Chapter8
1972 Words
After the wedding, the newlyweds returned to the Carrington estate in stiff silence. The ride was quiet—Ryan leaned into his seat, eyes fixed on the tinted window, while Irene’s heart thudded wildly. She fiddled with her ring, still not used to the weight of it… or the name that came with it. Mrs. Carrington. It sounded foreign—like a title she’d stolen rather than earned.
As the car curved around the long private drive, Irene’s breath caught. The estate wasn’t just large—it was breathtaking. A grand colonial-style mansion stood in the middle of carefully manicured lawns, trimmed hedges forming elegant patterns. A fountain with a marble sculpture danced at the center of the circular driveway, and ivory roses climbed the pillars that framed the entrance.
She hadn’t had time to admire it the last time she came—she’d been too nervous then. But now, stepping out with her dress bunched at her feet and her emotions tightly coiled, she couldn’t ignore the opulence.
A tall man in a crisp black suit opened her door and extended his hand. “Welcome home, Mrs. Carrington. Congratulations on your wedding.”
“Thank you,” she murmured, her voice barely above a whisper.
She barely had time to gather herself when Ryan came around and stood beside her. His presence loomed—confident, cold, unreadable. He didn’t spare her a glance. The staff lined up, bowing respectfully as they entered the grand foyer.
Inside, the Carringtons awaited.
Patriarch William Carrington stood tall, his silver cane polished, his eyes sharp and appraising. Jenny offered a smile that didn’t reach her eyes, while Astrid folded her arms with a venomous smirk tugging at her lips. Stefan leaned against the archway, arms crossed, his eyes cool and gleaming with amusement.
“You’re welcome to the family,” William said, pulling Irene into a surprisingly warm hug. “We expect great things from you, Giselle.”
“Thank you, sir,” she murmured, her throat tight.
Jenny gave her a disinterested once-over and stepped aside. Astrid’s eyes lingered, unblinking and sharp. “You clean up nicely,” she said, her voice sweet as sugar and just as fake.
“Thank you,” Irene said again, her voice barely steady.
Stefan said nothing, but the small curve of his lips made her shiver. She hated that he lived here. That she had to live with him now.
“We’ll take our leave now,” Ryan announced.
Without another word, he led her away and into a private elevator tucked at the far end of the hall.
“Third floor,” he said, pressing the button.
As the doors closed, Irene glanced at him. His jaw was tense, his posture relaxed but distant. She braced herself for another wave of coldness.
When they arrived, her mouth parted slightly in awe. The third floor wasn’t just an apartment—it was a palace of its own. Wide, open spaces framed with glass walls, elegant dark furniture, and tasteful art. It was modern, minimalistic, and impossibly expensive.
“This is our side,” Ryan said. “We all have private quarters in the estate. My grandfather insists on family dinners, but beyond that, we don’t see much of each other. You’ll have your privacy.”
Irene nodded, still dazed.
Ryan loosened his tie with slow, confident fingers. She gulped as his movements carried a quiet sensuality that stirred her nerves.
“I’m going to shower,” he said and disappeared into the bathroom.
As soon as he was gone, Irene exhaled and wandered through the space. It was overwhelming. A wall of control panels caught her attention—rows of remotes scattered on a coffee table. Curiously, she picked one and hit a button. Instantly, the curtains swished open, letting in a flood of light.
Panicked, she pressed again.
The curtains shut.
She grabbed another remote and pressed it.
Click. Darkness.
“What the hell is going on?” Ryan’s voice boomed from the bathroom.
“What the hell is going on?” Ryan’s voice boomed from the bathroom.
Irene fumbled with the buttons, trying to restore the lights. Eventually, she found the correct switch, but not before she had to rush to the bathroom door and flick on the hallway light.
The door flung open.
Ryan stepped out, glistening from the shower, wrapped in a towel that clung low on his hips. Water dripped from his hair, his chest slick and toned like a carved sculpture. Irene froze.
He walked towards her, not breaking eye contact. She stepped backward until her legs hit the bed and she fell onto it, breath hitching.
He picked up a towel behind her without a word.
“You should shower too,” he said, his voice even.
“Wh—what?”
“You heard me.”
“I don’t want to.”
“Fine,” he said coolly. “Do whatever you want.”
He left for the walk-in closet. Irene clutched her chest, her heartbeat out of control. She didn’t move for minutes. But eventually, she forced herself to the bathroom. A hot shower did little to calm her nerves.
Later, dressed in a comfortable silk dress, she found Ryan on the couch with his laptop.
She sat beside him, unsure of what to say.
He closed the laptop and looked at her, all business. “Now that we’re married, let’s make things clear. Three rules. One—don’t touch my things. Two—don’t make noise. And three—don’t enter the upstairs room. Ever.”
Irene frowned. “Why?”
“Because I said so.”
She glanced toward the stairwell. “Is someone there?”
Ryan’s gaze darkened. “Don’t ask questions. You said there was a man you love. I don’t care who he is—just don’t get caught. She flinched. “I... don’t remember.”
