Morning didn't come gently. It didn't even knock.
It kicked the door open.
The curtains in my suite shredded apart at the push of a remote control, flooding the room with brutal, white daylight. I groaned and buried my face into the pillows, but it was pointless. the light was everywhere.
And so was the smell of fresh coffee.
"You have ten minutes."
The voice was sharp, low, and unmistakable.
Adrian.
I pushed myself up on my elbows. He stood near the window, a silhouette carved from steel and patience that was already thinning. The sun caught the edges of his black shirt, the material stretched across his shoulders like it resented the job.
Ten minutes.
"For what?" My voice was raspy, sleep-heavy.
"For your first lesson." He tilted his head slightly. "We start today."
I didn't bother asking what the lesson was. It didn't matter. Nothing he said would make sense until he wanted it to.
Adrian glanced at his watch. "Nine minutes."
My jaw clenched. "You could've knocked."
"I did," he said flatly. "Twice."
I had no response.
I scrambled out of bed, suddenly hyper-aware of the fact that I was wearing nothing but a camisole and shorts. I reached for my robe instantly, wrapping it around myself as I hurried toward the bathroom. I expected him to leave. any normal man would've. But Adrian wasn't normal. He was still there when I shut the door.
In the mirror, I saw it clearly: exhaustion carved under my eyes, tension pinching my shoulders upward, the faint imprint of the ring he forced onto my finger. I stood still for a moment, staring at the version of myself who now belonged to a man I despised.
When I came out, towel-drying my hair, Adrian gave me one slow, assessing look.
"You appear human again," he said.
"Is that your way of saying 'good morning'?"
"No," he said without blinking. "It is my way of telling you to dress quickly. We're already late."
"For?"
He motioned toward a clothing rack I hadn't noticed; sleek black dresses, tailored suits, heels that looked like they'd require ankle insurance.
"Wardrobe fitting. Public image training. And a briefing."
"For what?" I repeated, sharper.
His gaze slid to me, cool and final.
"For being my wife."
The words dropped between us like a blade.
I grabbed the first dress I could reach—a black, square-neck, fitted silhouette—and changed in the bathroom. When I came out, he was waiting by the door, every line of his posture saying: hurry.
"Turn around."
"Why?"
"You missed the zipper."
A sting of embarrassment hit my chest. I hesitated. He didn't.
Adrian stepped behind me, fingers brushing the small of my back before pulling the zipper up in one smooth motion. Heat shot up my spine; annoyance, discomfort, something else I shoved down deep.
"This is not a game, Miss Hale," he murmured near my ear. "Every detail matters."
I turned to face him. "I know the stakes, Adrian."
He held my gaze for a long second, something unreadable flickering in his eyes. Then he stepped back.
"Good. Then lesson one begins now."
————
The black car was waiting downstairs, sleek, tinted, silent. His driver nodded at both of us, opening the back door. I hesitated, then slid in first. Adrian joined me, sitting close enough that his shoulder brushed mine each time the car turned.
It felt intentional.
Or maybe he was simply built to take up space.
"Where are we going?" I asked again.
He didn't look away from the tablet in his hand. "Your first obligation as my wife is public optics. The Vassari Syndicate is old money. Old power. Eyes are always on me. They will be on you now."
"Because you forced me into this circus."
His jaw flexed. "Because you agreed."
"You left me no choice."
"That is still a choice."
Anger vibrated under my skin. "You kidnapped my brother."
He shifted his gaze toward me slowly, like someone deciding whether to show mercy or truth.
"I protected your brother," he said. "From the people who want to use him against me. Against you. Against your father's debts."
The words stunned me for a moment. "Protected? He was tied up!"
"He was taken for documentation. He's not harmed. And he will stay that way, if you do what you're told."
The tightness in my throat returned. "Then where is he now?"
"Safe."
A pause.
"With someone I trust."
I hated how part of me wanted to believe him.
The car stopped.
We stepped out into a building made of glass and silver; a private Vassari property, judging by the guards positioned like statues.
Inside was a room with a long table and three people waiting: a stylist, an etiquette specialist, and a security liaison.
Lesson one: how to survive in Adrian Vassari's world.
They all stood when he entered.
"Mr. Vassari," the liaison said. "We've prepared everything."
Adrian nodded. "Begin."
I quickly learned what "begin" meant.
The etiquette specialist, Clara, spoke first. "You'll need to maintain eye contact during appearances. Light touches. Subtle cues. A believable warmth."
Warmth? Toward Adrian?
I didn't laugh, but it was close.
"When he places a hand on your back," Clara continued, "you lean slightly into his touch. When he offers his arm, you take it. And when he speaks to you in public, you look at him like he is the only person in the room."
"He's not," I muttered.
Adrian gave me a sideways glance, the corner of his mouth lifting in something dangerously close to amusement. "She'll learn."
Clara nodded. "She must. Otherwise, the press will tear both of you apart."
Next was the stylist, Luca, who circled me like a man inspecting a sculpture. "You need softer tones," he said. "Contrasting him. He's sharp, angular, cold. You, Miss Hale, will be the warmth in photographs."
Adrian's eyebrow rose. "She is warm?"
Luca shot him a look so bold even the guards blinked. "Warmer than you."
The security meeting was worse. They showed me photos of threats, men who'd tried to take down the syndicate, faces blurred, names redacted.
"If you see any of these individuals," the liaison warned, "you alert us. Immediately."
My stomach churned.
Adrian watched my reaction without blinking, as if studying every twitch, every breath.
When the last binder closed, he finally spoke.
"Lesson two begins tomorrow."
"What's tomorrow?"
He stepped closer. Too close. Close enough for the world around us to fade.
"Our first public appearance."
I swallowed. "What do I have to do?"
His fingers brushed a stray strand of hair behind my ear; soft, deliberate, claiming.
"Stay by my side," he murmured. "And pretend you don't hate me."
I slapped his hand away.
He smirked, slow, dark, knowing.
"We'll work on that," he said.
And for the first time, I realized something horrifying:
Adrian enjoyed this.
Not the power. Not the control.
Me.
And that was lesson one.
Not survival.
Not obedience.
No—
Understanding that in this marriage, hate was permission. And he planned to use every second of it.