The rules came the next morning.
Breakfast was silent, tension thick between them.
"Rule one," Nyangtsi said without looking at her. "In public, you're affectionate. Reserved, but present."
"Rule two," he continued. "You don't leave the building without informing security."
"I'm not a prisoner," Victoria snapped.
He finally looked at her then. "No," he said softly. "You're my wife."
Her pulse jumped.
"Rule three," he added. "You don't dig into my past."
She laughed coldly. "Afraid I'll find something?"
"I know you will," he said. "That's why it's forbidden." Victoria set her spoon down slowly.
The porcelain made a soft clink against the plate, far too loud in the cavernous dining space. Morning light poured in through the floor‑to‑ceiling windows, illuminating a table set for royalty—fresh fruit, artisan bread, perfectly brewed coffee. None of it felt real. None of it felt like hers.
Across from her, Nyangtsi Andesunn Tom sat composed, immaculate, already dressed in a dark tailored suit as if the world waited on his schedule.
"So these are rules now," Victoria said quietly.
"They are necessities," he replied, taking a measured sip of coffee. "Rules imply flexibility. This does not."
She let out a breath through her nose. "You enjoy this."
His eyes flicked up briefly. "Control is efficient."
"Honesty, too," she shot back. "But you seem allergic to that."
A pause.
Then he stood.
The chair slid back smoothly, deliberately, and suddenly he was at her side. Too close. She could smell him—clean, expensive, something darker beneath.
"You want honesty?" he asked calmly.
She tilted her chin up, refusing to retreat. "I deserve it."
He leaned down, one hand braced on the table beside her, effectively trapping her in place.
"You are safest when you follow my rules," he said quietly. "Not because I wish to cage you—but because the world you've stepped into eats women like you alive."
Women like you.
Poor. Unprotected. Disposable.
Victoria's jaw tightened. "You think I don't already know that?"
"I think," he said, eyes darkening, "that you don't yet understand how many eyes are on you now."
That chilled her more than anger ever could.
He straightened and stepped back, reclaiming distance like a king withdrawing favor. "We have a luncheon today. Investors. Media-adjacent. You'll attend."
"I wasn't told—"
"You will be," he cut in. "By Lira. And by me, now."
Victoria pushed her chair back and stood. "You don't get to spring things on me like this."
He turned fully to face her. "I do. That is the contract you signed."
The words hit harder than expected.
She clenched her fists. "Then at least tell me one thing."
He raised an eyebrow, amused despite himself. "Careful. Questions are a slippery slope."
"Why ban me from your past?" she asked. "If we're pretending to be married, shouldn't I know who you are?"
A long moment passed.
Then Nyangtsi spoke, his voice quieter. Sharper.
"Because my past is not something you survive by understanding," he said. "It's something you survive by avoiding."
The finality in his tone ended the conversation.
Lira appeared moments later with a tablet, rattling off schedules, stylists, protocols. Victoria barely heard any of it. Her thoughts were still stuck on his words.
Not something you survive.
The car ride was worse.
They sat side by side in the back of a sleek black vehicle, city gliding past the tinted windows. His arm rested casually along the seat behind her—close enough to be intimate, distant enough to be deliberate.
"Smile," he murmured suddenly.
She glanced up just as the car slowed near a group of photographers stationed outside a hotel.
His hand settled on her knee.
Firm. Possessive. Warm.
Her breath caught despite herself.
"Relax," he said under his breath. "This is part of rule one."
The doors opened.
Cameras flashed immediately.
Nyangtsi exited first, offering his hand. She hesitated only a second before taking it. His fingers closed around hers with practiced ease, pulling her close—not enough to hurt, but enough to send a clear message.
Mine.
"Mrs. Tom," a voice called out. "How does it feel to be newly married?"
Victoria froze.
She hadn't prepared for this.
Nyangtsi's hand slid to her waist, thumb brushing the small of her back in a way that looked affectionate… and felt dangerous.
"She's adjusting," he answered smoothly. "Marriage changes everything."
He leaned in, close enough that only she could hear him.
"Breathe," he murmured. "Then smile like you belong to me."
Something in her snapped.
Not fear.
Defiance.
Victoria lifted her chin and smiled—slow, elegant, controlled. She leaned into him, fingers curling lightly into his sleeve as if she'd done this a thousand times.
"It's overwhelming," she said into the microphones. "But Nyangtsi takes good care of what's his."
The pause that followed was infinitesimal.
But she felt it.
His grip tightened at her waist.
Later—much later—when they were alone again in the car, silence pressed in.
"You learn quickly," Nyangtsi finally said.
