Fuck

Irene Jones POV

I sprinted outside, ignoring Albert’s warning. Hell, I’d rather beg on the streets than step foot in the Myers mansion—or any place where I had no idea what would happen to me.

Theodore might’ve been my husband, but it was only on paper.

“I’m sorry, but I don’t want to go anywhere.” I didn’t look back. Albert was still pushing Theodore’s wheelchair—I could feel it.

“Mrs. Myers, you’re going to regret this.” Albert’s voice didn’t carry even a flicker of panic.

I didn’t get far.

A few more men in black appeared ahead. One look was enough. They were Theodore’s guards.

Fuck. Why the hell did he have more guards? It’s not like he came here for a damn war.

Or… did he expect I’d run like this?

“We don’t want to force you, Madam,” one of them said.

And no matter how hot-blooded I was, I knew I couldn’t outrun men built like that.

One of them stepped forward. I backed away instinctively, toes skidding on gravel. My breathing spiked, chest tight. 

Another guard moved to flank me from the side.

They’re closing in.

“I said I’m not going anywhere!” My voice cracked, but I held my ground. 

Don’t you dare cry. Don’t give them that. I warned myself.

“Madam, please.” The one in front didn’t raise his hands, didn’t even flinch. “Mr. Myers gave strict orders that you’re not to be harmed.”

“Oh, how generous of him.” My fists clenched at my sides. “But dragging me back like this isn’t harming me?”

He didn’t answer. Just nodded toward Albert.

I heard the wheels approaching before I turned.

Theodore sat there, too calm. Too quiet. One hand rested lazily on the armrest, the other curled around his ring.

His eyes met mine—and held. Not hard. Not angry. Just… patient. Watchful.

I couldn’t even see his eyes—yet it felt like he was stripping me bare.

“You done?” he questioned.

I hated how steady his voice sounded.

“I’m not yours to command.” I spat the words. 

He nodded slightly, like I’d just confirmed something for him. “No,” he replied. “But you are mine to protect.”

I froze.

The wind picked up behind me. Dry leaves scraped across the pavement, the sound too loud in the silence stretching between us.

“I don’t want to hurt you, so behave, Irene.”

This man was really something. Hiding behind a mask, not even showing me his face—yet acting like I was the one in the wrong. Like I was the problem.

My nails dug into my palms. “Then don’t force me,” I snapped. “You want me to behave? Try treating me like a person instead of a prisoner.”

He didn’t flinch. Just tilted his head slightly, like he was studying me through that blank, expressionless mask.

“I’m not your enemy,” he stated.

“Could’ve fooled me.”

One step forward—just one—and I stepped back automatically. The fear was there, pulsing just beneath my defiance, and he saw it. I hated that he saw it.

“You can walk on your own,” he asked. “Or we’ll carry you.”

My jaw tightened. “You lay one hand on me—”

He raised a gloved finger. “Then walk.”

Albert pushed the wheelchair closer. “Madam, it would be better for you if you followed our young master’s rules. He is your husband now.”

My stomach twisted. Husband. The word tasted like rusted metal in my mouth.

“On paper,” I muttered. “That doesn’t give him the right to own me.”

Neither of them responded.

Of course they didn’t. In their world, marriage was ownership.

Theodore said nothing, just watched me from his seat like he had all the time in the world. That eerie calm of his made my skin crawl worse than if he’d shouted.

He gestured toward the car behind him.

A black, armored vehicle. Of course.

“I’m not getting in that,” I said.

“Madam,” Albert warned, quieter now. “Don’t make this harder than it needs to be.”

“Harder for who?” I hissed.

Silence.

I looked at the guards, the car, the man in the mask who hadn’t moved since threatening to carry me. Every direction was locked down.

Trapped.

I glanced at Theodore again—his hand still resting on the wheelchair’s arm, gloved fingers calm, steady.

“Here’s the deal,” he commanded, voice low. “Either you come with me willingly, or I call your stepfather. And we both know how that’ll go. I’ll inform them about your behavior.”

My blood ran cold.

So he knew.

He knew exactly how I was treated in the Jones family. That’s why he used it—why he dropped that threat so easily, like it cost him nothing.

Bastard.

My throat tightened, rage and shame mixing like acid in my chest. I wanted to scream. Wanted to slap that calm right off his face. But I stood frozen.

Because he was right.

One phone call, and I’d be dragged back to that house. Back to the bruises no one ever asked about. The silence. The way they looked through me, like I was never even there.

And Theodore knew.

That was the worst part.

He knew—and he still used it.

“Fuck you!” I spat, and walked.

Even with his face covered, I wanted to claw it off—wanted to see if he could stay that calm with blood running down his cheek.

Every step felt like surrender, but my choices had already been stripped away. All I could do now was keep my spine straight and pretend I still had power.

The guards didn’t touch me. They didn’t have to.

Theodore said nothing as I passed him. Just turned his head slightly, watching me like I was some puzzle he’d already solved.

I climbed into the car without a word. The door shut behind me with a soft, final click—quiet, but deafening.

He wanted obedience. He got silence.

But that didn’t mean I’d given up.

Not even close.

Albert helped Theodore out of the wheelchair and seated him beside me.

How dumb I’d been to think this man was suffering. How could I forget—rich people, no matter how broken or disabled they became, still held more power than someone like me.

“I hate the way you talk, Irene.”