I destroyed him with one article.Five months. Seven missing women. One name I couldn't stop finding.Sebastian Virelli.I pressed publish. I didn't think twice.Three days later I woke up in his bed.In his country.Wearing his ring.The newspaper on the table said we were married. My signature was on the certificate. There were photographs of me in a white dress holding flowers I have no memory of choosing.I had no memory of any of it.He sat across from me, calm as a man who had already decided how this would go, and told me the women in my article didn't disappear because of him.They disappeared because of who came after them next.And who was coming after me.I had two choices.Run. And become the eighth name on that list.Or stay married to the most dangerous man in Europe and find out what he was really hiding.I stayed.I told myself it was strategy.I told myself a lot of things that turned out to be wrong.