Choice

Irene Jones POV

“You think I give two fucks about that?” The words snapped out before I could stop them. This man really had the nerve to force me into this and still expected me to care about what he thought.

I was on edge—who wouldn’t be? Trapped in a car at night with a man who was my husband only on paper, his face hidden behind a mask, his body wrapped up so tight he looked more like a shadow than a person.

It was almost funny. Almost. The kind of funny that made my skin crawl if I thought about it too long.

“This tongue of yours won’t lead you anywhere good.” Theodore’s chuckle came low, like he found the whole thing entertaining.

The engine growled to life. A soft click followed, and the glass partition slid up, sealing the front from the back. It left me alone with him—and the kind of silence that pressed on my chest like a weight.

“How about you let me stay in my apartment? Then my tongue won’t be such an issue, Mr. Myers,” I muttered, sarcasm biting at every word. “And if no one’s told you, I’m telling you now—that all-covered-up look isn’t doing you any favors either.”

Who cared if he hid his face because he was ugly, scarred, or whatever the hell else? Maybe that sounded cruel, but this bastard had already earned it.

I’d tried to have sympathy. Hell, I’d even tried to be empathetic. But Theodore Myers didn’t deserve either. He was so fucked up—literally my husband in name, and a kidnapper on top of that.

“Such a feisty woman,” Theodore murmured. “You’re my wife now, in case you forgot.”

“If I remember right, you didn’t even attend our wedding—which was today.” I smiled right in his face. “And you already know I’m the replacement bride. Not as pretty as my sister. So how about you shut it?”

He didn’t look at me. “Still, you are my wife. So you’d better be on your best behavior—or I can have a talk with your father.”

This man really knew where to aim the knife and twist it. “Gotcha,” I shot back. “But don’t expect too much. I’ve had enough of your ass already.”

Before I could react, his gloved hand caught my chin, fingers pressing hard as he yanked me closer, forcing me halfway onto his lap. “Irene,” he said, his voice dark and quiet, “I really think you should think twice before behaving like this.”

His breath hit my cheek—warm, sharp, too close. The faint scent of leather and smoke clung to him, mixing with the sterile air of the car. My pulse jumped before I could tell it not to.

I pushed against his chest, but his grip didn’t budge. “You think this scares me?” My voice came out steadier than I felt. “You’ll have to do a lot worse than grab my face.”

He tilted his head slightly, the mask catching what little light the dashboard threw. “You really don’t know what you’re playing with, do you?”

I let out a dry laugh. “What, a man with a superiority complex?”

His jaw tightened beneath the mask. For a second, I thought he’d snap—finally show me the monster everyone whispered about. But he didn’t. He just released my chin and leaned back, like he’d already decided I wasn’t worth the effort.

That pissed me off more than the grip ever could.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” I seethed under my breath, straightening my dress.

He didn’t speak again. The car moved through the dark, tires whispering against wet asphalt, the sound too calm for what was happening inside.

Every so often, he’d glance my way. I could feel it, even if I couldn’t see his eyes. That kind of silent attention that burned hotter than words.

I turned toward the window, catching my reflection in the glass. My face looks like a mess, a faint red streak down the corner of my mouth. Perfect. A mark to match the day.

Maybe this was how it started—the unraveling. A marriage built on silence, control, and the wrong kind of power.

He finally broke it. “We’ll be home soon.”

“Home,” I repeated, the word tasting foreign. “You mean your house. Let’s not get dramatic.”

His voice stayed calm, almost too calm. “You’ll learn to call it home eventually.”

I turned back, meeting the dark outline of his face. “Don’t hold your breath.”

His gloved hands tightened, the faint creak of leather cutting through the silence—proof enough of his anger.

Good. Let him be angry. His calmness had been grating on my nerves since the second this car started moving.

I was just thankful for the glass partition between us and the driver. The last thing I needed was anyone witnessing how easily this man could make me look small.

Leo treated me like dirt. My mother wasn’t any better. My stepsister—same story. But somewhere deep down, I’d still clung to the idea that marriage might be different. That maybe my husband would love me. That maybe, for once, I wouldn’t be the replaceable one.

That hope had burned out fast.

When I heard Theodore was the one I’d be marrying, I’d told myself he couldn’t be that bad. He was mysterious, quiet, and crippled—they said. Maybe that meant he’d understand pain. Maybe he’d be kind.

But no. That illusion shattered the second he opened his mouth.

“Tell me one thing,” I said. “How could you agree to marry an ugly woman like me?”

The word ugly didn’t sting anymore. It was too familiar, worn down like an old scar. Maybe it still hurts somewhere deep, but I’d learned to hide that part well.

“Why does it matter?” he countered, his tone clipped. “I should be the one asking—how could you agree to marry a cripple, an ugly man who doesn’t even show his face beyond a mask?”

“Because I had no choice—and I really thought maybe you wouldn’t be that bad.”