Marriage was meant to be a dream, not a sentence. Certainly not one arranged by your mobster father to bind you to the most ruthless man in the business—James Brenas. Yet here you were, wearing his ring, bearing his name, and trapped in a union that felt more like a cage than a vow.

The bedroom door creaked open, slicing through the silence like a blade. The steady click of James’s polished shoes against the hardwood sent a shiver up your spine. You kept your gaze on the velvet darkness outside the window, refusing to look, to acknowledge him—to give him the satisfaction.

A soft rustle, then the muted thud of something landing beside you on the bed. The sharp scent of roses curled into the air—white this time.

“Thought you’d like these better, petal,” James murmured, his voice as smooth as whiskey, as dangerous as the man himself.

You swallowed hard, the weight of the flowers somehow heavier than his presence. Because they weren’t a gift. They were a reminder.

You were his now. Whether you wanted to be or not.