Chapter Two

SYRA

I exhaled heavily as I alighted from the Uber, the scent of leather seats and old perfume still clinging to my coat.

Inhale.

Then exhale.

My eyes lifted to the grand structure before me—The Social Hall, Lavington.

“You’ve made your mind, Syra,” I whispered to myself, chewing a piece of mint gum. Helps build confidence.

Inside, it was just as I remembered—cool, sleek, dripping with luxury. Soft jazz floated through the air, rich people sipped vintage wine while pretending not to judge each other. 

I walked past them with heels that clicked with purpose.

I headed straight for the first floor, to the farthest corner, the one with the best view and the worst privacy. There he was.

Adrian.

Seated like he owned the damn place. Legs crossed, a clean, classic white baggy shirt hanging effortlessly off his frame, and blue jeans that hugged his lean legs just right. On his feet, the latest Jordans. His fingers danced across a tablet screen, eyes never once lifting.

I slid into the seat beside him. He still didn’t look at me.

“Hi Adrian, it’s been a while, hasn’t it,” I said, trying to sound casual. I wasn’t. My heart was throwing punches in my chest.

“Drop the act, Syra. I could hear your heartbeat from miles. What do you want?” he asked without sparing me a glance, voice cold and dry like winter wind.

“Okay, let’s get married,” I said, throwing the bomb with a smirk and no warning.

“Excuse me?”

This time, he looked at me.

His eyes—brown, glowing.

“What did you just say?”

“I’m here to marry you.” I exhaled, letting the words hang in the air like smoke.

He scoffed. “Marry me? You’re ten years late, Syra.”

And just like that, he looked away again, back to his screen, like I was nothing but noise.

“I know what I did back then. But here I am,” I said, desperation cracking through my words. “I heard you were looking for a bride… so here I am.”

He said nothing. Just kept scrolling. That silence was louder than any insult.

But I knew this wasn’t just about pride or pain. I was the one who got away.

We were once engaged—Adrian, my first… or maybe he was supposed to be my forever. Until the stupid, young version of me chased love with Asher and left Adrian behind.

“I’m sorry, Adrian. I messed up. But we’re here now. You need a wife to inherit your father’s empire, and I’m the best choice.”

“The best choice,” he scoffed, finally placing the tablet down, “Since when did a married woman become the best choice for a bride?”

“Well,” I shrugged, biting the gum with a smirk as I raised one finger, “Just got divorced.”

He let out a low chuckle, the kind that echoed in your bones. His fingers powered off the tablet, tossed it onto the table, then he turned to face me fully.

“Seriously, Syra? You get divorced and sprint back to the guy you dumped like a bad habit ten years ago? What the hell kind of game are you playing?”

I sighed. No point hiding it. Not now.

“I want revenge,” I said bluntly, leaning in just enough for him to catch the fire in my eyes. “I want to destroy them. I want them to beg, Adrian… on their knees. And I’m going to use you to do it.”

He laughed. Not just a scoff this time—a dark, amused laugh.

“Use me? You’re kinda bold.”

“Oh yeah, Adrian. I’m done being the good girl. I’m not here to beg for forgiveness or pretend to love. I’m here to use you… for my greed,” I whispered, licking my lower lip slowly.

His smirk widened. He inched closer, the space between us heating up.

“Say I agree,” he murmured, voice low and rough, “What do I get in return?”

“Your inheritance. I won’t ask for a coin. One year. I use you, get back what’s mine, then I walk away.”

His eyes narrowed. He leaned back slightly, head tilted like he was sizing me up for the second time in his life.

 “There’s something you don’t get, Syra. I’m not interested in some romance contract or a convenient little arrangement. We get married, I mark you. No one-year clause, no halfway nonsense. I’m not looking for a human bride—I want a mate. You’ve got three months, then I mark you. In or out?”

I exhaled sharply.

Well... I didn’t see that one coming. 

Adrian Steinhart.

The son of Alden Steinhart. The richest wolf in Kenya and the strongest Alpha I’ve ever met. His influence stretches beyond borders—he’s a monster dressed in custom suits, investing in every major sector in the country. And as if that wasn’t enough, he’s the current Vice President.

In this country, everyone running for president are memebrs of the Union and they follow one rule: human president, wolf vice president.

