I followed Darius down the hall, my footsteps heavy with frustration. Every moment spent in his presence felt like a battle — one I was constantly trying to win. He loved this, didn't he? The tension. The power struggle. It fed that twisted pride of his, and I hated giving him the satisfaction.
We reached his chambers — cold, dark, and painfully neat — just like him. He closed the door behind us with a quiet click, and I turned to face him, folding my arms tightly across my chest.
"What now?" I snapped. "Did you drag me here just to waste my time?"
Darius didn't answer right away. He leaned against the wall, his sharp eyes trailing over me like I was nothing more than a problem he needed to solve.
"Take off your dress," he said coldly.
I blinked, sure I hadn't heard him right.
"Excuse me?"
"You heard me," he said, stepping closer. "Take it off."
I let out a sharp laugh — a dry, bitter sound. "You're out of your mind."
"Ivanna," he said, his voice dangerously calm. "I wasn't asking."
"I don't care," I shot back. "I'm not some toy you can order around."
"You're my wife," he said firmly. "And you'll do as you're told."
"I didn't marry you to be your puppet," I hissed. "You can throw your little tantrum all you want, but I'm not playing this game."
I turned to leave, but his voice stopped me cold.
"If you walk out that door," he warned, "I'll have the guards drag you back in here and strip you myself."
I froze, my breath catching in my throat. Slowly, I turned back to face him.
"You wouldn't," I said quietly, but my voice lacked the confidence I wanted it to have.
"Try me," he said, his eyes cold and unflinching.
I stared at him, my heart hammering in my chest. He wasn't bluffing — I knew that much. Darius didn't bluff. He didn't make empty threats.
"Fine," I spat. "Whatever."
My fingers trembled as I reached for the ties at the back of my dress. My pride screamed at me not to give him this — not to let him win — but what choice did I have? This wasn't a battle I could fight without consequences, and Darius knew that.
"You're pathetic," I muttered under my breath.
"Careful," he warned. "I don't have much patience today."
I bit my tongue, swallowing down the words threatening to spill out. I wouldn't let him see how much this affected me. I wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
But as I loosened the ties and felt the fabric slip from my shoulders, I knew one thing for certain — I hated him more in that moment than I ever thought possible.
I stood there, frozen, my dress hanging loosely from my shoulders. My breath felt tight in my chest, my mind racing faster than I could keep up with.
"Get on the bed," Darius ordered, his voice low and cold.
I stared at him, my pulse thundering in my ears. "What?"
"You heard me," he said, stepping closer. "Get on the bed and wait for me."
I didn't move. I couldn't. My legs felt like stone, locked in place by something heavier than fear.
"What... what are you planning to do?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper.
He didn't answer. He just turned away, disappearing behind the door that led to his washroom. I stood there, gripping the fabric of my dress tightly in my hands. My breathing felt shaky, uneven. Did he... did he want to hurt me? Kill me? My mind spiraled, drowning in worst-case scenarios.
I didn't want to sit on that bed. I didn't want to feel powerless like this — trapped in a room with a man who only seemed to thrive on control. But what choice did I have? He'd made his threats clear.
So I did it. I walked stiffly to the bed, sat on the edge, and waited. My fingers dug into the sheets, twisting the fabric to keep my hands from trembling.
Moments later, the door creaked open. I turned my head — and my breath caught.
Darius stepped out, his shirt discarded, his toned chest and shoulders catching the dim light. For a brief, ridiculous second, I noticed how defined he was — how strong he looked. And then reality snapped me back.
"What are you thinking of doing?" I asked, my voice sharper than before.
He scowled. "Don't start acting clueless now."
"I'm serious," I said, rising from the bed. "If you think—"
"Sit down!" he barked, his voice booming across the room.
I flinched, my heart slamming against my ribs. For a second, I felt the sting of tears threaten to rise — but no. No, no, no. I wouldn't break. Not here. Not now.
"You think you can just... just take whatever you want?" I spat. "That you can control everything?"
"You're my wife," he said coldly. "You knew what this marriage meant."
I shook my head. "That doesn't mean you get to—"
"It's not precious anymore," he cut in, his voice low but sharp. "You're married. Understand what that means."
His words knocked the air from my chest. Precious. He was talking about me like I was nothing more than something to claim, something that no longer had value because of a contract I never wanted.
For a moment, I felt the fight drain out of me. My body sagged slightly, and I closed my eyes. Fine... whatever... just get this over with...
I lay back against the bed, my limbs heavy with exhaustion and dread. A tear slipped down my cheek — quiet, unnoticed — and I turned my head to the side, staring at the wall.
He didn't see the tear. He didn't see how hard I was trying to keep myself together.
And after that.
.. the rest was just a blur — a memory I swore I'd bury so deep I'd never have to feel it again.