“Right. Convenient.”
She looked away. He leaned closer. “This marriage is for appearances. When people look at us, we’re deeply in love. But once we’re alone, stay out of my way.”
“I—okay.”
“You’ll sleep on the couch. Or the guest room. I don’t care.”
Her chest tightened. “Is that really necessary?”
“Don’t pretend to care, Giselle,” he said, standing. “We both got what we wanted. Let’s not make it complicated.”
He left her sitting alone, hugging herself tightly as she stared at the dim screen of the TV.
That night, she couldn’t bring herself to sleep in the bedroom. She curled up on the couch and closed her eyes, wishing she could disappear.
The next morning, the breakfast table was grand, with polished silver cutlery and porcelain cups. The rest of the family were already seated when she arrived with Ryan.
“How are you feeling?” Jenny asked, her tone falsely sweet. “Still struggling to adjust?”
Irene hesitated. “Yes… I mean no. I’m better.”
She glanced at Stefan’s smirk and quickly added, “Much better.”
Jenny turned to her son. “Do you sleep well, Ryan? I know you hate sharing a room.”
“That was when I was younger,” Ryan said, sipping his coffee. “I slept fine.”
He turned to Irene. “Didn’t you?”
Startled, she nodded. “Yes. Perfectly.”
William Carrington cleared his throat. “Ryan, how’s the new shopping mall proposal?”
“If the mayor approves the permits, we’ll move forward,” Ryan replied. “I’ve already scheduled a meeting.”
“Good,” the old man nodded. “Charm him, if you must. This could fast-track your promotion.”
“And Giselle,” William turned to her. “I want you to work at the gallery.”
Astrid’s fork clattered on her plate.
“What?” Astrid blurted. “The gallery is under me and mom.”
“Which is exactly why she’ll work there,” William said. “If she gets out more, she’ll recover faster.”
Astrid clenched her jaw. “But—”
“No buts. She studied art. Let her connect with it.”
Jenny forced a smile. “It’s a great idea. I’ll throw her a welcome party.”
“There’s no need,” William cut in.
After the awkward breakfast, Irene received a message from Stefan:
Meet me by the fountain. Don’t let anyone follow you.
She tucked the phone away and stood, her heart already racing again.
She stepped out quietly, clutching her shawl around her shoulders, as she followed the winding path that led toward the Carrington estate's famous marble fountain. The early afternoon breeze played with the hem of her gown as the sound of trickling water grew louder.
Stefan stood waiting, his hands casually tucked into the pockets of his tailored slacks. The picture of composure, yet behind his stillness was something wolfish. He watched her approach with a slight tilt of his head, a knowing smirk curving his lips.
“I see you got my message,” he said. “You’re looking the part, Mrs. Carrington.”
Irene folded her arms, the tension in her shoulders sharp. “What do you want?”
“The chairman doesn’t want you involved with the company—yet,” Stefan said, strolling around the fountain slowly. “He wants his precious family to ‘observe’ you for a while. Fine. Let them. Play the doting bride. Cooperate. Smile. Nod. Earn their trust.”
He turned and faced her, voice lowering. “Then find their secrets. One by one.”
Her lips parted, heart thudding. “Are you done talking?”
Stefan raised an amused brow.
“What about my debt?” she snapped, trying to control her voice. “That was the deal. You’d take care of it.”
“I said I’ll settle it,” Stefan said coolly. “As long as you do what I say.”
“When and how?” Irene demanded. “My family’s lives are hanging in the balance.”
“I’ll pay it off quietly, little by little. No paper trail. No suspicion. I don’t want anyone sniffing around my business.” His tone turned cold. “Don’t make me repeat myself, Irene. If I get angry… I might forget what I promised.”
Her eyes welled with frustration, but she blinked the tears back.
“Then tell me one more thing,” she said, voice trembling. “Who’s the man Giselle loved? Why didn’t you tell me before? What if someone asks me about him?”
Stefan’s jaw tightened, the smirk fading. He hesitated—too long.
Before he could answer, a voice cut through the air behind them.
“I’ve been looking everywhere for you.”
They turned.
Ryan.
He walked toward them with that powerful, unreadable stride. His suit jacket fluttered behind him, and his gaze was sharp—fixed entirely on her, then flicking coldly to Stefan.
Irene’s stomach dropped.
“We were just talking,” she blurted, trying to ease the tension she could practically taste. “About the gallery. He gave me a helpful tip.”
Ryan’s eyes didn’t move from Stefan’s face. “Right.”
The word was quiet. Dangerous.
Ryan’s gaze shifted to her again. “Go get ready. We’re leaving.”
“Where are we going?” she asked, startled by the command.
Ryan didn’t stop walking as he passed them. “We made a deal. Time to get the receipt.”
He didn’t look back.
Irene turned to Stefan, but he simply shook his head and gave her that cryptic smirk again. “Follow your husband.”
Her pulse raced. She turned and walked quickly after Ryan, her heels clicking against the stone path. Her thoughts are a blur.
- Writer
