Married to the enemies 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.

Alone, in the silence of the dimly lit room, Celeste let the mask slip for just a second. Her shoulders dropped. Her breath trembled. Then she walked to the window, pulling back the curtain to stare out at the estate grounds. Beneath the cold beauty of it all, she knew what this place really was.

A battlefield.

And she'd just stepped onto it with a ring instead of a weapon.

But rings could be sharp too.

The storm outside hadn't stopped. Thunder rolled somewhere distant, a low warning, like the earth itself sensed the war brewing behind the marble walls of the Ryker estate.

Celeste stood there longer than she meant to, her reflection faint against the glass-half-shadow, half-ghost. She didn't recognize the version of herself looking back. The tailored dress, the perfect posture, the calm. All of it was borrowed, stitched together for this moment.

Beneath it was rage. Cold, quiet, and patient.

She crossed the room, opened her suitcase, and slipped out a small velvet pouch from its hidden lining. Inside, folded tightly, was an old photograph. A man with kind eyes and an easy smile. Her father. Beside him, a younger version of herself, all laughter and light, long before courtrooms and betrayal replaced bedtime stories.

She sat on the edge of the bed, fingers trembling as she traced his face. The last time she saw him, his hands were cuffed, his name dragged through the dirt by headlines funded by Victor Ryker's empire. They'd called it justice. She called it murder in slow motion.

Jace Ryker didn't know who she really was. Not yet. The name Celeste Monroe was a lie-one crafted in whispers and paid for with years of silence. Her real name had died the day her father was dragged away.

A soft knock broke through her thoughts.

She folded the photo quickly, slipping it back into the pouch before tucking it deep beneath the mattress. Then she stood, smoothing her dress as if that could erase the sudden pounding of her heart.

When she opened the door, Jace stood there again.

His tie was loosened now, top button undone. Less polished, more real. The version of him that didn't speak at press conferences. This version didn't carry the Ryker name like a badge-it looked more like a weight.

"I figured you'd be awake," he said.

She stepped aside silently, letting him in. No explanations. No questions.

He moved slowly, standing in the center of the room like it wasn't his but still belonged to him somehow. His hands were in his pockets, but he wasn't relaxed.

"You don't like him, do you?" he asked, not looking at her.

"Victor?" she said softly.

He nodded.

"I don't trust men who smile without their eyes."

That made him glance her way. There was something almost like amusement in the curve of his mouth-but it didn't last.

"You'll fit in just fine here," he said.

She took a slow breath. "I'm not here to fit in."

Jace nodded once. He understood that more than he should.

He lingered for a second too long. Then, without a word, turned and left, the door clicking shut behind him.

Celeste stayed still for a long moment, heart racing.

He didn't know it yet, but he wasn't just part of her plan.

He was the most dangerous part of all.