Victoria turned to him, eyes steady. "So do you."
He studied her like she was no longer just a liability.
Like she was a variable.
And that realization—that she could surprise him—sent a dangerous thrill through her veins.
Because power, she was learning, wasn't always loud.
Sometimes, it smiled for the cameras… and waited.
Victoria felt her pulse hammering as the photographers' flashes continued to explode around them. Every lens seemed like an eye prying into her, exposing the vulnerability she couldn't hide. And yet, she kept her posture straight, head high, lips curved into the polite, elegant smile Nyangtsi demanded.
She could feel his gaze on her—not the cameras, not the world—but him.
Mine.
Every tiny movement he made seemed calculated to remind her: she was no longer free.
The questions came from all directions. Reporters shouted names, asked about their marriage, their private life, their first impressions. Victoria answered carefully, keeping her tone measured, her words elegant. Each syllable was a choice, each breath a reminder of who held the power.
Nyangtsi's hand remained at her back, subtle, commanding, a tether she could neither resist nor break. He leaned close at one point, his warm breath brushing her ear.
"Keep your answers short," he murmured. "Smile, nod, and let the world believe what it wants."
The intimacy of it was electric, terrifying—and impossible to ignore.
She swallowed, nodding, pretending she wasn't trembling beneath his touch. Her mind raced, trying to separate fear from something else—something hotter, something she wasn't ready to name.
They moved through the crowd with effortless control. Nyangtsi's presence cleared a path, like he was untouchable, untouching, and yet he dominated every inch of space around them. Victoria realized how utterly alone she would have been in this world without him.
And yet…
She hated needing him.
They entered the hotel lobby, where the lights were softer, warmer, but the scrutiny no less intense. Investors and media mingled, polite smiles hiding curiosity and calculation. Every glance at Victoria seemed to measure her worth, and every step she took was under Nyangtsi's careful supervision.
"Do you always keep this close?" Victoria asked, voice barely above a whisper as they paused near a set of stairs.
"Only when necessary," he said. "And right now, everything is necessary."
She wanted to step back, to reclaim some small portion of space for herself. But she didn't. Not when his presence had this effect on her—calm, steady, dominant.
A waiter approached with champagne, offering glasses. Victoria took hers mechanically, aware of every gaze in the room. She felt exposed in a way that was new, unnerving, and… intoxicating.
"Toast?" Nyangtsi asked, lowering his glass to her level. His dark eyes caught hers, searching, assessing, claiming.
Victoria hesitated. Every instinct screamed defiance. Every nerve was alive with tension. Then she tilted her glass toward him, letting her fingers brush against his—just enough to feel the warmth, the control, the unspoken message that this wasn't casual, wasn't voluntary.
"To survival," she said, voice steady, elegant, carefully controlled.
Nyangtsi's smile was subtle, almost approving. "To power," he murmured.
The crowd around them never suspected the storm simmering beneath the surface, the dangerous game of dominance and desire being played out quietly between two people.
Later, as they moved toward the exit, Victoria realized something unsettling: she had survived the cameras, the scrutiny, the public performance. But she had done it only because he had been there—his hand at her back, his presence a shield, his eyes an anchor.
And that thought both terrified and thrilled her.
She wanted to pull away from him. She wanted to be independent. She wanted her freedom.
Yet the moment their hands brushed again as he guided her to the car, her body betrayed her. Her pulse spiked, her skin warmed, and she realized with a shiver that some part of her craved this control, this closeness, this dangerous intimacy.
The car ride back was quiet, but not peaceful. Her thoughts swirled, tangled with the events of the day. She had been tested, observed, measured—and she had passed, but at what cost?
Nyangtsi sat across from her, silent. His gaze, when it occasionally met hers, was inscrutable. She couldn't tell if he approved, disapproved, or simply enjoyed the game unfolding.
Finally, he leaned back, one arm stretched along the seat, eyes on the city below. "You handled yourself well," he said softly, voice low, intimate. "Better than I expected."
Victoria forced her expression neutral. "Don't mistake compliance for approval," she said.
He lifted an eyebrow. "I don't mistake anything. Not anymore."
Her heart skipped.
The words lingered in the air, heavy with implication. She didn't want to admit it—but the thought that he noticed her, measured her, and perhaps even respected her survival sent a shiver down her spine.
By the time they arrived back at the penthouse, Victoria realized with a jolt that nothing in her life would ever feel normal again. She was bound by the contract, by the rules, by the man who had taken control of her life—and yet, she also understood something dangerous: she was beginning to crave his presence, to feel alive only in proximity to him.
And that terrified her more than any photographer, any investor, or any clause in a contract ever could.