Chapter 7 - The First Battle

Mara POV

Three days of marriage, and I'm already planning his murder.

Lucien walks into the breakfast room without greeting me, pouring coffee like I'm part of the furniture. I'm halfway through my scrambled eggs when he speaks.

"We have dinner tonight at The Lotus Garden." He doesn't look up from his phone. "Seven-thirty, kindly wear the navy Valentino."

My fork pauses midair. "Excuse me?"

"Dinner. Tonight with a business associate." He scrolls through his phone with one hand, drinking coffee with the other. "Patricia sent you the details yesterday."

"Patricia sent me a schedule." I set down my fork carefully. "No one asked if I was available."

That gets his attention. His steel-blue eyes lift to mine, one eyebrow raised.

"Available?" He says the word like it's foreign. "For what?"

"I don't know. Maybe I had plans."

"You don't have plans." He returns to his phone. "Your job is to be available for events like this."

Something inside of me snaps.

"My job," I say slowly, "is to play your wife at required social functions. Not to drop everything with four hours' notice because you decided you needed arm candy."

The temperature in the room drops ten degrees.

Lucien sets down his phone with deliberate intensity. His jaw is tight. His eyes are hard.

"Four hours is more notice than most wives get." His voice is dangerously quiet. "And you're not arm candy. You're Mrs. Lucien Cross, there is a difference."

"Is there?" I lean back in my chair, meeting his glare. "Because from where I'm sitting, I'm a doll you dress up and parade around when it's convenient."

"You signed a contract agreeing to attend social functions."

"I signed a contract agreeing to fulfill social obligations with reasonable notice." I pulled out my phone, scrolling to the P*F Adrian sent me. "See this? Section 3, paragraph 2. 'Party of the first part agrees to provide Party of the second part with no less than 48 hours notice for required public appearances except in cases of emergency.'"

I looked up. "Is this an emergency, Lucien?"

His expression is thunderous. He's not used to being challenged. Especially not by someone he thinks he owns.

"The dinner was arranged yesterday," he says through clenched teeth. "Patricia informed you."

"Patricia sent a calendar update. She didn't ask, she didn't confirm. She just assumed I'd comply." I stand, my chair scraping against marble. "I'm not one of your employees, Lucien. You can't just issue orders and expect obedience."

"I'm not issuing orders." He stands too, towering over me. "I'm telling you about a commitment we have tonight."

"No. You have a commitment. I have a life that doesn't revolve around your last-minute business dinners."

"What life?" He says, arching his brows. "You don't work. You don't have friends who matter, your entire existence is funded by me."

The truth of that lands on me as I flinch.

Mrs. Dahlia appears in the doorway, takes one look at our faces, and immediately retreats.

"So that's it?" My voice shakes with barely controlled rage. "Because you pay my family's bills, I'm supposed to jump when you snap?"

"I'm not snapping." But his tone suggests otherwise. "I'm asking you to fulfill the very simple obligations you agreed to."

"With respect, communication and basic human decency," I stepped closer, refusing to be intimidated by his height. "I signed away my freedom, Lucien. Not my dignity."

"Dignity." He laughs, but there's no humor in it. "You want to talk about dignity? You married me for money. Let's not pretend this is about anything else."

The words hit!

"I married you to save my family," I say quietly, my hands shaking. "There's a difference."

"Is there?" He throws my own words back at me. "Because from where I'm standing, you're a woman who sold herself for the highest bid."

I feel something crack inside my chest.

"If that's what you think of me," I say, my voice deadly calm, "then why did you choose me?"

He doesn't answer. His jaw works like he's grinding his teeth.

"Was it because I was desperate enough to agree?" I continued, each word precise. "Because I had no other options? Because you wanted to punish me for pouring champagne flutes on you? Because you knew I'd hate every second of this, and you didn't care?"

"Stop." His eyes are blazing now. "You want respect? Then respect the agreement we made. Show up when I need you. Play the role you auditioned for."

"I didn't audition for anything." Tears are burning my eyes, but I refuse to let them fall. "I was desperate. And you took advantage of that."

Lucien's expression shifts—something that might be guilt or anger or both flashing across his face before the mask slams back down.

"If you don't attend tonight," he says, his voice cold and controlled, "I'll reduce your family's monthly allowance by thirty percent. Your father's experimental treatment? Not covered. Diana's advanced therapy sessions? Canceled. Your mother's medications? She can go back to the generic versions that barely work."

"You wouldn't." I snapped, but I could see in his eyes that he would.

"Try me." He reaches for his suit jacket, slipping it on with practiced ease. "You have two hours to decide if your pride is worth your father's pain."

He's halfway to the door when I move.

My coffee cup is in my hand before I think. I throw it with all the rage and helplessness and fury burning through my veins.

It shatters against the wall six inches from his head.

Lucien freezes as coffee drips down the pristine white paint. Shards of porcelain litter the marble floor.

He turns slowly, his expression unreadable.

"Feel better?" His voice is dangerously quiet.

I'm shaking now, adrenaline coursing through me.

We stare at each other across the wreckage—the broken cup, the stained wall, the shattered pretense of civility.

"If you want a wife," I say, my voice steady despite the trembling in my hands, "Treat me like a person, give me notice. Ask my opinion and show me basic respect."

I take a step closer. Then another. Until I'm standing right in front of him, having to tilt my head back to meet his eyes.

"But if you want a puppet…" My voice drops to a whisper. "… I hope you're ready for the strings to break."

Something flashes in his eyes. Surprise. Respect. Maybe even admiration. Then it's gone, replaced by cold fury.

"Seven-thirty," he says softly. "The navy Valentino. Don't be late, Mrs. Cross."

He walks out, his footsteps echoing on marble.

I stand alone in the breakfast room, surrounded by broken porcelain and coffee stains, my hands still shaking.

Mrs. Dahlia appears in the doorway, her expression carefully neutral.

"I'll get someone to clean this up," she says gently.

"I'll clean it myself." I'm already kneeling, picking up shards. "It's my mess."

"Mrs. Cross…"

"It's Mara." I looked up at her, tears finally spilling over. "Please. Just... Mara."

She nods, kneeling beside me. "Mara, then."