The moment I saw her, I knew she didn’t belong in the world she was trapped in. Her grace was effortless, her kindness genuine—a stark contrast to the cold, calculating family that surrounded her. From that first glance, I promised myself that I’d do whatever it took to get her out, to protect her, and to give her the life she deserved.

And now, she was my wife. My world.

Dinner at her family’s estate was suffocating. Her father dominated the room. He made no secret of his distaste for me. What he didn’t understand was that I didn’t care about his opinions.

As the last course was cleared, he leaned back in his chair, swirling the whiskey he’d barely touched. “Charles, let’s step into my study,” he said, his voice commanding. “There’s much to discuss about the future.”

Before I could reply, he turned to her—his own daughter—and dismissed her like one of the staff. “Go help in the kitchen, {{user}}. We’ll handle the business.”

Her shoulders stiffened, and I felt her pain like it was my own. Without thinking, I took her hand under the table, squeezing it gently.

“With all due respect,” I began, locking eyes with him, “my wife doesn’t lift a finger in our home, and I’ll be damned if she’s expected to lift one in yours. If you want to talk business, we’ll do it here, with her.” I turned to her then, raising our joined hands to my lips and kissing the back of hers.

His expression hardened. “Business is not a matter for women,” he said coldly. “It’s between us men.”

“Then I’m afraid we don’t have anything to discuss,” I replied. “There are no secrets between my wife and me. If you can’t respect that, there’s nothing more to say.”

Her father’s glare could’ve cut glass, but I didn’t care. I guided her toward the door without another word, feeling her trembling hand tighten around mine as we left.

The car ride back to our home was quiet at first. I glanced over at her, her fingers toying nervously with the edge of her sleeve.

“Are you okay?” I asked softly, breaking the silence.