CHAPTER THREE

ZARA’S POV

This was his castle?

Zara stepped into the mansion like she owned it. Head high. Chin up. Eyes scanning every glint of cold marble and polished silver.

It smelled like money. Like power.

Like a man who thought the world should kneel for him.

Too bad she didn’t kneel.

Her heels clicked against the floor like bullets as she walked, each step echoing off the hollow silence of Lucien’s home. Staff stood frozen in the corners like statues, afraid to breathe in her presence.

Good.

She liked that.

Behind her, two of her guards hauled in her designer suitcases while a maid tried not to meet her eyes. Zara turned and narrowed her gaze at the girl.

“You,” she said, her voice sharp. “Why are you standing like a thief?”

The maid flinched. “I-I’m sorry, ma’am.”

“‘Sorry’ doesn’t iron my clothes or unpack my heels. Try again.”

The maid nodded quickly and scurried away.

Zara walked farther in, pausing in the massive living room. The house was all white and black, glass and chrome. Cold. Like it was trying too hard to look perfect.

Just like Lucien.

She dropped her fur coat onto a couch, walked up the glass stairs, and turned as she reached the landing.

“You!” she called to one of the guards. “Bring the red trunk upstairs. And don’t drag it like your mother didn’t raise you.”

Her voice carried through the mansion. She could feel eyes on her. That only made her smile.

Let them watch.

Let them all know: the devil had arrived.

⸻

LUCIEN’S POV

He watched from the end of the hallway.

Zara was chaos incarnate — sweeping through his home like a storm with red lipstick.

He clenched his jaw.

It had been less than an hour since they walked into the house and already she’d insulted the staff, threatened a guard, and made herself very comfortable on his furniture.

She had no shame. No boundaries.

Lucien adjusted the cuffs of his shirt and approached slowly, watching her every move.

“You’ve been here fifteen minutes and already you’re running a military camp,” he said coolly.

She turned. Her black robe hugged her curves. Her mouth curled into a smirk.

“I assumed the place needed structure. It was too quiet,” she replied. “Now it feels… lively.”

“You don’t get to come into my home and treat my people like trash.”

“I’m your wife,” she replied sweetly. “Doesn’t that come with perks?”

Lucien stepped closer. “It comes with rules.”

Zara tilted her head, mock innocence in her gaze. “What if I like breaking rules?”

“Then you’ll bleed.”

She laughed. “That’s the most interesting thing you’ve said since the wedding.”

Lucien’s eyes narrowed. “Don’t test me, Zara. This house has its order. If you’re looking to be coddled, call your father.”

Her expression darkened instantly. Her smirk disappeared like a blade sheathed in silence.

“Don’t talk to me about him.”

“He gave you to me,” Lucien said, cold. “That makes me your reality now.”

Zara walked past him, slowly, her shoulder brushing his arm. “Then you better be a nightmare worth the trade.”

⸻

ZARA’S POV

Her new bedroom was massive — but it still felt like a cage.

She stared at herself in the mirror, wearing nothing but a thin silk robe, and ran her fingers through her hair. Her reflection stared back like a stranger.

She was still angry.

Still raw from the betrayal.

Her father hadn’t even warned her. One moment she was dragging blood across a warehouse floor, the next she was being married off like a bargaining chip.

She opened one of her trunks, pulled out a sheer black lace bra, and slipped it on. Then the matching thong. Then the robe again — but left it open this time.

She didn’t feel like being subtle tonight.

She wandered into the hallway, fingers tracing the walls. She found one of Lucien’s guards posted near the library — a handsome one, young.

She walked straight up to him and smiled.

“Do you like your job?” she asked, sweetly.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Even when your boss brings home a girl like me?”

He hesitated. “You’re… his wife.”

“Mmhmm. So you’re saying I’m off-limits?” she whispered, stepping closer. “Even if I asked for a taste?”

The guard’s breath hitched. His eyes flickered to her cleavage.

She was inches away now — close enough to make him sweat.

But suddenly, strong fingers wrapped around her wrist.

Lucien.

⸻

LUCIEN’S POV

He’d had enough.

Without a word, he dragged her away from the stunned guard and down the hallway, pushing her up against the wall just out of sight.

Her robe fell slightly open.

His eyes flicked down, then back up to her face.

“Are you insane?” he hissed.

“Little bit,” she whispered. “Did that turn you on?”

His breath was shallow. Her body was pressed against him, hot and soft and electric.

She leaned up. “You want to punish me, husband?”

Lucien stared at her. Her mouth. Her throat. The curve of her breast beneath the lace.

