The knock hit the door like a slap.
I froze. My strap halfway up. Breath messy. Skin still hot from him.
Kieran's hand stopped on my waist. Hard. Sharp. He wasn't playing anymore.
Another knock.
His jaw flexed.
He turned toward the door like he was calculating whether to shoot through it.
"What?" His voice came out low and pissed.
The door opened just enough for her to squeeze in.
The maid.
The same lemon-faced witch that had been judging me since I arrived.
She kept her head down.
"Sir… there's an invitation from your father. He requests your presence at a party tonight. And he requests… the lady joins you."
Kieran didn't react.
Just stared at her with that dead, quiet look he used right before someone got in trouble.
He never told Elias about me.
So his father summoning both of us meant only one thing—
Someone opened their mouth.
Kieran walked up to the maid slowly, took the envelope from her hand, and left the room without looking at me.
The maid finally lifted her face.
And there it was again—not just a glare. Pure contempt. Like I was dirt under her shoes.
I stepped off the desk, fixing my dress, trying to catch my breath.
She walked closer, hips moving like she owned the place.
"Come," she said, fake-sweet. "Let me take you back to your room."
I didn't move.
Her smile twisted.
"Enjoy your position while it lasts, whore," she whispered.
My chest tightened.
"What's that supposed to mean?"
She leaned in.
"Don't act stupid. He's had women ten times better than you. Models. Rich girls. Real beauties. You're not his type. You're just… the current entertainment."
It hit.
Even though I pretended it didn't.
"You won't last here," she added. "You're not his class."
She stepped back, laughing under her breath, then walked out like she'd accomplished something.
The door closed.
And it stung.
Way more than it should've.
I should want Kieran to get tired of me.
Throw me out.
End this madness.
That would make sense.
But deep down?
I didn't want him to let me go.
Not even a bit.
Two hours later, I barely had time to breathe
before two men stormed into my room like a hurricane, carrying designer luggage.
"Who… who are you?" I asked.
The taller one threw his hands up like he was performing on stage. "Moi? Lucien. Kieran's stylist. One of the best in France. You'll see."
The second, slightly shorter, Thibault, gasped like I personally offended him with my very existence,"Et moi? Thibault. Also one of the best. "Mon amour, who let you walk around looking like… this? Non, non, non. C'est un crime. Straight to prison."
I blinked. "I—I didn't even do anything.
"Exactly," Thibault said. "Tragic."
They ripped open garment bags, they moved fast, dramatic, like French runway divas hopped on espresso, gesturing wildly. Dresses were tossed aside. "Non. Non. Too plain. Not enough drama. Try again."
Lucien held up a red silk dress, letting it sway. "Voila. Danger. Sin. Absolute perfection. You might just ruin your billionaire tonight."
Thibault snapped his fingers. "Red kills on your skin. You'll glow. Like a warning light. Un incendie."
Then Lucien leaned in, dropping his voice like he was telling me something helpful.
"Look, honey… I'll be honest. Boss man? He always had a thing for blondes. It's like—his entire dating history. We've styled half of them."
Thibault nodded vigorously. "Half? Non. All. The parade was insane. Un vrai défilé."
My stomach twisted.
Lucien shrugged. "But don't stress, ma belle. Men like him…" He tapped my chin lightly. "Men like him they get bored fast. You'll be out before you even fold your little suitcase back."
Thibault added, "So here's advice, darling. Enjoy it while it lasts. Enjoy the food. The security. The luxury. Because one day soon, he'll tire, and you'll be the one begging."
They laughed — not cruelly, not directed at me — it was just how they were, dramatic and unfiltered.
Same conversation.
Different mouths.
I was tired. So tired of hearing the same thing.
Tired of wondering if they were right.
Was Kieran actually using me?
Playing with me until he got bored?
Was that all I was in his world — something to pass time with?
I checked myself in the mirror.
The red dress clung to my body like it was made for me. Long, glittering, a slit teasing my thigh, the neckline dipping just enough. My black hair pinned into a messy bun, strands loose. Smokey eyeliner, green eyes sharp, lips just dark enough to be dangerous.
Perfect. Impeccable.
Kieran's taste was insane. Every detail—his clothes, the house, this dress—he was a perfectionist. The devil himself, wearing Armani.
And me… slowly, stupidly, maybe falling for him.
I stumbled in my heels, the stupid dress dragging behind me and squeezing my ribs,
and I couldn't even take a proper breath without praying I wouldn't pass out.
Kieran stood at the bottom of the stairs, hands in his pockets, looking like sin in a suit. His dark blue eyes locked on me instantly—slow, intense—like he owned every breath leaving my lungs.
I reached the last step—
And he reached for my hand at the same time.
Kieran lifted it and kissed the back of it, slow and deliberate.
I yanked my hand back immediately.
His grin?
Sharp. Amused. Annoyingly amused.
But his eyes? Dark. Like he wanted to brand me.
"Relax," he said quietly. "I'm not going to bite." Then he slipped a hand into his pocket and pulled out a small red velvet box.
He opened it.
A diamond necklace. Clean. Stunning. Expensive enough to buy a house.
Before I could say a word, he was already behind me, clasping it around my neck.
I touched it lightly. "You shouldn't have—"
"You're my wife." His voice dropped, low and flat. "I do what I want. I give what I want."
My fingers froze on the diamonds, "It's pretty," I whispered.
"Not as pretty as you," Then his voice dropped even lower. "And it has a tracker. Wherever you go, I'll know."
The diamonds suddenly felt heavier—like a chain, not a gift.
My jaw tightened, but I didn't give him the satisfaction of reacting.
I rolled my eyes and tried to walk past him, but the devil slid his foot in front of me, deliberately.
I tripped, and he caught me before I could crash into the marble, one arm locked around my waist, the other gripping my wrist.
His face inches from mine.
His breath warm.
His eyes burning straight into me like he was searching for something he'd lost.
I tried to steady myself. Tried to push away.
He didn't let go.
"You don't walk out on me, wife," he said quietly. Too quietly. The kind of quiet that meant danger.
efore I could reply, he scooped me up—clean, effortless—lifting me bridal style like I weighed nothing.
I gasped and grabbed his neck automatically, afraid I'd fall.
The maids down the hall froze.
Some gasped.
Some stared with wide eyes like they were witnessing a miracle.
Because Kieran D'Angelo didn't pick up women.
He didn't help them. He didn't touch them like this.
Ever.
The lemon-faced maid saw it—saw him holding me like I was something important—and her whole face twisted .Her mouth fell open like she just saw God commit a crime.
She turned sharply, storming away like she wanted to break something.
He carried me outside and toward the car. The guards stepped aside immediately. The driver opened the back door, clearly confused but not brave enough to question anything.
Kieran set me inside gently, then got in beside me.
The door shut, sealing us inside the quiet, expensive cocoon of the car.
The engine hummed to life, and the convoy moved out—Kieran's car in the middle, guards in the SUV ahead, one behind.
Then the front guard spoke through the intercom.
"Sir, we're being followed."
Kieran didn't flinch. "By who?"
"Unknown. Black sedan. They've stayed on us for five minutes."
Before I could even process it, the SUV behind us added, voice tight—
"Sir—multiple bikes approaching from the left lane. Fast."
I swallowed. "What do you mean—?"
Then the first gunshot cracked.
POP.