I woke up to a soft knock. Not that it mattered—whoever it was didn't bother to wait for permission.
The door creaked open, and in stepped a man I'd never seen before.
But he didn't feel new. He felt... like he belonged to this place. Like he'd been carved from the same cold stone walls.
Older. Polished. Impeccably dressed in black. Every move calculated, every step measured.
He held a slim notebook and a pen, as if he were about to conduct an audit—or a funeral. I wasn't sure which.
Without even glancing at me, he said,
"Miss Rose. You are now the lady of the house."
I blinked, lips parting. "Um... are you the butler?"
He finally looked up.
"I'm the estate manager. Mr. Gray."
His voice was sandpaper—coarse, dry, and completely unimpressed.
He walked over to the desk like it belonged to him, flipped open the notebook, and finally gave me a full look.
His eyes?
Like melted snow: pale, cold, and dangerous if you stood there too long.
"I'm here to explain the rules."
Rules? For what—being married against my will?
"Wait, there are actual rules?"
He didn't answer. He just started reading, flat and lifeless, like he was listing ingredients on the back of a poison bottle.
"Rule number one, You will wake up at exactly 8:00 a.m. every morning. No exceptions."
This is the hell.
"Rule number two, You may not leave the estate or receive visitors without Mr. Merv's approval."
Taken my freedom, in another hand.
"Rule number three, All meals are to be taken in your private wing. The main kitchen is off-limits."
I don't love cooking.
"Rule number four, No speaking to the guards or staff unless directly spoken to."
Just fuck your self, what this funking rules?
"Rule number fave, No internet. No phone. Unless Mr. Merv allows it."
Am I kidnapped? This is call kidnap, yes, this is.
I wanna scream.
"Rule number six, Mr. Merv's office is strictly off-limits."
"Rule number seven, The East Wing... is forbidden."
Rule number favi, and six... I thought it maybe... I don't hear about it.
"Entering it, under any circumstances, will be considered an unforgivable breach."
I stared at him, my mouth slowly opening like, are you serious right now?
What is this? The Handmaid's Tale meets The Godfather?
I cleared my throat.
"And... what happens if I break one?"
Mr. Gray closed the notebook softly, like slamming it would've been too dramatic for his taste.
Then he gave me a look that felt like stepping into a freezer barefoot.
"Mr. Merv does not like repeating himself," he said quietly.
I didn't need to ask what that meant.
The silence that followed did all the talking.
Mr. Gray led me in silence through endless hallways. The marble walls gleamed with a cold, impersonal shine, and the plush red carpet barely whispered beneath our feet.
This wasn't a home.
It was a trap dressed up in gold.
He stopped in front of a pair of grand double doors. Without a word, he pushed one open and said in that same lifeless tone,
"The main hall. Mr. Merv requested your preparation."
My brow arched. Preparation? For what?
He didn't answer. He just gestured for me to step in.
I did.
And I wasn't ready.
The room was massive. High ceilings with glittering chandeliers that looked like falling stars, velvet couches spaced out like artwork. And then—women. A whole gathering of them.
Dressed in high-end designer pieces that practically screamed money. Their eyes locked on me with a mix of judgment and calculation.
It felt like I had just walked onto an auction floor… and I was the item up for inspection.
I stayed near the entrance, frozen in place, until one of them approached.
She looked to be in her fifties—though you wouldn't guess it. No wrinkles. No softness. Just sculpted beauty and expensive makeup. A walking advertisement for perfection.
She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.
"So, you're Rose."
I nodded, my throat too tight to speak.
"The Don Black believes you're... raw. Unpolished. He only surrounds himself with the finest. That's why we're here."
Another woman joined her. This one had platinum hair and a gaze that scanned me like I was data on a screen.
"Too skinny. Needs toning. No more sleepless nights. Those under-eye circles? Unacceptable."
A third, with a sleek suit and a tablet in hand, added, "Her fashion is all wrong. We'll need to start from scratch—darker tones, structured dresses and sharper heels."
