Chapter Seven

NOORIA

That voice.

It cuts through the ringing in my ears and the screams still echoing across the office floor like a blade wrapped in silk.

Valentino steps into the chaos as if he owns it. Because he does.

He’s dressed in a crisp black suit, no tie, the top two buttons of his shirt undone like he just left a boardroom meeting instead of ordering a hit in broad daylight. His dark hair is perfectly tousled, that scar through his eyebrow catching the fluorescent lights. Two of his men flank him, but they hang back, hands loose at their sides. Valentino doesn’t even glance at Marcus’s body bleeding out on the carpet. His gray eyes find me instantly,locked on like I’m the only thing in the room.

He crosses the floor in long, unhurried strides, stepping over a fallen chair without breaking eye contact. The crowd parts for him like water. Phones are still recording, but no one dares speak.

Fiona’s grip on my arm tightens. “Nooria… that’s him.”

Like I wouldn't know my own fucking husband.

Valentino stops right in front of the desk we’re crouched behind. He holds out one hand, palm up, like he’s offering me the world instead of pulling me out of a crime scene.

“Come.”

It’s not a request, and I know not to argue.

I let him pull me to my feet. My legs feel like jelly. Blood has splattered the hem of my modest blouse from how close Marcus was standing. I can smell it, metallic, and warm. Marcus’s lifeless eyes stare up at the ceiling a few feet away, and my stomach twists so hard I think I might be sick.

Valentino’s hand slides to the small of my back, possessive and steady. He doesn’t look at Fiona, nor does he look at any other thing in the room. He just guides me toward the door like we’re leaving a boring meeting.

“Clean this up,” he says quietly to one of his men as we pass. The guy nods once, already pulling out his phone.

The hallway is a blur of shocked faces and flashing phone cameras. Valentino doesn’t slow down. His hand stays on my back, fingers pressing just hard enough to remind me who I belong to now.

We reach the private elevator at the end of the corridor. The doors slide open, and he ushers me inside, then steps in after me. The moment the doors close, the calm mask drops.

He spins me around and pins me against the mirrored wall, one hand braced beside my head, the other gripping my chin hard enough to make me gasp.

“What the fuck were you thinking?” His voice is low, dangerous. “Letting that piece of shit talk to you like trash in front of your entire office? In front of strangers? In front of *cameras*?”

I try to pull away, but there’s nowhere to go. “I didn’t let him…”

“You stood there,” he cuts me off, thumb pressing into my lower lip. “You let him call my wife a slut. A whore. You let him spit all that filth while half the city watched. I had to send someone to shut his mouth permanently because you couldn’t handle it yourself.”

My eyes burn. “He showed up out of nowhere. I told him to leave. I…”

“You are MINE now, Nooria.” His gray eyes are storm-dark. “No one talks to what’s mine like that. Not your ex. Not your family. Not even you. Next time someone disrespects you, you call me. Immediately. Or I’ll start killing people every time you breathe wrong in public. Understand?”

I nod, throat tight.

He stares at me for another beat, then releases my chin and smooths a strand of hair behind my ear almost gently. The elevator dings, and the doors open to the underground garage where his black SUV is already waiting, engine purring.

He guides me into the back seat without another word. The driver doesn’t ask questions, and just pulls away like he was told beforehand where we'll be going. Valentino slides in beside me, the door shutting with a heavy, expensive click.

We pull out into the city streets. Sirens wail in the distance, probably heading to SKYLINE.

Valentino lights a cigarette, cracks the window, and exhales slowly. “We’re going shopping.”

I blink. “Shopping?”

“You need clothes for tomorrow night.” He scrolls through his phone like the conversation about Marcus’s dead body is already over. “Your sister’s engagement party. The one your father arranged with the Al-Mansour family after all. Faiza is marrying the sultan’s son in your place. And you’re coming with me as my wife.”

My stomach drops. “Faiza’s… engagement? Tomorrow?”

He nods once. “Whole family will be there. Business associates, press, everyone who’s been whispering about the scandal. You’ll stand beside me, you’ll smile, and you’ll let them see exactly who you belong to now.”

I press my hands to my lap to stop them from shaking. “I can’t. Not after everything. Not after Baba slapped me and…”

“You can and you will.” His tone leaves no room for argument. “And you’ll wear what I choose.”

The car stops outside a row of exclusive boutiques I’ve only ever walked past. Valentino doesn’t wait for the driver. He opens my door himself and offers his hand. I take it because I know better than to refuse in public.

Inside the first store, the manager nearly trips over herself to greet him. “Mr. Delucca, everything is ready in the private suite as you requested.”

He leads me to a lavish dressing room bigger than my old bedroom. Racks of dresses, lingerie, heels, and jewelry wait—silks, satins, deep reds and blacks that scream wealth and sin. Nothing modest. Nothing that would cover my neck or arms the way I’m used to.

Valentino sits on the velvet couch like a king, legs spread, watching me. “Try them on. All of them.”

I hesitate. “Valentino… I’m not just a Muslim, I grew up beign told dressing to cover my body is the right way to dress. I can’t just wear…”

“You’re my wife first, and now you'll learn that the right way of dressing is one which I choose.” he says flatly. “Try the red one. The backless one.”

I swallow the protest and disappear behind the curtain. The dress is obscene, silk that clings to every curve, plunging neckline, open back that dips dangerously low. When I step out, Valentino’s eyes darken with approval.

“Turn.”

I do. Slowly. My cheeks burn.

“Good,” he murmurs. “We’ll take that. And the black one. And the emerald. Add the diamond choker, the one that covers the marks I left on your neck. I don’t want anyone else seeing them.”

He buys everything. Thousands upon thousands of dollars while I stand there feeling like a doll being dressed for his amusement. He even chooses lingerie—tiny scraps of lace that make my face flame.

In the car afterward, bags filling the trunk, he finally speaks again.

“You’ll wear the red dress tomorrow night. Hair down. Makeup the way I like. And when your sister looks at you across the room, you’ll remember exactly who put that ring on your finger.”

I stare out the window, the city blurring past. Marcus is dead. My family is shattered. And tomorrow I have to stand beside the man who ruined everything and smile at the sister who drugged me.

My phone dings and I pick it up to see it's a photo from an unknown number. I open the photo and a scream leaves my mouth as I let go of the phone in shock and fear.