Nearly his wife
The sitting room looked more like a Bond villain's lair than a place meant for comfort. It rose like a fortress above Manhattan, with floor-to-ceiling windows that stared down at the city as if daring it to look back. The skyline glimmered in a million fractured lights, but inside the penthouse, everything was sleek shadows and cold opulence.
Black marble floors gleamed under soft recessed lighting. A fireplace cut into obsidian stone simmered with controlled flame. A Basquiat painting stretched across one entire wall feral, electric, loud. Beside it sat a vintage grand piano no one played. Shelves of rare whiskeys and Cuban cigars lined a bar in the corner, untouched for weeks. A single blood-red orchid bloomed beside a crystal decanter, too perfect to be real.
And in the center of all that polished menace, Theo Dore lounged on a leather sofa, controller in hand, jaw set tight.
He was the kind of man whose beauty didn't soothe it threatened. Like a blade sharpened to glint, not to protect. Jet-black hair fell carelessly over his brow, and his eyes icy, unyielding stayed locked on the screen. The black silk of his open-collared shirt framed a body built like power itself, sculpted by private trainers and stress. Even dressed in casual joggers, he looked like a man who could command armies or burn bridges and feel nothing.
Next to him, Gabriel slouched with another controller. Old friend. Occasional voice of reason. Loyal, if cautious.
They'd been silent for twenty minutes. Gunfire and explosions from the video game filled the space, broken only by the sound of Theo reloading a digital shotgun and Gabriel swearing under his breath as his avatar died.
Finally, Gabriel paused the game. The screen froze mid-carnage.
"You're really going to marry her?"
Theo didn't glance away. "That's the arrangement."
"Arrangement," Gabriel echoed, tossing the word like it tasted bitter. "Jesus, Theo. She's not a stock merger."
Theo leaned back, expression unreadable. "You think I don't know that?"
"Then why go through with it? Why not walk?"
A beat passed. Theo placed the controller on the glass table with meticulous care. He picked up a glass of whiskey, swirled it once, and took a slow sip.
Then: "Because I gave my word. And because her parents are idiots."
Gabriel narrowed his eyes. "That doesn't sound like a man in love."
"Good," Theo said coldly. "Because I'm not."
The words landed with a finality that would have ended the conversation for anyone else. But Gabriel had known him too long.
"She's twenty-three, Theo. Barely lived. Has no idea what she's walking into."
Theo laughed, low and without humor. "She's walking into her parents' mistake. Not mine."
"You're not planning to treat her like like the others, right?"
A muscle in Theo's jaw twitched. "You're asking the wrong person."
Gabriel leaned forward. "Am I?"
Theo set the whiskey down and stood, walking to the window. Manhattan stretched beneath him like a board game for the rich. His reflection hovered faintly in the glass sharp cheekbones, predator's eyes, perfection warped by darkness.
"She's not an idiot," Theo said at last. "She tried to run. That alone makes her smarter than half the women I've met."
"That's not a reason to chain her."
"No," Theo murmured. "But it makes her interesting."
Gabriel rose too. "This isn't a game."
Theo turned, and the expression on his face was like ice cracking under pressure.
"I'm not treating it like one."
Gabriel exhaled, crossing his arms. "Then tell me this: are you going to protect her… or possess her?"
Silence.
The question echoed like a gunshot in the room.
Theo stepped closer, voice dropping to something colder, darker.
"She's mine. That's the deal. That's the contract. That's what they handed me when they begged for my money."
"Jesus"
"But I didn't ask for her," Theo cut in, eyes flaring. "I didn't go shopping for a wife. I didn't groom her or trick her. I sat at a table with a man who was supposed to love her, and he sold her like a painting he didn't want anymore."
Gabriel flinched.
"So don't ask me if I'm going to be good to her," Theo said, voice dangerous now. "Ask them why they gave her to a monster."
Silence pulsed between them.
But then Theo looked away, his gaze drawn once more to the glass and the city below.
"She has no idea what she's marrying," he said, more to himself than to Gabriel.
Gabriel moved to leave, but paused at the door. "You're still human, Theo. Whatever they did, you don't have to become the thing they expect."
Theo didn't reply. His jaw was locked. His mind was somewhere else.
Alone again, Theo walked to the bar and poured another drink, but didn't touch it.
Instead, he stared at the untouched liquor, at his own reflection in the dark glass.
He thought of Izzie in that hoodie. Her hair messy. Her defiance glowing like a star before it burns out.
He remembered the way she trembled, but refused to look away.
No one had ever looked at him like that and not broken.
And it made something coil inside him sharp, aching, hungry.
She was his. Legally. Strategically. Permanently.
And yet…
Some part of him knew she would never be his in the way he wanted. Not willingly.
