THE FIRST LINE 1

I woke before dawn.

Not because I was rested, but because something felt wrong.

The room was dim, shadows clinging to the corners like living things. For a few disoriented seconds, I didn’t remember where I was. Then the weight of the bed beneath me, the unfamiliar scent of dark wood and clean linen, and the steady presence beside me snapped everything back into place.

Dominic.

He lay on his back, one arm resting loosely at his side, his chest rising and falling in an even rhythm. He was asleep or at least he looked like it. His face in repose was different. Less sharp. Less carved from steel. The lines of tension that usually framed his mouth were softened, his lashes casting shadows against his cheeks.

It would have been easy, dangerously easy to forget who he was in that moment.

I didn’t.

I shifted slightly, careful not to disturb him, and glanced at the clock on the far wall.

5:12 a.m.

Sleep was no longer an option.

I slid quietly out of bed, my bare feet sinking into the plush carpet. The room felt cavernous without his body anchoring it. I gathered my robe from the chair near the window and slipped it on, tying the belt tightly around my waist as if it might protect me from the reality pressing in on all sides.

The sitting area was dimly lit, soft amber lights glowing faintly along the walls. I crossed the space and stopped at the window, resting my forehead lightly against the cool glass.

The estate grounds stretched endlessly below, mist clinging to the grass like a shroud. Somewhere in the distance, security lights swept methodically across the perimeter, their movement slow and relentless.

There was no way out.

Not without permission.

Not without consequences.

The door behind me opened quietly.

I stiffened.

“You don’t sleep well,” Dominic said.

I didn’t turn. “You say that like you expected it.”

“I did.”

I exhaled slowly. “What do you want?”

“To talk.”

I let out a short laugh. “That’s new.”

He stepped closer, stopping a few feet behind me. I could feel him there—his presence radiating, controlled, deliberate.

“You crossed your first boundary last night,” he said.

I frowned. “I didn’t do anything.”

“You tested one,” he corrected. “You asked why.”

I turned to face him. “Is curiosity forbidden now?”

“No,” he said. “Dangerous.”

I folded my arms. “Then maybe you shouldn’t keep so many secrets.”

He studied me, his gaze unreadable in the low light. “Secrets are the only reason you’re still here.”

That sent a chill through me.

“Explain,” I said.

“Not yet.”

I sighed, irritation flaring. “You keep saying things like that, half-truths, warnings, riddles. Do you enjoy watching me feel off-balance?”

“Yes.”

The honesty startled me.

“I need you alert,” he continued. “Aware. Uncomfortable enough to question everything but not reckless enough to act.”

“You’re training me,” I said slowly.

“I’m preparing you.”

“For what?”

He stepped closer.

“For what’s coming.”

My pulse quickened. “And what’s coming?”

“People who won’t hesitate to hurt you to get to me.”

I stared at him. “You’re using me as bait.”

His jaw tightened. “I’m using you as leverage. There’s a difference.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“It’s not supposed to.”

I turned away again, gripping the edge of the window ledge. “You said you wouldn’t make me a victim.”

“And I won’t,” he said firmly. “Victims are powerless. You won’t be.”

I scoffed. “I’m trapped in your house, married to a man I didn’t choose, watched constantly...”

“You have protection,” he cut in. “Resources. Authority.”

“Authority over what?”

“Over yourself,” he said. “Soon.”

I looked back at him sharply. “What does that mean?”

“It means,” he replied, “that I don’t intend to keep you fragile.”

The word struck deep.

Fragile.

“I’m not fragile,” I said through clenched teeth.

“No,” he agreed. “But you are untested.”

I stepped closer, anger simmering beneath my skin. “You don’t get to decide who I am.”

He met my gaze without flinching. “I get to decide who survives.”

Silence fell between us, heavy and charged.

Then his phone buzzed.

He glanced at it briefly, his expression hardening.

“Get dressed,” he said. “You’re coming with me.”

My stomach dropped. “Where?”

“Breakfast,” he replied calmly. “With people who need to believe you belong to me.”

I crossed my arms tighter. “And if I refuse?”

He leaned down, his voice low, intimate, dangerous.

“Then you’ll prove them right.”

“Prove who right?”

“That you’re a weakness.”

I swallowed.

“Ten minutes,” he said, straightening. “Don’t be late.”

He turned and left the room.

I stood there long after the door closed, my heart racing.

For the first time since signing that contract, something shifted inside me.

Fear was still there.

But beneath it quiet, stubborn, undeniable was something else.

Defiance.