1

The rules weren’t written, just expected—strip, gel up, lie still, and wait for him.

Her phone buzzed, pulling her out of her thoughts. She glanced at the screen, then set it aside, falling right back into the same restless position. A soft click came from the door. Someone stepped inside, and the door closed behind him, leaving just a brief strip of light before the room slipped back into darkness. The rule about keeping the lights off was already being followed without a word.

He walked in slowly. Then, without a word, the bed dipped as his knees settled beside her hips. A wave of cold crept through her chest and settled deep in her core. Without a word, his cold hand wrapped around her ankle, silencing the soft chime of her anklet. The sound faded the moment his grip tightened, and he spread her legs without hesitation.

She bit her lower lip as the gel she’d already applied began to slide down her skin—useless in easing the pain. He stroked himself once or twice before lining up with her. There was no space for tenderness or love—this wasn’t about that.

It was about duty. A duty he was bound to, and for her, the only way out was death. He didn’t pause. He pushed in deep, taking what the rules demanded. A sharp gasp tore from her throat. Her fingers clutched the sheets, searching for something—anything—to hold on to. But there was no comfort.

“Put some fucking gel. You’re too dry to fuck,” he muttered, not even sparing her a glance as he shoved the bottle into her hand.

She took it without a word. Her fingers moved on their own. She squeezed out the gel and numbly circled it around her entrance. Another gasp slipped from her lips, sharp and quiet, but she stayed silent.

She lay back down and returned to the same position, her eyes fixed on the ceiling. It was the same view she always saw during this act.

The insertion was easier this time. The gel helped with the physical part, but nothing could help what she felt inside. It had been two months since their marriage, and not once had he shown any mercy. Not once had he acted like he cared whether she lived or died.

Roman Benedetti. The man everyone respected. The king of the mafia world. Girls chased him like he was untouchable like he was some kind of dream. Like he was a god.

But gods didn’t destroy people like this. And husbands—if that word even applied to him—weren’t supposed to be this cruel.

He was her vendetta. And she was the price he paid. His bride, nothing more. She focused on breathing through the pain. She swallowed the shame. She broke a little more with each passing second, quietly and completely, without making a sound.

The bed creaked under his movements. Slow at first, then faster. The pain spread through her like poison, sharp and deep. He moved over her like she didn’t exist. Like she was just a body to use. Maybe even the worst thing he had ever touched.

He didn’t speak. He didn’t look at her. There was no care in the way he touched her. Just cold, rough motions. Detached.

It hurt more than it should. Every time he did this, it felt like punishment. Like he was taking revenge for something that had happened in the last few months.

A decision she had no control over.

He had made it clear from the first night—he didn’t want a wife. He wanted an heir. A child, to fulfill his grandfather’s last wish. And her? She was just the one chosen to give him that child. Nothing more. Just a body. Just a womb.

She knew once the old man died, Roman would be done with her. He’d get rid of her and the baby without a second thought. But even with everything, a small part of her still believed there was something more between them. Something she couldn’t explain.

His thrusts continued, mechanical and cold. She felt nothing. There was no pleasure in it for her. Her eyes shifted to the side, toward the window. Rain poured down outside, soft and steady, washing over the dry ground like a quiet blessing. It was beautiful—peaceful in a way she hadn’t felt in a long time.

Her thoughts drifted back to a time when she still believed things would change. That one day, her life would finally be her own. That she could chase her dreams.

But she was wrong. She closed her eyes as her mind went back to the exact moment her fate was sealed.

The deal had been made behind closed doors, just like every important decision in her life. Her father had walked in with the same blank expression he always wore. And then he said the words that changed everything. “Roman Benedetti has finally agreed to take you,” her father said flatly, as if it were just another business deal. “This is what’s best for the family.”

She stared at him, numb. “That’s it?” she whispered. “You’re just giving me away like I’m… some kind of offering?”

Her chest tightened, but she held it in. He didn’t flinch. “This is what keeps us all alive. You are a truce. You’re the only thing I could offer him to prove our family wasn’t involved in—”

He stopped mid-sentence, not even bothering to finish. Like even he couldn’t face what he had done.

