Elena had never worn a gown like this before.
The silk clung to her curves, deep red in color, with a daring slit up her thigh. Every time she moved, she felt Adrian's gaze on her — smoldering, possessive, unnerving.
She tried not to shiver.
Dinner was being held in the main dining hall of the mansion. The long mahogany table gleamed under the chandelier. Crystal glasses sparkled. Silverware reflected the warm candlelight.
And at the far end, he waited.
Adrian Blackwood. The man who owned her contract, her current reality, and, whether she liked it or not, a piece of her nerves.
"You look… dangerous," he said quietly as she approached. His gray eyes traveled over her body with slow, deliberate approval.
"Am I supposed to thank you?" she asked, trying to keep her voice steady.
He smirked, a dangerous curl of his lips.
"You already are," he murmured.
Elena's cheeks burned, but she refused to look away. She seated herself, and for a moment, silence reigned. Then the doors opened again.
A woman stepped in — tall, blonde, perfectly poised. The kind of woman who could make a room tilt just by walking through it.
"Adrian," she purred.
"Clarissa," Adrian said coldly, without rising.
Elena stiffened.
"Oh, this must be your new wife," Clarissa said, her voice sweet, laced with something sharper. She gave Elena a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "She's… lovely."
Adrian's hand brushed over Elena's beneath the table. A subtle, possessive squeeze.
"Yes," he said smoothly. "She's mine."
Clarissa's smile faltered, but she recovered quickly. "Of course."
The conversation that followed was polite but thin, each word weighted. Elena felt her pulse hammering in her ears. Every glance Clarissa gave, every smile, every tilt of the head seemed like a challenge.
"You're handling this well," Adrian whispered after a pause, leaning close enough that she could feel the warmth of his body.
"I'm not here to be handled," she replied sharply.
"Good," he murmured. "I like fire in my women. But don't forget who owns the flames."
Her stomach fluttered at the dominance in his words.
Clarissa excused herself shortly after dinner, leaving Adrian and Elena alone in the hall.
"You didn't tell me about her," Elena said, voice low.
"I didn't think you needed to know," he replied evenly.
"That woman…" she hesitated. "She looked like she wanted to—"
"Take what's mine?" he finished for her, voice dark. "No one takes what's mine."
He reached for her hand again, his thumb brushing over her knuckles possessively.
Elena's pulse raced. Desire, fear, and confusion tangled inside her.
"I don't belong to anyone," she said softly.
"You do now," he said simply.
The words hit harder than she expected. Not cruelly. Not angrily. But with an unshakable certainty that left no room for argument.
That night, as she prepared for bed, the red dress from dinner folded neatly on the chair. The echo of Adrian's gaze lingered in her mind.
The man she had married on paper was slowly claiming every part of her reality — and she wasn't sure if she wanted to resist anymore.