Chapter 3: The First Night
922 Words
The grand mansion loomed in front of her like a fortress of shadows—high stone walls, security cameras blinking like watchful eyes, and two iron gates that slowly creaked open as the Rolls Royce glided in.
Myra clutched her gown tighter, the wedding ring still cold against her finger.
"Home, Mrs. Moretti," Aryan said casually as the car came to a stop. He didn’t glance at her. He didn’t need to. His voice was enough to twist her insides into knots.
The butler opened her door. Marble steps stretched up to the massive double doors. Beyond them… she didn’t know what waited.
But she followed anyway.
The foyer was a cathedral of wealth—crystal chandeliers, white marble, silence as thick as sin.
Her heels echoed with every step. Her heart is louder still.
"You’ll stay in the west wing," Aryan said, nodding toward the staircase. "Do not enter my office unless I call for you. Do not speak to my men unless spoken to. And never, ever open the door at the end of the third hallway."
Her eyes narrowed. "What's behind it?"
His lips twitched again, that same amused warning from earlier. "Curiosity is dangerous in this house."
He turned to leave, but paused.
"Oh, and Myra?"
She stopped mid-step.
"Change into something decent. We have dinner. First public appearance as Mr. and Mrs. Moretti."
Her stomach dropped.
She wasn’t ready for this. But then again… was she ready for anything anymore?
An hour later, she stood in front of the mirror, her body wrapped in a black silk gown one of Aryan’s assistants had placed on her bed. It fit perfectly. Of course it did.
Everything in his world was custom.
She stared at her reflection. Gone was the middle-class girl from a small city who studied literature and believed in happy endings. In her place stood a woman with smoky eyes, blood-red lips, and a blank expression trained to survive.
The dining hall was large enough to host fifty guests. Tonight, it had just five—Aryan, three men she didn’t know, and her.
As she walked in, every head turned.
Aryan stood, walked over, and placed a hand at the small of her back like a true husband. To outsiders, it would seem affectionate.
To her, it felt like a leash.
"Gentlemen," Aryan said, voice smooth as whiskey. "My wife."
One man, older with a thick accent, raised his glass. "A beautiful match. A warning to the world."
Myra smiled politely, even as nausea swirled in her stomach. A warning to the world? She wasn’t a bride. She sent me a message.
Dinner passed with quiet dominance. Aryan barely ate. He listened, nodded, gave orders, and occasionally slid his hand over Myra’s wrist as if to remind her—I own this moment. I own you.
Later, back in the west wing, Myra paced.
She couldn’t sleep. She couldn’t think.
His words from the chapel haunted her.
“Smile. Or I’ll make sure your brother watches what happens on our wedding night.”
The clock ticked past midnight.
She had locked the door. Bolted it. Moved a chair beneath the knob.
But when the handle turned, her breath caught.
No knocking. No warning. Just the click of power.
The chair scraped as the door pushed open—and Aryan stepped in like he’d done this before.
"Did you think that would stop me?" he asked, glancing at the chair.
Her throat went dry. "You said nothing would happen unless I obeyed."
"And tonight," he said, stepping closer, "I need you to obey."
She backed away until her legs hit the bedframe.
Aryan stopped inches away.
"But I’m not here for that, Myra. I need you to come with me. Now."
She blinked. "Why?"
"I warned you about the third hallway."
They walked in silence. Aryan in front, Myra trailing behind like a tethered ghost. When they reached the infamous hallway, he unlocked the door at the end with a thumbprint and key code.
It opened to reveal… chaos.
Blood on the floor. Two guards were injured. A man screaming from a chair he was tied to.
Aryan didn’t flinch. "This is what happens when someone touches what's mine."
Myra’s stomach churned. "Why did you bring me here?"
He looked at her. For once, not amused. Not cold. Just brutally honest.
"Because I need you to understand who you married."
The man in the chair gasped through a busted lip. “I didn’t mean to—"
"You followed her. Two nights ago. Near her college. My men saw you."
Myra’s eyes widened.
Aryan turned to her. "You think I don’t protect what’s mine?"
She stepped back. "I’m not yours. I signed a contract to save my brother, not be your property."
He tilted his head. "You’re both."
A shot rang out.
Myra screamed.
But Aryan had already turned, slipping the gun back into his coat like it was nothing more than a phone.
The man slumped, silent forever.
Aryan looked at her with a calmness that chilled her bones.
"You’re safe now."
But she didn’t feel safe.
She felt trapped.
That night, Myra didn’t sleep.
She lay on her bed, fully clothed, eyes wide open, heart pounding.
What kind of man kills in front of his wife to show love?
Was this love?
No. It was ownership. Control.
And she knew one thing for sure:
She needed a plan.
This marriage wouldn’t last a year.
It wouldn’t even last a month… if she could help it.
- Writer
