The Billionaire’s One-Year Bride

chpitre 3

The rain lashed furiously against the tinted windows of the Maybach, blurring the glittering neon lights of Chicago into frantic streaks of color.

In the backseat, the silence was thick enough to choke on. Julian sat inches away from Elena, yet he might as well have been on another planet. He was completely absorbed in his tablet, the blue light casting sharp, cold shadows across his high cheekbones. Not a single word had passed between them since she climbed into the car with her single battered suitcase—the pathetic sum of everything she owned.

Elena kept her gaze locked on the window, watching her own distorted reflection. Mrs. Thorne. The title felt like a physical weight crushing her chest.

"Don't look so tragic," Julian’s deep voice cut through the hum of the engine without him ever looking up from his screen. "If the press sees a miserable bride tomorrow morning, my grandfather’s trustees will start asking uncomfortable questions. Smile. Fake it."

Elena snapped her head around, her hazel eyes flashing with sudden heat. "Forgive me if I’m not in a celebratory mood, Mr. Thorne. Most brides don't sign their lives away at gunpoint."

Julian finally lowered the tablet. He turned his head slowly, his obsidian eyes locking onto hers with a chilling, analytical intensity. The air in the backseat instantly felt heavier, the oxygen thinning out.

"You traded your freedom for your family's survival, Elena," Julian said softly, his voice dropping into a dangerous register as he closed the physical space between them. He reached out, his long, warm fingers catching her chin before she could pull away. His grip wasn't rough, but it was inescapable. "You made a transaction. Don't act like a victim now."

"I am not a victim," she hissed, her heart hammering against her ribs as she tried to wrench her chin free.

Instead of letting go, Julian's thumb brushed lightly across her bottom lip, tracing the full contour with a deliberate, maddening intimacy. His gaze darkened, a sudden, smoldering heat flaring deep within his pupils that had nothing to do with anger.

"Good," he murmured, his voice husky. "Because I have no patience for weak women."

Before Elena could form a sharp retort, the car glided to a smooth halt.

The partition between the driver and the back lowered slightly. "We’ve arrived at the penthouse, Mr. Thorne," the chauffeur announced respectfully.

Julian dropped his hand, the sudden loss of warmth leaving a strange, aching void on Elena's skin. He didn't look back as he pushed his door open and stepped out into the rainy night.

Elena took a ragged breath, trying to steady her erratic pulse. She smoothed down her jacket, grabbed the handle of her suitcase, and stepped out into the underground private garage of the city's most exclusive skyscraper.

A private elevator whisked them straight to the penthouse on the sixty-fifth floor. As the doors slid open, Elena stepped out and caught her breath.

The penthouse was a sprawling masterpiece of glass, steel, and minimalist luxury. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the entire Chicago skyline, currently swallowed by a dramatic thunderstorm. But the place felt sterile, cold, and entirely devoid of life. It was a fortress, not a home.

Julian tossed his suit jacket onto a sleek leather armchair and loosened his tie, exposing the strong column of his throat. He walked over to a built-in wet bar and poured two fingers of amber whiskey into a crystal glass.

"Your room is down the hall to the left," Julian said casually, taking a slow sip of his drink. "My master suite is on the right. The staff comes in twice a week, but otherwise, we keep our own schedules."

"And the rules?" Elena asked, standing stiffly by her suitcase in the middle of the massive living room.

Julian turned around, leaning back against the marble bar. He watched her over the rim of his glass, a predatory glint returning to his eyes.

"Rule one: No prying into my private office or my business files," Julian stated smoothly. "Rule two: When we are in public, you play the devoted, adoring wife to absolute perfection. And rule three..." He paused, setting his glass down with a sharp clink before taking deliberate steps toward her.

Elena’s breath hitched. She didn't move, rooted to the spot as he closed the distance until he was towering right over her.

"...never forget who holds the leash," Julian whispered, his voice dangerously close to her ear. "Go unpack, Elena. Tomorrow, the world meets Mrs. Thorne."