Chapter 1 The Price Of Obedience

• The silence in the penthouse was thick with anticipation—gold-drenched chandeliers cast long, flickering shadows across the marble floor, and the clock on the wall marked every second like a countdown to her undoing.
• She waited for him, fingers curled tightly in the silk of her dress, trying not to wrinkle it. He liked her pristine. Still. Quiet. Beautiful—but never heard.
• The front door slammed open like a gunshot.
• She stood instantly.
• Lucien Moretti didn’t enter a room. He consumed it. Black tailored suit, dark hair swept back from a face carved in cruelty, and eyes that never softened—not even when they landed on his wife.
• Especially not then.
• “Dinner’s cold,” he muttered, not even glancing at the table she’d spent hours setting.
• “I can reheat it—”
• “Don’t bother.”
• He shrugged out of his coat and tossed it on the floor. Not the hanger she left for him. Not the armchair two steps away. The floor—because he could.
• She moved to pick it up, but his voice cut the air.
• “Leave it.”
• She froze.
• He finally looked at her. Not with love. Not with interest. He looked at her the way a collector glanced over a possession he hadn’t touched in a while—measuring whether it still pleased him.
• “You wore it.” His voice dropped an octave.
• The dress. Black silk, thin straps, a high slit that threatened decency. He’d picked it out a month ago and told her to keep it for when she was ready to be good.
• She nodded. “You said—”
• “I know what I said.” He closed the distance between them in slow, controlled steps. “And now you’ll learn what I meant.”
• Her breath hitched. She should’ve said no. But no had never worked with Lucien.
• He backed her into the wall without touching her—just towering, waiting, devouring her with his gaze until she felt small. Useless. His.
• “You trying to impress me now?” he murmured, fingers brushing the strap of her dress.
• “I want to make things work between us.”
• He smiled. Not the kind that meant warmth. It was ice masquerading as charm. His hand wrapped around her throat—not tight, just firm. Possessive. A warning.
• “That’s the problem, cara,” he whispered against her skin. “You think this is a marriage. You think you matter.”
• Her lashes fluttered. “I’m your wife.”
• “You’re a thing I own. Something I fuck when I feel like it. And when I don’t…” His hand dropped to her hip, fingers tightening. “You become scenery.”
• Tears welled up, but she didn’t let them fall.
• He hated tears.
• “Take it off,” he ordered.
• She hesitated.
• Wrong move.
• His hand cracked across her cheek—not with full force, but enough to leave her skin stinging and her pride shattered on the polished floor.
• “I said—take it off.”
• She peeled the dress away with shaking fingers. Humiliation flooded her veins. She stood naked in front of him, vulnerable and trembling.
• He circled her like a predator.
• And then, with a fist in her hair, he shoved her to her knees.
• “This is what wives are good for,” Lucien growled. “Learning their place. Obeying. Being useful.”
• He used her mouth like he used her presence—because he could. Because it was his right. He didn’t care that she gagged. That her mascara ran down her cheeks. That the woman who once dreamed of a love story was choking on the ashes of it now.
• When he was done, he wiped himself off and tucked himself back in like she was already forgotten.
• “You’ll sleep in the guest room. My girl’s coming by later, and I don’t need your eyes watching me fuck someone who actually earns it.”
• She didn’t respond.
• She couldn’t.
• The door slammed shut behind him.
• And in the silence that followed, she sat on the cold marble floor, the taste of betrayal still thick on her tongue.
• But this time, her hands didn’t shake.
• Not because she wasn’t broken.
• But because something in her—the last untouched fragment—had finally begun to burn.