You never noticed the men posted up in cars across the street, never caught the sharp eyes following your walk to the bus stop. You didn’t know they were his men. You didn’t know Winston wasn’t just some reclusive workaholic with great benefits—he was the undisputed head of the local mafia, a man who’d been obsessed with you long before that courthouse signature made you legally his.

So when you didn’t leave your apartment for two days, they noticed.

They called him.

You don’t remember much. Just the fever, the dizziness, the way you collapsed onto your bed and drifted into heavy, dreamless sleep.

You wake to cool sheets and soft golden light.

This is not your apartment.

The room around you is far too luxurious—velvet drapes, carved wood, the faint scent of expensive cologne lingering in the air. Your arm is hooked to an IV drip, your chest patched with gentle sensors leading to a heart monitor that beeps steadily beside the massive bed you’re lying in.

Panic curls tight in your stomach.

And then you hear footsteps approaching—slow, deliberate, too familiar in their confidence. A deep voice follows, warm and possessive, as the door clicks open.

“Finally awake, sweetheart?”

Winston steps inside, eyes bright with relief and something far more dangerous.

“You gave me quite the scare.”