Don't touch my wife

POV: Adrian

The chaos of the wedding was nothing compared to the silence in this suite. Gray Thompson had infiltrated our ceremony, spat venom at Amelia, and vanished. Now, the marriage of convenience was a target.

I paced the massive hotel suite, the expensive carpet mocking the adrenaline in my veins. I was already on the phone, organizing discreet security for the service entrance.

"He was here to send a message," I said, disconnecting the call. "He wanted to know how fast we could move. He wanted to see if our marriage was real."

Amelia stood by the window, rigid, clutching her extravagant bridal bouquet. "He wanted to ensure the judge saw his disruption. He wanted to plant doubt."

"He succeeded," I replied, running a hand over my freshly bruised jaw. "Now we have to assume he has eyes on us everywhere. From this moment on, every single conversation, every gesture, is a performance."

"I know the rules, Adrian," she snapped, her voice brittle. "We're married. Let's act like it. What's the protocol?"

"Protocol is silence."

A knock came at the door. I moved instantly, my body rigid, blocking the entrance. "Who is it?"

"Room service, sir. Champagne and fruit basket."

"Send it to the suite next door," I ordered, my voice low. I didn't wait for a reply.

"He's watching us," Amelia realized, looking at the windows. "He knows what room we're in."

"He knows we're not touching the champagne, either," I countered. "We need to talk, but the walls are paper-thin."

I grabbed a hotel notepad and scrawled a note, ripping off the sheet. "I saw a car follow us from the courthouse. Dark sedan. We are not safe here. Gray is not alone."

Amelia snatched the pad, reading quickly. Her eyes widened. She wrote back, her handwriting sharp: "He is escalating. He wouldn't risk this for just custody. There is more at stake. What else did you see?"

I took the pen. "A man on the balcony. Not Gray. Professional."

Just then, a figure of a tall man in dark clothing just passed quickly across the balcony outside their suite. I caught the movement in my peripheral vision. This wasn't Gray. This man was younger, leaner, and moving with the practiced stealth of a professional security operative.

The figure stopped, his face masked by the shadows, and spoke a single word before melting away: "Amelia."

I didn't hesitate. I grabbed Amelia, shielding her behind me, pushing her toward the interior wall. "Stay back."

"Who was that?" she demanded, terror finally cracking her composure. "Another lawyer? Who else knows we're here?"

"Doesn't matter," I hissed. My attention focused on the balcony railing. "It's time to test how committed they are."

I pulled a small, silver tracking device from my bag, a piece of security tech I'd kept hidden and prepared to throw it, hoping to get a ping on the man's network. But before I could act, the door to the suite was violently kicked in.

The crash of wood and metal was deafening.

A man with a large, thick-set, and clearly not connected to Gray, stood in the doorway. He was breathing heavily, his eyes fixed on Amelia. This was a direct, lethal threat.

"The boss wants to talk," the man snarled, taking a heavy step inside.

"Not today," I said flatly, pushing Amelia further behind me. I moved with the speed of my boxing past, slamming my fist into the attacker's jaw. The man stumbled back, but recovered quickly, his eyes narrowing with savage fury.

"You're just the help," the attacker spat, swinging a thick arm toward Amelia. "The paid puppy."

I stepped into the line of fire, intercepting the blow. "I'm her husband."

He lunged. I caught the attacker’s hand, twisted it, and with a sickening crunch, broke the man's arm at the elbow. The attacker roared in pain, clutching his shattered limb.

I shoved the whimpering man out the doorway, slamming the fractured door shut with my foot. I turned back to Amelia, my breathing heavy, my powerful body radiating pure, controlled violence.

"Don't touch my wife," I said, the words a low, guttural promise that hung heavy in the air.

She was staring at me, her eyes wide with a mix of fear and something else shocked admiration. The man who had placed a gentle wedding band on her finger moments ago had just broken another man's arm without a flicker of remorse.

"You... you broke his arm," she whispered.

"He tried to take you," I countered, my eyes burning. "He won't be back."

"Who sent him? Gray wouldn't hire a thug like that. This is more than custody."

"It's about money, Amelia. More than you realize. They didn't just want custody; they wanted you silenced."

"You knew this would happen," she accused, her voice rising. "You knew they would escalate."

"I knew we weren't safe. I didn't know they'd send a killer on our wedding night." I pulled her toward the service exit. "We need to disappear. Now. Someone wants you dead, Amelia. And they just sent a messenger to confirm it."

I gripped her arm, my touch firm, no longer that of an employee, but a protector.

"Where are we going?" she asked, her voice tight with panic.

"Somewhere safe," I said, kicking the door to the service stairwell open. "Somewhere they can't find the bride."

"And the husband?" she challenged, meeting my gaze.

I looked at her, my heart hammering against my ribs. "The husband," I promised, pushing her through the door, "will ensure you live long enough to file the divorce papers."

I followed her into the dark, echoing stairwell, slamming the heavy fire door behind us. The contract was a lie, but the danger was brutally real, and for the first time, I felt like I was fighting for something more than just Martha's life.