She hadn’t been given a choice. And sometimes, it felt like she had never really been their daughter at all. “But why me?” she asked quietly.

He didn’t answer.

“This is what I expect from you, Vera.”

Then he turned and walked out, leaving her behind. Just like that.

The wedding was a blur. She didn’t know what to expect from the man who had agreed to take her as part of a deal—his vendetta.

Roman stood at the end of the aisle, dressed in a black suit, calm and collected, as if nothing in the world could touch him. He was probably the most handsome man she had ever seen.

As she walked toward him, her eyes searched his face, clinging to a tiny hope—that maybe he wasn’t like the rest of her family. Maybe he would see her for who she really was. Maybe there was a chance for kindness in him. Since the day her fate was sealed, she had started thinking about him, wondering what kind of man he really was. A stranger—yes—but one who was about to become her husband. Her life partner. Somewhere deep inside, she began to believe he could be a new beginning. He was dangerously handsome, the kind of man who could steal a breath with just one look. Too perfect to be real. And even though he never once reached out to her after their marriage was announced, she kept waiting. Waiting for a sign, a word, anything that showed he cared. But it all started to melt away the moment she walked down the aisle. That fragile hope began to break, piece by piece, before the night even began.

When the officiant asked him to take the ring, Roman didn’t move.

The pause was long enough for her to feel every eye watching. He just stood there, cold and distant, staring ahead. Her hands shook as she picked up the ring herself and slid it onto her finger. It felt like she was marrying herself. He didn’t look at her, didn’t say a word.

When it was time to seal the vows with a kiss, he turned his face away and walked out, leaving her at the altar, stunned and empty.

That night, she sat on the edge of the bed in silence. The room felt cold. She wanted to tell him this wasn’t her choice—she wasn’t asked, just told about the marriage. She never wanted to be a burden to him, and she didn’t deserve to be treated like his enemy.

Roman came out of the bathroom shirtless, his hair still damp. She looked up, unsure of how to begin, but he didn’t give her the chance. Without saying a word, he walked across the room and turned off the light.

The next sound she heard was the sharp rip of fabric. 

Her wedding dress was being torn apart, shredded into pieces, and tossed to the floor. Panic rose in her chest, but it was drowned out by the weight of fear she had been carrying all day.

“Roman…” she whispered, her voice shaking. She wanted him to stop, to show at least a trace of mercy. But he didn’t.

There was no love in what followed. No care. Only cold, rough movements that left her breathless and broken. The pain shot through her body, sharp and unforgiving, but what hurt more was the way her heart seemed to crack open, piece by piece, under the weight of what he was doing.

With every thrust, he reminded her that this was her fate. That she meant nothing to him. That this wasn’t a marriage—it was a deal. And she was just part of it.

She lay there in the darkness, staring up at the ceiling. Her eyes burned, but she refused to cry. The room was silent, except for the sound of her own breathing, the creak of the mattress beneath her, and the dull pounding in her ears. She bit down on her lip, hard, forcing herself to stay quiet as the sob clawed its way up her throat.

And then, just as he moved deeper inside her, she heard it—one word, softly spoken.

A sudden pull snapped Vera back into the moment. Nothing had changed. In these two months of suffering, she still felt the same. Every act was just as brutal, just as cold. She had survived it all somehow, but every time he touched her, the same question echoed in her mind—How long can I keep doing this?

His thrusts grew harder for a few seconds, the telltale sign that he was close. And then, just like every time before, came the name—the same name he always muttered in that final moment.

“Lillith…”

The name slipped from his lips, soft but clear, cutting through the silence like a knife. As he released himself inside her, Vera lay frozen beneath him, staring blankly at the ceiling.

There was no room for her in this marriage. There never had been. It had always been the three of them—Roman, Vera, and the woman she had never met.

Lillith. The true wife of his heart.

And Vera? If Lillith was the woman he loved... then what was she?