CHAPTER 6:

Isabella's POV

The clock on the wall mocked me. Half past eight, and Adrian Ashford strolled in like he owned time itself. Which, in this house, he probably did.

His hand pressed my shoulder. I shifted it immediately.

"What do you want to eat tonight?" he asked, loosening his tie.

"Nothing." I didn't look up from the window. "I'm not hungry."

"I know you haven't eaten yet."

"And you haven't earned the right to notice."

He stepped closer, close enough that I could smell his cologne — expensive, like everything else about him. "You need to eat something, Isabella."

I turned my head slowly, giving him the look I reserved for people who forgot their place. "Since when do you have any authority over what I do?"

His hand came up before I could stop it, one finger tracing the line of my chin. Gentle. Too gentle. "Haven't you read the contract properly?"

I slapped his hand away like it had burned me. "You're out of your mind," I murmured.

Something flickered in his eyes — not anger. Amusement. Like I'd just confirmed something he already suspected about me. He didn't argue. He simply turned and snapped his fingers at the door, where his cook appeared like she'd been waiting all along.

"Bring everything we have. Let her choose."

"I said I'm not—"

"I heard you." He sat across from me, unbothered, unbuttoning his cuff like he had all night to wait for me out.

The food came in waves. Roasted lamb, saffron rice, some pasta dish drowning in cream, a bowl of fruit cut so precisely it looked fake. The table filled up until there was no space left, and still, I didn't touch a single plate.

I was tired. Tired of fighting, tired of pretending I wasn't exhausted, tired of him watching me like I was a puzzle he intended to solve by morning. My eyes grew heavy, almost swollen. The chair was soft. I told myself I'd just rest them for a second.

I didn't mean to fall asleep.

But I did.

When I opened my eyes, he was closer than before. Too close. A spoon hovered near my mouth, steam still rising off it with warmth.

"What are you doing?" My voice came out rougher than I wanted.

"Feeding my wife." He said it so calmly, like it was the most natural sentence in the world.

"I'm not hungry, I told you—"

"You fell asleep at the table, Isabella. That's not stubbornness. That's your body giving up before you do." He set the spoon down, and for a second, something almost human crossed his face. "You're my wife. Whether you like it or not, I know how to take care of you. It's my responsibility now."

"Responsibility." I laughed, and it wasn't a kind sound. "Is that what we're calling it?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he reached for the wine bottle, uncorked it, and poured a glass with the same precision he did everything else. Then he lifted it toward me.

"Drink."

"I don't take orders from you."

"It's wine, Isabella. Not poison." His voice dropped, softer now, almost coaxing. He glanced at me before putting it in my mouth. "Just a sip."

I don't know why I let him bring it to my lips. Maybe I was too tired to fight one more battle. Maybe some small, foolish part of me wanted to see what he'd do next. The wine touched my tongue — rich, dark, sweeter than I expected.

"Good," he murmured, watching my mouth like he was memorizing it.

That word did something to me. It reminded me exactly what this was. A performance. A cage dressed up in silk sheets and candlelight, and he was standing there congratulating himself for training me well.

I didn't think. I just moved.

The wine left my hand before I even registered lifting it, and it hit him square in the face, dripping down his jaw, soaking into his collar. For one long second, neither of us breathed.

His expression didn't explode into rage like I braced for. It went still. Terrifyingly still. A drop of wine slid from his chin and landed on the white tablecloth like a small red wound.

"Feel better?" His voice was quiet. Too quiet.

"I feel like myself again," I shot back, chest heaving. "Something you clearly forgot I was allowed to be."

I was smiling inside, but I couldn't show it openly. He wiped his face slowly with the napkin, never once breaking eye contact with me. I thought he would slap me or do his worst. But there was no anger in his movements — that was the part that scared me. Adrian Ashford didn't yell. He recalculated.

"You think this is a game, don't you?" He leaned forward, elbows on the table, wine still clinging to his throat. "You think if you fight me enough, I'll let you go."

"I think you're a man who bought a wife because he couldn't get one to stay."

The silence that followed was so sharp I could've cut myself on it.

He stood, buttoning his cuff again like nothing had happened, like I hadn't just thrown wine in his face and every ounce of pride he had. 

He stood up and walked around the table, slow, deliberate, until he was standing right behind my chair. I felt his eyes on me, his breath at my ear before he spoke.

"You should be more careful, Isabella," he said. "I don't lose control often. But when I do—" he paused, letting the words hang in the air like a blade, "—you won't like what happens next."

He straightened, walked to the door, and stopped with his hand on the frame, not even turning around.

"Oh,.... Isabella?"

"What?"

"Tomorrow night, you're coming to the Whitmore Gala with me. As my wife, after you have been welcomed at the dinner by the Ashford family." A pause. "Wear white. It's my favorite color on you — mostly because it shows every stain you leave behind."

“Rosie is coming to show you where to sleep.”

The door shut before I could throw anything else.

I sat there, heart hammering, wine-stained tablecloth in front of me, and one horrifying realization creeping in.

He wasn't angry.

He was pleased.

And that terrified me more than his anger ever could.