The first night as Mrs. Castellanos felt like a trap draped in silk.
Elena sat at the edge of the lavish bed, her hands clutching the lace hem of her nightgown as if it might protect her from the man she'd just married. Her reflection stared back at her in the floor-length mirror—flushed cheeks, bare shoulders, and a storm swirling in her chest.
The door creaked open.
Henri walked in, removing his cufflinks with slow, controlled movements. The light from the chandelier caught the angles of his jaw and the hollow coldness in his eyes.
She stood. "You didn't even look at me at the wedding."
He loosened his tie. "I didn't need to. I already own you."
The words hit her like frost on skin.
"So that's all I am to you?" she asked. "A pawn you claimed with a pen and a priest?"
"No," he said, stepping closer. "You're not just a pawn. You're a weapon... if you learn to play your part."
The tension in the air crackled. Elena's heart pounded wildly, but she stood her ground. "Then teach me. Show me what role I'm meant to play in your war."
Henri paused, gaze flickering to her lips. His hand reached for her face—slow, deliberate—and she half-expected him to strike her with words again.
But instead, his thumb grazed her jaw, soft and hesitant.
"You're braver than I expected," he muttered.
"Then stop treating me like glass," she whispered. "If you're going to break me, do it properly."
His mouth crushed into hers.
It wasn't sweet. It wasn't careful.
It was desperate.
Months of hatred, years of secrets, and one forced signature all erupted in that single kiss. Elena felt like she was standing on the edge of a blade. Every movement Henri made was practiced control—yet beneath it was a man unraveling.
His hand cupped the back of her neck, pressing her closer, deeper.
She moaned against his lips, and he stilled.
"You don't want this," he said, voice rough.
Elena's breath caught. "No... I do. I need to feel something that isn't guilt."
Henri lifted her effortlessly into his arms and carried her to the bed, laying her down like a fragile secret. As his lips traced a path down her throat, Elena clung to him—not just for pleasure, but for safety. For sanity.
Because beneath this chaos… something was changing.
And that terrified her more than anything else.
Morning light peeled across the bedsheets. Henri was already gone, of course.
Elena sat up, her body aching and her heart spinning. On the pillow beside her was a note, crisp and simple:
"Be ready by 10. Wear black. —H."
Black?
She bathed and dressed in the velvet dress laid out for her. Every servant in the hallway bowed but said nothing. Not even eye contact.
She was a queen in a haunted castle.
Henri was waiting outside in his matte black Aston Martin, dressed in all black as well—dark shirt, no tie, sunglasses that masked his gaze. The engine purred like a predator.
No words. No smile.
She climbed in.
They drove through the city—through quiet neighborhoods, into the hills, until the car slowed near a cemetery gate.
"What is this?" Elena asked, suddenly uneasy.
"You said you wanted to know me," Henri said. "So know this."
They walked in silence until they reached a small grave—roses, fresh-cut. A photograph of a girl rested near the headstone.
Henri knelt. "Her name was Annalise. She was my sister."
Elena's chest tightened. "I didn't know."
"You weren't supposed to. They buried her story like everything else in our world."
Elena crouched beside him, gently touching the edge of the headstone. "What happened?"
Henri's voice turned steel. "Your father happened. His war took everything from mine. My sister was in the wrong car… at the wrong time."
"I didn't know," she said, tears stinging.
"I believe you." He met her eyes. "But that doesn't change what this marriage really is."
A beat passed between them.
That's when Elena saw someone standing between the mausoleums. A man in a long coat. Just… watching.
She stood quickly. "Henri. That man—"
He turned. But the figure was gone.
Henri's hand immediately went to the inside of his blazer. His voice dropped. "Get in the car. Now."
They drove back in silence, tension like a loaded gun between them.
When they arrived, Henri didn't even glance at her. "I'm adding more guards."
Elena hesitated. "Do you think it was paparazzi?"
"No." He looked up at the balcony of their room. "Someone wanted us to know they were there."
That night, Elena tossed in the cold bed alone.
Henri hadn't come upstairs. The memory of his kiss haunted her—rough, possessive, addictive. But what haunted her more was the fear clawing in her chest. The man in the cemetery. The silence in Henri's voice.
Then came the knock.
Soft. Two taps.
She rose, cracked the door open.
Henri stood there, shirtless, hair damp from a shower. "Can't sleep," he said simply.
"Me either."
He stepped in. "Not here for sex. Just—quiet."
Elena backed up, and he lay beside her. Not touching. Not speaking.
Until, finally, she turned.
"Henri... if you ever want more than revenge," she whispered, "I might still be able to love."
He didn't respond.
But his hand found hers in the dark.
They slept like that—tangled fingers and unspoken truths.
Far across the city, in a room filled with monitors and photographs of Henri Castellanos and Elena Cruz…
A man with a scar across his temple leaned back, watching.
He smirked.
"Elena," he whispered. "You moved on fast. But you'll be mine again… even if I have to burn down your castle to get you back."
He raised a glass of whiskey to the screen.
"To the games beginning."