To take down Asher and take back everything that was mine, I had two options:

Go home with my tail tucked between my legs, beg Dad for a second chance—fifty-fifty odds on whether he'd even open the door.

Or… marry Adrian Steinhart.

And I wasn’t going to let this chance slide.

“Okay, fine,” I said, flashing a slow smile. I had already made up my mind the moment I stepped into this building. “But instead of some plain old contract marriage, how about we spice things up?”

He leaned closer, those sharp eyes scanning me.

“I’m listening.”

I mirrored him, meeting those goddamn beautiful, dangerous eyes without flinching.

“Let’s play a game,” I purred. “You’ve got three months. In that time, you can try any type of flirting, seducing, or courting—bad boy style. Pull every trick you’ve got. Make me want you. And if, by any chance, my heart so much as skips a beat when I see that ridiculously handsome face of yours? You win. You mark me, and I’m yours.”

“Any kind of flirting?” he asked, amused now.

I nodded.

“Yeah, bad boy. All of it. Make me want you. But if you fail… then I use you for a year—your name, your power, your resources—and after that, you release me. So… what do you say, Mr. Steinhart? In or out?”

He scoffed again. He raised his hand, and just then, a woman walked in. I could smell the raw, sheer power radiating off her—pure wolf. She handed him a sleek black folder.

Without a word, he opened it.

“Here’s my answer.”

I took it, brows raised. He was fast. A marriage contract, crisp and legal. His signature already sprawled across the line. I skimmed through it.

My breath hitched.

His wife would have full rights over his assets. Every business. Every company. The entire empire.

Controlling Steinhart Corporation? That was like having a chokehold on half of Kenya’s economy.

“You’re thinking twice now, Syra?” he smirked.

I scoffed. Without hesitation, I uncapped the pen, let the ink bleed beneath my name, and signed.

Yeah, I know. I should’ve wondered how the hell he already had my name printed on the damn thing.

I handed the note back with a lazy grin. “The game is on,” I said as I rose from my seat, “Looking forward to—”

But I didn’t get the chance to finish.

In a heartbeat, he pulled me down with him, and I tumbled straight into his lap. His hand, warm and firm, laced through mine, locking me there as he stared down at me.

His gaze shifted—mocking, entertained. Dangerous.

“Yeah, Syra,” he murmured, voice dipped in velvet, “the game already started. And if I remember right, all type of flirting is allowed —word play, message dedications, and blublublu”—he mimicked with a mocking roll of his lips—“that’s old school.”

I opened my mouth, but he beat me to it, his smile curling.

“I don’t do old school,” he whispered, his lips brushing the edge of my cheek. “I do physical flirting. The kind that leaves you breathless.”

And then—he took.

His mouth crashed onto mine like a storm, no warning, no pause. One second I was thinking, the next I wasn’t. He didn’t kiss me. No. He consumed me.

His lips crushed against mine with enough force to make me gasp, and that gasp was all he needed—he deepened the kiss, dragging me into his rhythm. 

My body betrayed me. Every attempt to push him away ended with me clinging tighter, pulled into the heat of his chest.

A subtle shift to the left, and he angled his mouth over mine, tongue sliding past my parted lips with practiced ease.

His hands skimmed down my back, slipping beneath the hem of my top to grip my waist. With a slow, possessive pull, he maneuvered me until I was kneeling astride him, pinning him down on the couch.

To anyone watching, it would look like I was the one kissing him.

By the time he finally let me go, I was gasping—lungs empty, lips parted and swollen, my pulse roaring like war drums in my ears. His thumb brushed lazily against the corner of my mouth.

“That,” he said, his smirk infuriatingly smug, “was just the opening move, Syra. Or should I start calling you darling now?”

He stood, lifting me with him as though I weighed nothing, and instinctively, my arms looped around his neck for balance.

 My breath hitched.

“You’ve rested enough for ten years,” he whispered. “Two weeks. That’s all I need.”

He leaned down, his lips brushing the shell of my ear.

“I finally have you… and I won’t let anything stop me from marking you.”

His breath danced down my neck. “Three months from now… this game ends. And when it does—”

He paused.

His eyes met mine, dark and glinting.

“—You’ll be mine in every way.”