The words Colt threw at her burned like fire.
You trying to seduce all the men in this palace with your dress?
Heat rushed to Trinidad's face.
Shame.
Anger.
Humiliation.
For one reckless second, she wanted to scream at him, throw something at his arrogant face, and march out of the room.
But she swallowed every word.
Her fingers clenched at her sides.
Then she forced her voice to stay steady.
"You called me."
Colt leaned against the edge of his desk, his dark eyes still roaming over her figure without apology.
"Come closer."
She froze.
Was he serious?
His gaze sharpened.
"I don't repeat myself."
Trinidad stepped forward slowly, using both hands to cover herself as much as she could. One arm crossed over her chest, the other pulled the thin fabric tighter around her thighs.
Colt noticed.
And smirked.
Because it was pointless.
He had already seen enough.
More than enough.
And what his eyes had seen…
Had not disappointed him.
The view had been beautiful.
Dangerously so.
His room matched him.
Dark.
Expensive.
Untouchable.
The walls were covered in matte black panels with silver details. A massive bed sat in the center like a throne. Shelves lined one side of the room, filled with books, rare liquor, and files arranged with cold precision.
There was almost no color.
Yet somehow, the room was stunning.
Silent.
Powerful.
Like stepping inside the mind of a man who trusted no one.
Colt walked to one of the shelves and pulled out a file.
Then another.
He returned and handed them to her.
Trinidad frowned.
"What is this?"
"The rules."
She blinked.
"The rules of our fake marriage."
Her eyes dropped to the first page.
THE CLIFFORD AGREEMENT
She nearly laughed.
He had turned marriage into a business contract.
"Sign the last page," Colt said.
"You expect me to sign without reading?"
"I expect you to understand your father is already in treatment because of me."
Her jaw tightened.
Monster.
She grabbed the pen and signed.
Then the second document.
And the third.
Each stroke of ink felt like she was selling her freedom.
When she finished, Colt collected the papers and placed them neatly aside.
"Go to your room," he said calmly. "Read every rule. Break one, and you answer to me."
She wanted to ask who gave him the right to command her.
Instead, she spun around and headed for the door.
The sooner she escaped his room, the better.
She yanked the door open—
And almost collided with a woman about to enter.
The lady was breathtaking.
Tall.
Curvy.
Sharp-featured.
Beautiful in a dangerous, intimidating way.
She wore a tight backless gown that clung to every curve. The dress had no sleeves, no shame, and barely enough fabric to count as clothing.
Trinidad was certain the woman wore nothing underneath.
The lady's eyes swept over Trinidad once.
Cold.
Judging.
Amused.
Trinidad didn't wait.
Didn't care.
She rushed past her and practically ran down the hallway.
Behind her, the woman entered Colt's room and closed the door.
Back in her bedroom, Trinidad threw the contract onto the bed and paced.
"This man is insane."
Then she heard it.
A soft sound from the next room.
Then another.
Then louder.
A woman's moan.
Her steps halted.
The sounds grew bolder.
Shameless.
Breathy laughter followed by the headboard hitting a wall.
Trinidad's face turned red.
"No class," she muttered, climbing onto the bed.
She acted like she heard nothing.
Absolutely nothing.
She snatched the rulebook and opened it.
Then began reading aloud just to drown out the noise.
"Rule one: No love attached."
She scoffed.
"As if anyone would fall for that devil."
Another moan echoed through the wall.
Her voice rose louder.
"Rule two: No sex."
She stared at the wall.
"Hypocrite."
She flipped the page.
"Rule three: No going out without permission."
Her mouth dropped open.
"Am I a prisoner?"
Another page.
"Rule four: No kissing."
She rolled her eyes.
"Gladly."
Next page.
"Rule five: No physical touch unless necessary."
She snorted.
"Trust me, touching you is not on my list."
Page after page, the rules became more ridiculous.
No guests.
No personal interviews.
No speaking to the press.
No entering his room without approval.
No questioning his private life.
No interfering with his business.
No embarrassing the Clifford name.
Trinidad flung herself back against the pillows.
"This is not marriage," she grumbled. "This is slavery with decorations."
She was about to close the book when something slipped out from between the pages.
A photograph.
It landed face up on the bed.
Trinidad frowned and picked it up.
The picture showed a younger Colt.
Maybe eighteen.
He stood beside an older man whose face had been violently scratched out with a blade.
Across the photo, one sentence was written in red ink.
DON'T TRUST HIM.
The bedroom lights suddenly went out.
Darkness swallowed the room.
And from somewhere inside it—
A slow clap echoed.