Married to My Killers Son

Rain lashed against the blackened windows as Celeste Monroe stepped out of the sleek black car. Her heels clicked sharply on the marble pavement, a rhythm steady and precise-like her. Her coat clung to her figure, soaked at the edges, but she didn't flinch. Tonight wasn't about comfort. It was about survival. About reclaiming the power that was stolen from her.

The Ryker estate loomed ahead, opulent and cold. Security was tight. Cameras. Men in suits. Everyone pretending not to see the storm woman at the gates. She walked past them like she belonged-because soon, she would.

Inside, everything gleamed-gold-trimmed stairs, polished floors, the kind of cold elegance that screamed old money and control. But Celeste's eyes weren't on the chandeliers or the art. They were on him.

Jace Ryker.

He stood at the far end of the room, tall and detached, wearing a fitted black suit like it was armor. His presence was magnetic but guarded, like he was constantly at war with something invisible. Or maybe it was just himself. When his eyes met hers, something silent passed between them. Not attraction. Not yet. Something darker. A recognition of broken pieces.

"Celeste Monroe," he said, voice low, unreadable. "You're not what I expected."

She smiled, the kind that didn't quite reach her eyes. "Neither are you."

There was no warmth in the room, no gentle welcome. Just quiet tension, like a match waiting to be lit.

Victor Ryker, the man who destroyed her father, appeared next-still powerful, still cruel behind his polished smile. He was the reason she was here. The reason she'd hidden her name. The reason she'd agreed to marry a man she'd never met.

Jace didn't shake her hand. He didn't offer a drink. He just looked at her with eyes that didn't flinch, didn't soften. She'd studied his file for weeks. Knew every scar he hid behind his silence. And now he was studying her right back.

She kept her expression neutral, but her fingers curled slightly at her sides. Every second in this house scraped at old wounds.

Victor spoke as if nothing about the arrangement was strange. "A union of power, a merger of interests. It's business. Clean and simple."

But it wasn't clean. And nothing about it was simple.

Jace glanced at her once more, jaw tight. "This isn't going to be a love story."

"I'm not here for love," she said quietly.

They were both liars in that moment.

The silence stretched for a beat too long.

Victor clapped his hands, sharp and rehearsed, calling for the staff to begin dinner, as if the air in the room hadn't just thickened with tension. Celeste followed Jace toward the long dining table, the space between them wide, yet charged. Every step she took felt like stepping deeper into enemy territory, but she didn't flinch. She couldn't afford to.

The seat beside Jace was already pulled out for her. She sat, folding her hands neatly on her lap, her expression unreadable. Across from them, Victor poured himself a glass of red wine, watching them with the quiet satisfaction of a man who believed he had complete control.

"I trust you'll both make this work," he said. "Appearances matter. Especially now."

Celeste didn't answer. Neither did Jace. The clinking of cutlery filled the void. Every motion felt rehearsed-every smile from the staff, every carefully placed dish. It was all a performance.

Celeste's eyes didn't leave her plate until she felt the brush of Jace's gaze. He hadn't touched his food. He was watching her now-not like a man curious about his fiancée, but like someone trying to figure out which direction the bullet would come from.

"You said you weren't here for love," he murmured under his breath. "Then what are you here for?"

Her lips lifted, slow and calculated. "Same thing you are. Freedom."

His brow twitched, the smallest crack in his perfect composure. She knew it then-he wasn't just bitter. He was trapped. Just like her.

Later, after dinner, Victor offered a tour of the estate. Celeste declined with a soft excuse. She already knew every inch of the place from floorplans she'd studied for months. Jace walked her to her guest room without a word, the air between them thick with questions neither dared to ask out loud.

At the door, he paused, hand resting on the frame. "This doesn't have to be messy," he said quietly.

Celeste looked up at him, searching his face for something human. "Messy is the only way this ends."

She stepped inside, closing the door gently, leaving him in the hallway with her words.