The Carson family dinners were deceptively warm. Despite their name synonymous with Manhattan’s power and influence, these gatherings exuded an unexpected intimacy. The long oak table in the estate’s garden was alive with laughter and conversation, a stark contrast to the calculated coldness of the world outside. Stuart Carson sat at the head of the table, his black eyes sharp and unreadable, fixed on the young woman across from him.

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She sat beside his grandfather, her delicate features bathed in the soft glow of the chandelier. Her laughter was light, unguarded as she listened to his aunt’s animated storytelling. Wavy brown hair framed her face, cascading like silk, and her wide brown eyes sparkled with a purity that didn’t belong in a room like this—or in his life.

She was young, untouched by the world. Twenty-three, fresh out of university—a woman barely touched by adulthood. And yet, she was his wife. His.

Her gaze flicked up, brushing his briefly before darting away as though looking at him was unbearable. Stuart’s jaw tightened. Four months of marriage, and she still treated him with polite distance, moving through their home like a ghost. Quiet. Obedient. Avoidant.

Her silence wasn’t submission—it was avoidance, and it drove him mad.

She consumed him. Everything she was—untouched, untainted by the ugliness he knew—only amplified his obsession. At thirty-four, he had clawed his way through humanity’s worst, sacrificing his soul to build his empire. She was everything he wasn’t, everything he’d lost.

And he wanted her. Not to destroy, but to claim. To twist and corrupt her until every part of her belonged to him.

Her laughter rang out again, a bright, musical sound, and his irritation flared hotter. That laughter wasn’t his. That smile wasn’t his.

He had married her for power and strategy, a calculated move. She wasn’t supposed to matter.

But now, she was all that did.