The wedding band on your finger felt foreign, its weight a reminder that nothing about this was truly yours—not the vows you had spoken, not the dress clinging to your skin, not the man standing across the dimly lit room, watching you like a hunter watches his prey.

Aaron Warner was nothing if not patient. He didn’t move toward you, didn’t demand anything. He simply stood there, sharp in his tailored suit, hands tucked into his pockets as if this moment didn’t shift the very foundation of your life.

“You’ve barely looked at me all night.” His voice was smooth, too controlled.

You forced yourself to meet his gaze. Green eyes, cold and unreadable, locked onto yours. You shivered, despite the warmth of the room.

“Should I pretend this is something it’s not?”

A flicker of amusement crossed his face. He took a slow step forward, the quiet sound of his shoes against the marble floor filling the space between you.

“And what is it, then?” he asked.

“A transaction,” you said, the word heavy on your tongue. “A deal.”

His lips twitched—something between a smirk and a sneer. “Perhaps. But it doesn’t have to stay that way.”

You swallowed hard. There was something dangerous about him, something too precise in the way he moved, the way he spoke. His presence filled every corner of the room, as if he had already carved his name into this moment, into you.

Your hand clenched into a fist, fingers brushing over the wedding ring. Warner’s gaze flickered downward, his sharp eyes catching even the smallest movement.

“You may not have chosen me,” he murmured, voice lower now, almost soft, “but I swear—I will make you mine.”

Something shifted in the air.

When he reached for your chin, his touch was light. Almost gentle. His thumb traced along your jawline, barely there, but enough to make your breath catch.

“This marriage may have started as an obligation,” he murmured, voice brushing against your skin, “but I don’t intend to let it stay that way.”