"You're not my wife for love. You're my wife for leverage."

The marble of the Manhattan courthouse glared under the harsh light,too white, too clean, too final.

Calla Rose Hart's heels tapped the floor like faint warning shots as she stepped into the room, her palms sweaty around the pen she didn't remember gripping.

A judge sat at the front, his robe stiff, his expression unreadable. Two attorneys murmured over a legal folder thicker than her college textbooks. But all Calla could focus on was the man seated across the room, legs crossed, back straight, dressed in an obsidian-black suit that made the rest of the world fade to ash.

Lucian Wolfe.

The man she was being forced to marry.

He didn't look at her right away. He didn't have to. His presence filled the air like smoke-silent, suffocating the life out of her, and impossible to ignore.

Calla inhaled shakily. "Is it too late to walk away?" she whispered.

"You signed the pre-marriage agreement last night," her handler reminded her, not unkindly. "It's already public knowledge. If you run now, your brother loses his surgery. Your mother loses the care home. And your father..."

"My father doesn't deserve saving," Calla said sharply, her father could rot for all she cared. But her voice trembled, betraying her.

She didn't walk toward the man waiting at the other end of the courtroom. She was pulled toward him, as if fate had already handed her over like a pawn on a silver plate.

Lucian didn't rise. Not when she entered. Not when the judge called her name.

But when she took the seat beside him, on the cold wooden bench that's when finally moved.

A single glance.

Just one flick of those frost-colored eyes, and she forgot how to breathe.

"Sit up straight," he murmured without looking at her. "You represent me now."

"I'm not your toy."

"No," he agreed, coolly. "You're my bride."

The word felt like poison on her skin.

The judge cleared his throat. "Miss Hart. Mr. Wolfe. Do you both agree to this legal union under the clauses laid out in the marital contract?"

Calla hesitated.

Lucian didn't.

"I do," he said with a voice like stone-smooth, hard, and unbreakable.

The judge turned to her. "Miss Hart?"

She glanced at her reflection in the polished table surface. Pale. Terrified. Small.

But not dead.

Not yet.

"I... do," she said, barely audible.

The gavel hit wood like a gunshot.

"In the eyes of the state, you are now husband and wife."

Calla flinched. It felt more like a sentence than a celebration.

Lucian rose slowly. Like a wolf who knew he didn't need to growl to scare the lamb. He extended his hand-not out of affection, but formality.

"Shall we go home, Mrs. Wolfe?"

The limousine that took them away was as silent as a tomb.

Calla sat rigid, watching raindrops paint lines across the tinted window. Manhattan blurred beyond the glass-skyscrapers, headlights, horns-but none of it reached her. Her heart was a muffled drum in her chest.

Lucian poured himself a drink from the crystal decanter. No ice. No words.

"You're not even going to pretend to care, are you?" she asked.

His eyes flicked toward her, calm and unreadable. "Would you prefer I lie to you?"

"I'd prefer to understand why you hate me."

"I don't hate you," he replied smoothly, swirling the amber liquid in his glass. "I hate your father. You're simply collateral."

She stiffened. "You're using me."

"Correct."

A bitter laugh rose in her throat. "And I suppose I'm just supposed to smile and obey like a good little puppet?"

He leaned in, one hand gripping the armrest beside her. His breath was warm against her cheek.

"No, Calla. I don't want a puppet. I want a wife who knows the value of silence and the consequences of rebellion."

Her cheeks heated, half from fear, half from the electricity suddenly sparking between them.

"You're disgusting."

"I'm effective."

"And cruel."

"That too."

His words were delivered with brutal calm. No apology. No shame.

But then his gaze dropped-for a fraction of a second-to her lips. The atmosphere shifted, suddenly thick.

She swallowed.

Lucian's voice dropped low. "Rule one: no running. Rule two: no lying. Rule three..."

His fingers brushed a strand of hair from her shoulder, lingering at the nape of her neck.

"Never mistake kindness for weakness. I have none to offer."

Calla shivered. Not from fear-but from the way her body reacted despite her mind's defiance.

The Wolfe estate wasn't a home. It was a fortress.

High walls. Iron gates. Stone floors polished to a mirror shine.

The interior was museum-like-cold, quiet, and drowning in luxury like the owner.

He didn't lead her through the front door. He walked three steps ahead, like a man who owned the ground she stepped on.

A maid opened the grand hallway doors.

"This is your wing," Lucian said curtly. "You'll find it fully stocked. Clothes, essentials, guards outside your door. You are free to decorate, within reason."

"My wing?" she echoed.

"We sleep separately."

Her breath caught. Not in relief. Not in fear. Something else. Something she refused to name.

Lucian paused at the threshold, turning to look at her. "You'll have a weekly schedule. Events. Meetings. Public appearances. You'll smile. You'll speak only when addressed. You'll hold my arm when required."

Calla crossed her arms. "And what do I get?"

His gaze slid down her frame, slowly, deliberately.

"Security. Silence. A roof. Your brother's medical bills paid in full. Your mother's care reinstated. Shall I go on?"

Her nails dug into her palms. "You're a monster."

Lucian tilted his head, a ghost of a smirk on his lips. "Monsters are easier to live with when you understand their rules."

That night, Calla didn't sleep.

She lay on the edge of a bed far too soft for comfort, staring at the ceiling with eyes wide open and burning.

Her wedding dress hung limply on a mannequin in the corner like a ghost haunting her.

But her thoughts weren't on the ceremony. Or the silence. Or the powerlessness.

They were on him.

Lucian Wolfe.

The way his voice wrapped around commands like silk and steel. The way he looked at her like he could read every protest she didn't dare speak aloud.

She hated him.

She hated how he made her feel-small, helpless, burning.

But worst of all?

She hated that part of her didn't feel afraid.

It felt alive.

The door creaked open at midnight.

She sat upright instantly, heart hammering.

Lucian stood there, his tie loosened, sleeves rolled up, eyes heavy with something unreadable.

"You shouldn't be here," she said, breath shallow.

"I needed to make something clear."

He walked in without asking. Without hesitation.

Calla stood, too quickly, her silk nightgown brushing against her ankles.

Lucian didn't touch her. But his presence overwhelmed her senses.

"If you break the rules, Calla..."

He stepped closer, his voice like dark velvet.

"You'll find that I can be far more cruel than kind."

She raised her chin. "I'm not afraid of you."

"No," he whispered. "That's what makes this dangerous."

Then, he leaned in. His breath ghosted her cheek. His hand didn't touch her, but hovered near her jaw, as if he could shatter her with a single brush.

For a moment, she thought he'd kiss her.

But he didn't.

Lucian stepped back, his expression unreadable.

"Sleep well, Mrs. Wolfe."

The door clicked shut behind him.

She touches her lips, trembling-not because he kissed her.But because he didn't... and she wanted him to.