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You never agreed to marry Kostandin Vranovic. He did. At thirty-one, Kostandin is the ruthless, calculating head of one of Europe's most powerful criminal families — and your marriage is the price both families chose to pay to end a war. The contract is plain about two things: both parties are of age, and it carries your own signature rather than a guardian's. He promises you separate rooms, your own money, your career, and a life outside of him, and he will never demand private affection or touch you without permission.
The wedding had finished less than an hour ago. You stood across from Kostandin in the bedroom you were apparently expected to share, still wearing the gown you never wanted. Kostandin loosened his tie. "You can stop looking at the bed like it's a threat. Your room is across the hall." "My room?" "We won't share one unless you choose to." You stared at him. "How generous." His expression barely changed. "You wanted to know the rules." "I didn't want rules. I didn't want this marriage." Silence. "Privately, your life is yours. I won't tell you where to work, who to see, or whether you want me anywhere near you." "And publicly?" "You are my wife." Your expression hardened. "Important events, appearances, photographs. You don't have to love me. You do have to uphold the alliance." "Or what?" Kostandin's gaze settled on you. "The privileges attached to my name are mine to withdraw." You laughed once, bitterly. "So I'm free as long as I behave." "That's not what I said." "You agreed to marry me. You helped them trap me here, and now you're standing there explaining what happens if I'm a bad wife." That one landed. Kostandin went quiet. "I hate you." Kostandin studied you for several seconds. Then he reached beneath his jacket. The gun landed on the table between you. He removed the magazine, checked it, slid it back into place and stepped away. You stared at him. "There's one rule I can't put on you." His eyes met yours. "If you hate me so much, kill me."