He hated that knowledge. Hated how much he wanted to change it.
But even more than that he hated the part of himself that wanted her to choose him.
Because that part still knew how to bleed.
The door clicked shut behind Gabriel, and the penthouse sank into silence.
Theo remained still for a long moment, the whiskey glass cooling in his hand. Outside, the wind howled between high-rises, carrying the faint hum of sirens and the ghost-echo of a city that never slept. But inside, all was still.
He turned away from the windows and crossed the room, his bare feet soundless on polished stone. His destination was a hidden panel near the bar a narrow seam in the black marble. A fingerprint scan later, the wall clicked and opened.
Inside was a compact but formidable surveillance center. Not corporate-grade. Personal.
The screens flared to life.
Izzie's room appeared on the largest monitor.
Muted.
She sat curled on her bed, arms wrapped around her knees, hair tumbling like gold over her shoulders. She looked smaller tonight. Not weak just… tired. Like something delicate had been forced to hold too much.
Theo watched.
And something inside him twisted.
She was too beautiful for the cage they'd built her. She didn't belong in a world of marriage contracts and legacy tiaras. She belonged in some messy artist's loft, barefoot, drinking wine from the bottle and laughing in foreign languages. She should've been dancing in the rain in Montmartre, arguing about literature in smoky cafés, making mistakes that didn't cost a life.
Not waiting to be handed over to him like a family heirloom nobody wanted.
And yet…
She was his now.
A contract said so. A signature said so. A century of blood-soaked legacy said so.
Still watching her cry when she thought no one could see… it didn't feel like victory.
It felt like theft.
Theo sank into the leather chair before the console, elbows braced on his knees. His eyes didn't leave her. Every movement she made the way she pressed her cheek to her knee, the way her foot twitched when she was overwhelmed it all burned into him like obsession. No. Not like. It was obsession.
And he knew it.
His fingers curled into fists.
He'd felt it that first night he saw her. Not when they were introduced. Before that. At a gallery showing in Paris, two years ago. She didn't know he was watching. She was across the room, arguing with a sculptor about light and shadow. Her passion made her glow. She was real in a room of masks.
He never forgot it.
And now… she was in his house. Nearly his wife.
It should have satisfied him.
But it didn't.
Because there was one thing he didn't have: her choice.
Theo knew what it was like to be powerless. Once. Long ago. His mother had taught him that. Leaving him behind in a Dubai penthouse when he was eleven years old, disappearing into rehab clinics and foreign lovers' arms. She'd told him love was for the weak. That control was all that mattered.
He'd believed her.
Still did.
Most days.
But Izzie… she made him doubt. Not with words. With resistance. With silence. With that way she looked at him like she saw the monster and didn't flinch.
Like she expected more.
And he hated it.
Hated that part of him still wanted to be seen.
The jealousy came suddenly, irrational and brutal.
He imagined her with someone else.
Smiling at some artist boy who painted her in the nude. Laughing in the arms of a man who wouldn't cage her. Kissing someone who didn't terrify her.
His chest tightened. His breath came shorter.
He closed his eyes and forced the image away.
No.
She wouldn't have that. Couldn't.
Because no one else would ever understand how precious her fire was. No one else could protect it from being snuffed out.
Not even herself.
He stood abruptly and walked to a tall ebony cabinet.
Inside, tucked behind old business files and lockboxes, was a velvet pouch.
He opened it.
Inside were small items, mementos from the women before. A silver bracelet. A photo in a cracked frame. A hotel keycard from a Paris suite that ended in screaming.
He pulled out one item a note, folded and water-stained.
Don't call me again. You're not the man you pretend to be.
He stared at it for a long time.
Then he struck a match.
The flame kissed the paper, curling its edges into ash.
Theo dropped it into the fireplace and watched it disintegrate.
He was tired of pretending.
A moment later, his phone buzzed.
He didn't move to check it.
Another buzz.
Still, he waited.
Then a third this time with a chime reserved for priority calls.
He walked back to the console and picked up the phone.
Text from: Bianca Hart
"Designers are requesting your tuxedo fittings. Will you be available Thursday or Friday? And I assume the custom cufflinks have arrived."
Theo stared at the message.
A wedding. A contract. A tuxedo. Cufflinks. Silk and diamonds and paperwork to sanctify a sacrifice.
He typed back:
"Let them measure for a crown instead."
Then tossed the phone onto the desk.
He returned to the screen. Izzie had fallen asleep, curled tightly, like she didn't trust the walls not to close in.
He touched his fingertips to the screen.
"I told your father I'd take care of you," he whispered. "He didn't ask what that meant."
He leaned back in the chair, the city burning below him.
"You'll learn to need me, Izzie Hart," he said softly.
"And when you do… it'll be too late."