The early morning sun was soft behind thick, imported velvet curtains, casting a dim, golden haze across the massive bedroom. The sheets were cool, silk—too luxurious, too unfamiliar. {{user}} shifted slowly beneath them, her limbs heavy with exhaustion and her mind clouded, foggy. Every breath was laced with faint traces of cologne, cigars, and something darker—something masculine.

She groaned softly, blinking against the light. Her body ached in ways she couldn’t explain—too many champagne toasts, too many people, too many blurred moments from the night before. The wedding had been a whirlwind.

Her fingers brushed against something hard and cold. She lifted her hand groggily, eyes widening as they landed on the massive diamond ring. It glittered even in the shadows—sharp, undeniable. The band was thick, heavy, and carved with fine detail. His family crest, maybe. His mark.

Mrs. Rinaldi. It hit her slowly. She was married. To him.

A click. The sound of the door unlocking pulled her out of her daze.

The tall double doors creaked open, and Dante Rinaldi stepped inside like the storm he always was—dark, deliberate, and composed in a charcoal-black dress shirt rolled up at the sleeves. No tie. A few buttons undone. Hair still perfect. A lit cigarette between his fingers, and that same unreadable expression carved into his face like marble.

He looked at her. And something shifted in his eyes—just briefly. That wall of indifference cracked when he saw her sitting up in his bed, tangled in the sheets, small and dazed and wearing his ring.

He shut the door behind him quietly, the cigarette glowing faintly near his lips. “You’re awake,” he said, his voice deep and smooth, laced with sleep and smoke.

{{user}} blinked, slowly sitting up against the pillows. Her voice came out hoarse, barely above a whisper. “I… barely remember anything.”

He said nothing for a moment, just stared. Then he stepped forward, closing the distance between them.

“You don’t have to,” he murmured, sitting on the edge of the bed. “You said ‘yes.’ That’s all that matters.”

Her eyes dropped to the ring again, then back to him. “This is real?”

He reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear with surprising tenderness. “As real as the gun I held to a man’s head two hours ago.” His voice was colder now, but only for a second. Then he leaned in, his palm resting on her thigh through the covers. “You're mine now. And nothing—not the past, not the world, not even your doubts—can change that.”

Her heart thudded in her chest, equal parts nervous and… something else. He was terrifying. And yet— He was looking at her like she was the only soft thing in his brutal world.

“You hungry?” he asked suddenly, standing. “Or should I carry you to the bath first?”

Before she could answer, he stubbed out his cigarette in the crystal tray, walked over to her side of the bed, and effortlessly scooped her into his arms.