The court

Lydia POV

After what seems like forever, a black Rolls-Royce pulled into the court compound, I had already imagined three different ways to murder my husband.

Future husband.

Potential husband.

Missing husband.

Whatever.

At that point, I wasn’t being picky.

The sleek black car glided through the gate like it had no business sharing space with other cars there.

I was seated outside by then.

Not because I wanted fresh air.

Because sitting inside had become unbearable.

Every few minutes, another couple got called in.

So yes, by the time the car arrived, I was irritated enough to chew glass.

The driver stepped out first.

Then the back door opened.

And Dave Ashton stepped out like he wasn’t over an hour late to his own wedding.

For one deeply annoying second, I forgot I was supposed to be angry.

Because God.

The internet had not lied.

He was tall.

Not just tall in a “nice build” way.

Tall in the kind of way that made expensive suits look custom-made for intimidation.

Dark charcoal suit.

White shirt.

No tie.

A silver watch flashed briefly against his wrist as he adjusted his cuff.

He looked exactly like every article had described him.

Sharp.

Composed.

Cold enough to refrigerate a city.

He didn’t look rushed.

Didn’t look apologetic.

Didn’t even look mildly inconvenienced by the fact that he had just kept his bride waiting in public like an afterthought.

He just looked… normal.

Like this was any other stop in his day.

I hated him instantly.

His gaze found me where I sat, and for the first time since yesterday, I felt something strange slide through my chest.

Not nerves.

Not attraction.

Awareness.

The uncomfortable kind.

Like I had just become visible in a way I hadn’t prepared for.

His eyes moved over me once.

Like he was confirming that I was, in fact, the correct woman.

Then he walked toward me.

No smile.

No warmth.

No “I’m sorry I’m late.”

Nothing.

He stopped in front of me and said, in a calm, even voice,

“Hi. I’m Dave Ashton.”

I stared at him.

That was it?

That was what he had?

Not even a half-baked apology?

Not even a fake excuse about traffic?

Just Hi. I’m Dave Ashton.

As though I had somehow missed the last twenty-four hours of emotional terrorism and needed clarification.

I stood slowly.

My heels clicked against the tiled floor.

“I know who you are,” I said.

My voice came out flatter than I expected.

If that bothered him, it didn’t show.

He just gave one small nod and turned toward the entrance.

“Let’s go.”

That was all.

And because my life had apparently become a long-running experiment in emotional restraint, I said nothing and followed him inside.

The registrar barely looked up when we entered.

A bored woman with tired eyes and a pen that seemed to resent paperwork as much as I did.

She adjusted her glasses, looked from me to Dave, then down at the file in front of her.

“Mr. and Miss…”

“Mrs.,” Dave corrected without emotion.

I looked at him.

He didn’t look back.

The registrar nodded and continued.

The room smelled faintly of paper, dust, and air conditioning.

A few words were said.

Questions were asked.

Papers were pushed across the desk.

At some point, someone told us to stand closer together for a photo.

Dave stepped beside me.

Not close enough to touch.

Just close enough for me to catch the clean, expensive scent of his cologne.

Woodsy.

Annoyingly nice.

The photographer raised the camera.

“Smile,” he said.

I didn’t.

Neither did Dave.

The man lowered the camera slightly, stared at us both, then gave up and took the picture anyway.

Honestly, fair.

The vows happened so quickly they barely felt real.

I repeated what I was told to repeat.

Dave did the same.

His voice never wavered.

Mine almost did once, but I swallowed it back down before it could embarrass me.

Then we signed.

Just like that.

One signature from him.

One from me.

Ink on paper.

The registrar stamped the documents with an almost insulting amount of satisfaction and slid the marriage certificate across the table.

Before I could reach for it, Dave picked it up first.

He looked at it for one second.

Then handed it to me.

I took it slowly.

My name looked wrong beside his.

Lydia Ashton.

No.

Absolutely not.

I folded the paper once and held it against my lap like it might disappear if I looked at it too long.

Then we walked out.

The driver was already waiting.

Dave opened the back door.

Not for me.

For himself.

Then got in.

I stood there for half a second, staring at the open insult of it.

Then I got in too.

The ride was quiet.

Painfully quiet.

The kind of silence that made every tiny sound feel louder.

The hum of the engine.

The faint tapping of his finger once against the armrest.

The low buzz of a notification from one of his devices.

Yes, devices.

Plural.

Because apparently one screen was not enough for the man ruining my life.

He had his phone in one hand and a slim laptop open across his lap less than five minutes into the drive.

I watched him from the corner of my eye for a while.

Not obviously.

Just enough to study him.

He worked like he existed inside a different reality from everyone else.

He barely moved unless he had to.

No wasted energy.

No small talk.

No curiosity.

Not even one awkward attempt to acknowledge the fact that we had just gotten married.

It should have annoyed me more than it did.

But weirdly enough, it didn’t.

Maybe because I already knew what he was.

A businessman.

A powerful one.

Men like that didn’t get to the top by being emotionally available in traffic.

Still, it was impossible not to notice how unnatural the whole thing felt.

I had married a man who looked like he could chair a board meeting before breakfast and forget my existence before lunch.

And somehow, I was now expected to go home with him.

Home.

The word barely had time to settle in my mind before the car slowed.

Then stopped.

I looked up.

And blinked.

Once.

Then again.

Because the building in front of me did not look like a home.

It looked like a statement.

A massive glass-front property rising above the city.

I knew rich.

I had grown up around rich.

But this?

This was a different species of money.

The kind that didn’t need to prove itself because it already owned half the room.

The driver got out.

Then Dave did.

I followed a second later, my heels clicking softly against the paved driveway.

The air smelled expensive too, somehow.

Freshly watered grass. Clean stone. Something floral drifting from somewhere I couldn’t place.

I barely had time to take in the size of the place before Dave’s voice cut through my thoughts.

“Wait.”