Another stepped closer, lifting a lock of my hair with mild disgust.
"Color is dull. We need something bold—something that brings out her bone structure. And makeup? Where is it?"
And then, one with the air of a finishing school instructor chimed in,
"Do you even know how to hold a fork properly? No? We'll begin etiquette lessons immediately. Social events, charity dinners, formal hosting…"
Another: "That smile's too shy. We'll build her confidence. She'll represent Mr. Merv, after all."
They circled me like fire, each word a spark, every glance a burng at my face. My body. My clothes.
Peeling away the pieces I thought were… normal.
Not one of them asked me what I wanted.
Because it didn't matter.
Black Merv didn't want a wife.
He wanted a project. A canvas to redraw in his image.
This wasn't kindness. This wasn't care.
This was control—elegantly wrapped in couture.
I could feel myself shrinking, curling inward.
Like my skin no longer fit.
My body had become their battlefield.
My weight, my curves, my style, my everything.
Their voices overlapped. Smooth, sweet, polished poison.
And for one terrifying moment—I wanted to scream.
But I didn't.
Because this…
This is what he wants.
He wants to break me.
To make me doubt myself.
To erase the girl I used to be and replace her with someone he could claim.
But I won't give him that.
He can dress me up. Paint me gold. Parade me around like a doll.
But the fire inside?
That's mine.
And no one—not even Black Merv—gets to dim it.
Their voices were drilling into my skull—high-pitched, polished, relentless.
I couldn't even tell who was speaking anymore. Suggestions. Critiques. Whispers.
Like tiny hammers against my brain.
Enough.
I stood up. My body is trembling. My voice… wasn't.
"Get out. All of you."
Silence sliced through the air.
One of them chuckled lightly. "Ma'am, we were instructed by—"
"No," I cut her off, voice razor-sharp.
"You're here because I allowed it. Now I'm unallowing it. Leave. Now."
There was something in my tone that made them flinch.
Maybe it was the wildness in my eyes.
Maybe… they finally realized I wasn't their doll to polish.
They left—one by one.
Some glanced back at me like I'd lost my mind.
Maybe I had.
But it was the only thing that still felt like mine.
I walked into the bathroom.
Shut the door.
Locked it.
And for the first time in days… I was alone.
I sank into the warm bath, water and foam wrapping around me like a secret.
Lavender. Vanilla. Candlelight.
Everything smelled like peace. Looked like peace.
I let my head fall back, a deep breath escaping my chest—
as if I hadn't breathed properly in days.
No one telling me what to wear.
No one judging the shape of my smile.
No one handing me another invisible collar.
And in that silence…
my thoughts returned.
I'm married.
To Black Merv.
The man I despised from the very first glance.
The man who carries power like a loaded weapon,
who looks at women like they're commodities, not souls.
He didn't just take my freedom.
He took me.
I tried to remember how it all happened.
The threat. The signature. The silence that followed.
And then… the kiss.
Except it wasn't a kiss.
It was a brand.
A seal.
A silent promise that he owned every inch of me.
His lips crushing mine—
teeth catching my bottom lip with a mixture of punishment and… twisted tenderness.
It burned.
It confused me.
It shamed me.
Because for a heartbeat—just one—
my body didn't fight.
It melted.
I hated myself for that.
I pushed deeper into the foam, as if it could scrub the memory away—
"Thinking about our kiss?"
I gasped.
My head whipped toward the door.
There he was.
Like he'd stepped straight from my nightmare and into my bath.
His shirt was half unbuttoned, dark strands of hair falling messily across his forehead,
muscles cut sharp beneath expensive fabric.
He leaned against the frame like he owned it.
Like he owned me.
His eyes were laughing… but it wasn't humor.
It was power.
Danger dressed as a smirk.
"I could recreate the moment, my wife...
If that's what you want."
It wasn't a suggestion.
It was a warning.
A wicked promise wrapped in silk and steel.
And God help me—
part of me didn't know if I was about to scream or shatter.
My wife? Why is he still... ahh, I wanna scream again.