He stood before me, every bit as flawless as he had been that night, as though the memory itself had stepped out of my mind and into the light. Broad shoulders, calm posture, that infuriatingly composed expression—nothing about him suggested discomfort or uncertainty. The recollection of our intimacy surged up without warning: the press of his body against mine, the low, unfamiliar sounds he’d made when he lost control, the heat that had wrapped around us like a secret we weren’t meant to keep. My cheeks burned scarlet, the embarrassment so sharp it almost hurt. For the first time since it happened, a fragile question crept in—how could I have let that happen? How could I have been so reckless, so careless with myself?

And then he said it.

“Wife?”

The word hit me harder than a slap. I looked up at him, baffled, certain I’d misheard. Surely that wasn’t what he’d said. But he only smirked, the corner of his mouth lifting with slow, deliberate amusement, as if he were savoring my confusion.

“What did you call me?” I asked, my voice barely steady, my heart pounding so loudly I was sure he could hear it.

He didn’t answer. Instead, he took a single, measured step forward, erasing the space between us as though distance were merely a suggestion. One second, I had room to breathe, and the next, I was acutely aware of every inch of him—his height, his heat, the way his presence crowded my senses. I stiffened, but he looked entirely relaxed, as though closeness was his natural state.

“Wife,” he repeated, his voice low, unhurried, intimate in a way that made my breath catch. His exhale brushed my cheek, warm and faintly scented, and I gasped before I could stop myself, instinctively stepping back. I didn’t even manage to complete the motion. His arm circled my waist with effortless precision, and he pulled me back against him, firm.

The smell of him wrapped around me instantly—expensive cologne, understated but potent, layered over something unmistakably his. It filled my lungs, settled deep, tugged at something dangerously familiar. It felt like safety. Like home. The realization terrified me. I twisted free, my hands pressing against his chest as I pushed away, surprised by my own strength.

“Why—why are you here?” I stammered, staring up at him, my thoughts scrambling to catch up with my racing pulse.

“I heard my wife was trying to run away,” he said smoothly, “so I came to find her.”

“I’m not your wife.” The words left my mouth quickly, sharply, as if repetition alone might make them true. I frowned, utterly bewildered. He kept using that word so easily, so confidently, as though it belonged to me.

“Yes, you are.” His gaze drifted over me with maddening slowness, from my shoulders down to my hands. When his eyes paused at my left hand, his brow furrowed. “Why aren’t you wearing your ring?”

My heart lurched violently. A ring? My mind flashed to the faint memory of cold metal against my finger the day before, a sensation I’d dismissed as a trick of exhaustion. I stared at my bare hand now, stunned. I had no recollection of putting it on—no memory at all—yet the implication was clear. Somehow, impossibly, it had been his.

“Come, wife,” he said softly, the word sliding into my skin like a command. “Let’s go home.” His grey eyes locked onto mine, intense and unwavering, as though refusal wasn’t an option.

“I’m not your wife,” I insisted, taking a careful step back. He allowed the distance for a heartbeat—just long enough to make me think I’d gained something—then closed it again with one confident stride.

“You are my wife.”

“No, I’m not.” I edged away, my back tightening, my breath shallow.

“Yes, you are.” He was on me before I could turn fully, his arms locking around me, pulling me flush against his chest. The heat of him seeped through my clothes, immediate and overwhelming. I inhaled sharply, my body reacting traitorously before my mind could catch up.

“Remember we had sex the other night?” he asked quietly.

The bluntness of it sent a fresh wave of heat rushing to my face. My throat tightened.

“That was just a one… night sta—” The words failed me. I couldn’t bring myself to finish the sentence, couldn’t force the shame past my lips.

“No, wife. It wasn’t just a one-night stand.” He paused, corrected himself with deliberate care. “We fucke—had sex, rather. I was a virgin until you came to me that night.”

The admission struck me breathless. Heat flared through me, sharp and disorienting. I bit my lower lip hard, grounding myself in the sting, trying to slow my racing pulse.

“I—I was also a virgin,” I said weakly.

“Yes,” he agreed, nodding once. “But it’s different. You initiated everything. You seduced me. You took my virginity.” His voice didn’t waver. “I promised my grandmother I wouldn’t share my bed until marriage. You broke that vow. You must marry me.”

My heart thudded painfully, each beat heavy and panicked. Tears prickled behind my eyes, threatening to spill as fear and disbelief tangled together.

“But—” I tried to protest.

“If you refuse,” he continued calmly, cutting me off, “we’ll settle it in court. You’ll be charged with sexual assault.” His tone remained almost conversational. “I’m quite popular in San Francisco. I have the best lawyer in the city. Do you want to go up against him, Lyra?”

The way he said my name—slow, final—felt like a sentence being passed. My knees nearly gave out inside his hold.

“Earth to Lyra,” he teased softly, then released me and stepped back. Three long strides put space between us, space that felt suddenly unbearable.

“Guess I’ll see you in court, Ms. Lyra.” He turned away without hesitation, his bodyguards moving in seamless formation behind him.

Court. The word echoed in my head, cold and merciless. I could barely afford rent. Legal battles were unthinkable. And yet nothing about him felt like an empty threat. Power clung to him like a second skin.

Regret crashed over me in a tidal wave. I bit my lip, fighting the tears, my chest tight with the weight of my own choices.

“Wait!” I called, my voice breaking.

He stopped instantly, as though he’d been waiting for that exact moment. My suitcases lay forgotten on the sidewalk as I ran to him, my legs unsteady, my face still burning with humiliation—and something deeper, heavier.

He turned, curiosity flickering in those smoky grey eyes. I cleared my throat, staring anywhere but at him. This wasn’t how marriage was supposed to happen. Not like this. Not to a stranger.

“I—I’ll marry you,” I whispered, the words thick and painful as they left me.

Two days ago, Julian—my boyfriend—had betrayed me. Two days later, I was pledging myself to someone I barely knew.

My chest ached with the cruelty of it. But there was no going back. Only forward, into a future I hadn’t chosen, with trembling hands and a heart that still wanted to run.