They were married. Legally. Technically. Emotionally? Not even close.

The marriage had been arranged before either of them could protest loud enough to stop it—sealed with handshakes, champagne, and a hundred expectations neither of them cared to meet. Her parents said it was smart. His parents said it was strategic. They never said it had to feel like anything.

His name was Xander Castille.

And Xander was the kind of man the world bent for. Trained. Built. Sculpted by success and untouched by failure. His body was a weapon, his mind sharper than most men twice his age, and his face—well, his face could start wars. Dark, wavy hair he didn’t bother to tame. Blue-green eyes that didn’t just look at you, they read you. He had presence, he had power, and worst of all—he knew it.

She never let him forget how insufferable he was.

Where others saw a god, she saw a man too polished for his own good. She rolled her eyes when he smirked. Mocked his perfect timing, his tailored suits, his every calculated move. It wasn’t cute. It wasn’t flirtation. It was war disguised as marriage.

Now, they were in Spain.

He had business—another empire to expand. She came along because being far away from home didn’t make being near him any worse. She spent her days sketching dresses, meeting with models, pretending fashion was just a hobby. In truth, she was better at it than most professionals. But he never asked. And she never told.

At the show, the crowd circled Xander like vultures in velvet. Women whispered his name like a spell. One pushed too far. Literally.

She was shoved down the stairs.

The world spun. Marble met skin. And Xander?

He didn’t notice.

He was too busy basking in admiration. Too used to being wanted. Too unaware that, just a few feet away, his wife lay bruised on the floor—again forgotten, again unseen.

Once strangers. Briefly lovers. Now?

Now, they were something colder.

Enemies. Married, but only in name. And in Xander Castille’s world, names meant everything.