Chapter 3: The First Night

Aria stood in the center of the penthouse, eyes wide.

It was nothing like she expected.

Polished marble floors stretched beneath her heels, reflecting the soft glow of chandelier light. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline, the city glittering beneath a navy sky. The entire space screamed elegance and wealth—but it wasn’t cold. It was curated. Masculine. Controlled.

Like him.

Her suitcase sat forgotten by the door, untouched since she’d stepped in twenty minutes ago. She couldn’t stop staring. Not at the decor. At him.

Sebastian Wolfe stood by the bar, pouring a glass of something amber and expensive. Jacket off, shirt sleeves rolled up, the lines of his forearms flexing with every movement. He didn’t speak immediately, didn’t acknowledge the tension humming in the air between them.

He was giving her time.

Or giving her enough rope to hang herself.

“You’ve been quiet,” he finally said, turning to face her.

“I’m taking it all in.” She paused. “You live like a king.”

“I am a king,” he replied simply, taking a sip. “And you—by tomorrow—will be my queen.”

Her breath caught.

He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t trying to flirt. He said it like a fact, like her becoming his was a decision carved in stone.

“I expected something more… sterile,” she said, glancing around. “This place is warm.”

“I don’t invite people in,” he said, walking toward her. “Only those I want close.”

She swallowed hard. “And I’m close now.”

“You will be.”

He stopped just in front of her. Not touching. Not yet.

“You’re not afraid,” he observed.

“No,” she lied.

He saw right through it.

But he didn’t call her out. Instead, he reached up, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. His touch was warm, commanding, but not rough. His fingers lingered near her jaw, then dropped slowly.

“I won’t hurt you,” he said, voice low. “But I won’t coddle you either.”

Aria tilted her chin. “Good. I’m not fragile.”

“No,” he murmured, “you’re fire.”

She burned hotter under his gaze.

“You’ll sleep in the master bedroom,” he said. “With me.”

Her pulse fluttered. “Of course.”

“This isn’t a marriage of convenience behind closed doors. We play the part in public—and in private.”

Her lips parted. “So this is where the lines start to blur.”

“There are no lines.” His tone was final. “Only expectations.”

He stepped back, letting her breathe again. “Dinner is on the way. Change into something comfortable.”

“Comfortable?” she echoed, eyebrow raised.

He smirked slightly. “Unless you’d rather I undress you myself.”

The heat between them ignited again, quick and sharp.

She turned to walk toward the guest room she spotted down the hall, tossing him a glance over her shoulder. “Try me, Wolfe.”

He let out a low, dangerous laugh as she disappeared.

---

Aria stared at herself in the mirror.

She wore one of her silk nightgowns—short, black, and barely-there. Thin straps, lace trim, and just enough coverage to pretend she wasn’t trying to tease him. But she was.

God, she was.

Her body tingled with nerves. Not because she feared him—but because she didn’t.

That scared her more.

When she stepped into the dining area, he was already seated, a full dinner laid out on the glass table—steak, grilled vegetables, a bottle of wine already open. The lights were dimmer now, softer, more intimate.

His eyes flicked up to meet hers—and stayed there.

“You wore that for me,” he said simply.

Aria smiled. “Would you be upset if I said no?”

“No,” he said. “But I’d know you’re lying.”

She sat across from him. The moment felt… surreal. Surrounded by silence, tension crackling in the space between them, her body screaming from the heat in his stare. He passed her a plate, poured her wine, then finally spoke again.

“You look stunning.”

“Thank you.”

He cut into his steak, then glanced at her. “Tell me something honest.”

She blinked. “Now?”

“Yes. I want to know the woman I’m bringing into my bed.”

Aria sipped her wine, met his gaze. “I’ve never belonged to anyone before.”

Sebastian stilled.

“I’ve had offers,” she continued. “But they always wanted to tame me. Make me smaller. You don’t want that.”

“No,” he said, voice low. “I want to amplify you.”

The words hit her harder than she expected.

“And you?” she asked. “Tell me something honest.”

His jaw flexed. He looked down at his glass. “I haven’t touched a woman since my wife died.”

Silence.

Aria’s breath slowed. She hadn’t expected that. Not from a man like him. The tabloids painted him as cold, untouchable. But beneath the steel, there was still grief.

“Does it feel like betrayal?” she asked softly.

He met her eyes. “No. It feels like a second chance.”

The air shifted.

He stood, walked around the table, and extended his hand. “Come.”

She rose and took it without hesitation.

He didn’t rush. He guided her to the master bedroom with slow, deliberate steps. The space was dark, the scent of cedar and cologne filling her senses.

At the edge of the bed, he turned to her. “One last chance, Aria. Say no, and I’ll sleep on the couch.”

She shook her head.

“I’m not saying no.”

And when he kissed her—deep, slow, claiming—it wasn’t rough or rushed. It was reverent.

It was a man touching a woman not for release, but to remember what it felt like to feel.

And when he pulled her into his bed, she knew without question:

She didn’t just marry the king.

She’d woken the wolf.