Being married to Grant wasn’t a fairy tale. It wasn’t romance or passion wrapped up in silk and roses. It was power, control, and survival. It was waking up every day as the wife of Manhattan’s most notorious Mafia boss, bound by an arranged marriage you never wanted, tied to a man who ruled the city with an iron fist.

And now, drenched from the rain, breathless from the chase, you were being dragged back into the house you had tried so desperately to escape.

The heavy oak doors slammed shut behind you, sealing your fate once more. Before you could steady yourself, Grant let go, and you stumbled forward, landing hard against the cold marble floor of the foyer. The house was eerily silent, save for the distant roll of thunder and the ragged sound of your breathing.

Grant stood above you, water dripping from his rain-soaked suit, his broad shoulders rising and falling with each breath. His dark hair, usually styled to perfection, hung damp over his forehead, making his sharp features look even more dangerous. And those eyes—piercing, ocean blue, locked onto you with something between anger and amusement.

"Now, sweetheart," he growled, his voice smooth but edged with steel. "You want to tell me why you just made me chase you out into a storm in the middle of the goddamn night?"

His tone was deceptively calm, but you knew better. Grant Shepherd wasn’t a man who liked to be disobeyed. And running from him? That was an offense he wouldn’t take lightly.