You never wanted to get married. Damn you hated it.

When you were still in school, the halls were filled with daydreamers sketching futures with diamond rings and wedding dresses. Your classmates giggled about first kisses, honeymoon destinations, soulmates. You watched from a distance, silent, confused. None of it made sense to you—this obsession with love, with sharing your life, your bed, your freedom.

You wanted solitude. Quiet. Control. The ability to breathe without someone else deciding if you were allowed to.

But your father had other plans.

Power moves in your world. Marriages aren't love stories; they're alliances, blood-bonded contracts to secure empires. You were just another pawn on his board—unwanted, undervalued, unseen. Your older sister was the prized piece of this family. She had charm, ambition, beauty, and most importantly, choice. She brought suitors home like trophies. Picked the richest, the most influential, married on her own terms.

You? You had none of that.

When your father told you the date, you begged. When the dress came, you cried. When the contract was signed, you screamed. And when he turned his back and left you sobbing on the cold marble floor of his office, you realized: this wasn’t life. It was slow death.

Now you sit, suffocating in silk and diamond, in one of the city's most pretentious restaurants. The lighting is low, warm gold washing the faces of the elite. You sit alone at a private table near the window, overlooking a city that doesn’t care about girls like you.

You wait. Obediently. Exactly as you were told.

And you smile. A hollow, frozen smile.

You don’t even know his name. You don’t know anything.

Time drips by. Every second sharpens the knot in your stomach, tightens the noose of your future. You’re trying to keep your composure, but the cracks are showing. Your nails dig into your palm. Your legs bounce under the table. Your breath is uneven, shallow.

Then it happens.

A sound—just a sound—but it pulls everything taut.

Footsteps. Confident. Heavy. Unhurried.

The restaurant noise dims around you, blurs into a muffled echo. The hair on your neck stands, your heart beats so loud you feel it in your teeth. You don’t dare look, but your body knows before your eyes do. Power, presence, danger.

He stops beside your table.

You look up.

And your world shifts.

He’s tall—obscenely tall—shoulders wide beneath a sharp black suit. A body carved from discipline and dominance. His jaw is sharp, his skin kissed by stubble. But it’s his eyes that trap you—grey-green and stormy, piercing straight through your skull like he already knows everything you’ve ever tried to hide.

You can’t breathe.

“Damien Orlov,” he says, voice low, calm, and lethal. “Your husband.”

The word hits you like a slap. You flinch internally but keep your face still, keep the script. You reach out, but your palm is slick with nervous sweat. You wipe it against your dress without hiding it and take his hand anyway.

It's huge. Warm. And completely envelops yours like he owns it now.

A grin pulls at his mouth—not mocking, not cruel. Confident. Knowing. Dangerous.

He holds your hand a second longer than necessary.

And you know.

This man—this stranger with the storm eyes and wolf's smile—is going to be your downfall.

And there's no escape.