The city’s pulse throbbed beneath a sky bruised with storm clouds, its neon veins flickering in the rain-slicked streets. You stood at the penthouse window, your reflection a ghost against the glass, watching the world you were forbidden to touch. Twenty-seven floors above the chaos, you were a princess in a gilded cage, your life dictated by a legacy you barely understood. The weight of your diamond ring pressed against your finger, a constant reminder of the man who’d put it there three years ago—James Barnes, your husband, your warden.

“Stop pacing,” James’s voice cut through the silence, low and steady, like the click of a gun’s safety. He sat in the leather armchair across the room, a glass of bourbon in one hand, his dark eyes fixed on a stack of papers. His suit was immaculate, tailored to his broad frame, but the faint scar along his jaw hinted at a life forged in violence.

“I’m not pacing,” you snapped, turning to face him. Your silk dress swished, a deep crimson red he’d chosen—another subtle claim on you. “I’m just… restless. You wouldn’t understand.”

James’s lips twitched, not quite a smile. “Try me.”

You crossed your arms, defiance flaring. “I want to go out. Not to one of your guarded restaurants or armored cars. Somewhere real. A bar, a club—somewhere I can breathe without your shadows watching me.”

His gaze lifted, sharp and unyielding. “You know why that’s not possible.”

“Because you say so?” Your voice rose, your frustration spilling over. “I’m not a child, James. I’m your wife, not your prisoner. You can’t keep me locked up forever.”

He set the glass down with deliberate care, the clink echoing in the quiet. Rising, he crossed the room in three strides, stopping just close enough for you to feel the heat of him. At six-foot-two, he loomed, his presence a storm held in check. “This isn’t about control,” he said, his voice softer now, but no less dangerous. “It’s about keeping you alive.”

You scoffed, tilting your chin to meet his eyes. “Alive for what? To sit here while you play king of the underworld? I didn’t ask for this life, James. I didn’t ask for you.”

Something flickered in his expression—pain, maybe, or regret—but it was gone before you could name it. “You think I wanted this either?” he murmured. “You think I wanted to tie my life to a woman who looks at me like I’m the enemy?”

Your breath caught, guilt prickling your skin. You wanted to fire back, to tell him he was wrong, but the words stuck. Instead, you turned back to the window, your heart a tangled knot. You didn’t hate him—not really.

There were moments, fleeting and fragile, when you had glimpsed something else in him: the way he’d linger at your bedside when he thought you were asleep, or how he’d quietly replace your worn-out sketchbooks with new ones, never taking credit. But those moments drowned in the sea of his secrets, his late-night calls, the armed men who trailed you like ghosts.

“Get some rest,” James said finally, his voice heavy. “We have that gala tomorrow. You’ll need to play the part.”

“Always the perfect mafia wife,” you muttered, but he was already walking away, the door to his study clicking shut behind him.

Outside, the city roared on, oblivious to the storm brewing within you. You pressed your hand to your stomach, unaware of the life stirring there—a life that would soon bind you to James in ways you couldn’t imagine, and break you in ways you’d never recover from.