He grabbed her hips, slammed her back into the wall, and pressed his forehead to hers.

“I don’t fuck wild animals,” he growled.

“Your loss,” she whispered.

They stared at each other for a long second, both breathing hard.

Then he dropped his hands and stepped back.

“You’re poison.”

“And you’re addicted.”

Lucien walked away before he did something they’d both regret.

⸻

ZARA’S POV

Night fell over the mansion like a spell.

Zara wandered the halls barefoot, sipping wine from a crystal glass. Every hallway, every room — all neat, cold, and perfect. She hated it.

So she wrecked it.

One by one, she went into guest rooms and opened drawers. Rummaged. Moved things. Left curtains half drawn.

She kicked a vase off a side table just to hear it break.

Let him notice.

Let him feel it.

She finally curled up on the black leather couch in the main sitting room, legs bare, robe slipping off one shoulder.

She turned on music. Something dark and slow. Let it echo through the house.

Then she took out her phone.

Opened the folder she had saved.

The one with Lucien’s name.

Photos. Documents. Secrets.

She scrolled past them all… until she got to the video.

She hit play.

It was an old video — one her father’s men had once shown her. A grainy clip of Lucien, in his early twenties, with a gun in his hand, dragging a bloodied man into a room.

Zara watched it again. And again.

And again.

Her stomach twisted, but her heart pounded with something worse.

Curiosity.

I changed into silk shorts and a bralette, then threw a robe over it and stepped out into the hallway. The lighting was warm, casting gold shadows along the walls. It was too quiet. He is not made of stone, he will definitely want me and I will make him drawl.

I walked toward the library, where I saw a crack of light. He was in there—reading, probably pretending I didn’t exist.

Good.

I opened the door slowly and leaned on the frame.

“You read at night?” I asked.

Lucien didn’t look up. “When I want peace.”

I walked in, letting the robe slip just enough for one shoulder to show. His eyes flicked toward me for a split second. Then back to his book.

Progress.

I stepped closer. “You know… I think we’d get along better if you just fucked me.”

He looked up then. Calm. Unbothered.

“Do you think that’s what this is?” he asked. “You seduce me, and suddenly I care?”

I smiled. “I think you’re dying to touch me and too scared you’ll enjoy it.”

He stood.

Slowly. Quietly. All that calm boiled into something else.

I felt my body tense. because he was tall enough, strong enough, and angry enough to make my pulse throb in places I didn’t expect.

He walked to me and stopped inches from my face.

“I could pin you to this wall right now and make you beg,” he said.

My lips parted.

“But I don’t need to prove myself to you,” he whispered. “Because whether you scream for me or cry alone again tonight—you’ll still be in my house. Under my roof. Wearing my name.”

I swallowed.

He stepped back.

“Goodnight, Zara.”

He didn’t look back as he walked past me. His scent lingered. Clean. Expensive. Male.

I stood frozen in place, breath shaky.

He hadn’t touched me.

He hadn’t even blinked.

And yet… my thighs were clenched.

What the hell kind of man was he?

⸻

LUCIEN’S POV

Hours later

He knew she was awake.

He heard the music.

He heard the sound of glass shattering two hours earlier and said nothing.

He tried to focus on his laptop. Reports. Meetings. Threats. Anything.

But she was too loud.

Again.

Moaning.

Louder than before.

He stood, stormed into the hallway, and pushed open the door to the living room.

There she was — again — sprawled on the couch in a silk robe, legs spread, vibrator humming.

Zara turned her head and smiled lazily. “You’re getting predictable, husband.”

Lucien stared. Breathing hard.

He should walk away. Say nothing.

But her moans were deliberate now. Her fingers teasing herself with precision. She was putting on a show — and God, he was watching it.

She bit her lip. “You look tense.”

“Zara,” he growled.

She paused. Looked straight at him.

Then whispered, “Wouldn’t you rather do it yourself?”

His hands curled into fists.

She gasped softly, arched her back, and let out a cry as she climaxed. Loud. Unapologetic. Her robe slipped open — and she didn’t bother fixing it.

Lucien turned and walked away, heart pounding.

She wanted attention. He wouldn’t give it.

Instead, he buried himself in the study.

Or tried to.

Until his phone buzzed.

An unknown number.

“She’s not who you think she is.”

Attached: a photo.

He tapped on it.

It was Zara — standing in his living room that very moment, holding her wine glass… and smiling straight at the hidden camera.

There were no cameras in that room.

Not his.

Lucien stood slowly.

Eyes cold.

Veins frozen.

There was someone else in his house.

Watching them both.