THE CEO'S PERSONAL asset
( Mariam)
Chapter One
A Daughter Worth Billions
Mariam Al-Kareem had never learned how to survive without money.
She did not know the taste of scarcity, the sound of unpaid bills piling up, or the weight of desperation pressing against the chest at night. Her life had been built on quiet luxury—chauffeured cars, private tutors, silk sheets, and expectations stitched neatly into every dress she wore.
She was raised to be elegant.
Not loud, not reckless, not desperate.
Her mother had taught her how to sit with her ankles crossed, how to speak without revealing too much emotion, how to smile without promising anything. Her father had taught her numbers, contracts, and the illusion of control. Together, they had molded her into a woman who looked like she belonged everywhere.
And everyone told her the same thing.
"You should be a model".
"You belong in front of cameras".
"You look like a star".
Mariam believed it. Quietly. Carefully. She dreamed of runways and film sets, of freedom disguised as fame. She practiced poses in front of mirrors, memorized scripts in secret, imagining a future she alone controlled.
That future shattered on a Thursday evening.
Her father's silence at dinner was the first warning.
He barely touched his food. His fork trembled when he lifted it. The man who once commanded boardrooms now stared into his plate like it held answers he was afraid to read.
"Father?" Mariam asked gently.
"Come to my study after dinner," he replied, voice strained.
The words settled like a stone in her stomach.
The study smelled of leather, old books, and fear.
The air was moist
Papers were scattered across the desk—contracts stamped REJECTED, numbers circled in red ink, bank statements she didn't need to understand to recognize disaster. Her father sat behind the desk, shoulders slumped, eyes bloodshot.
"We are losing everything," he said quietly.
Mariam's breath caught. "How?"
Bad investments. Betrayed partnerships. A collapsing market. One mistake after another, snowballing into something uncontrollable.
"No one will help us," he continued. "No bank. No investor."
Mariam swallowed. "There must be someone."
Her father hesitated.
"There is one man."
She stiffened. "Who?"
"George."
The name alone made her blood run cold.
George Valentino.
Mafia lord. Shadow king. CEO of one of the most powerful fashion empires in the country. A man who ruled both boardrooms and back alleys with equal brutality. People whispered about him the way they whispered about storms—inevitable, destructive, unforgiving.
"He offered to invest," her father said. "Enough to save everything."
"And?" Mariam asked, already knowing.
"He has conditions."
Her chest tightened. "What conditions?"
"He wants to become the major shareholder."
"That's normal," she said, though her voice shook. "What else?"
Her father closed his eyes.
"He wants you as his wife."
The room tilted.
Mariam stared at him, waiting for laughter. For denial. For anything that would prove she misheard.
"You're joking," she whispered.
"I am not."
She stood abruptly. "No. Absolutely not. He's a criminal. He's dangerous."
"He swore he would never hurt you," her father said desperately. "I made him promise. If he lays a hand on you in harm, if he kills you or breaks the agreement, the contract is void. I walk away with the investment, and he loses everything."
Mariam laughed—a broken sound. "You think a promise protects me from a man like that?"
She dropped to her knees.
"I'm a virgin," she sobbed. "I've never even kissed a man. I don't want to be trapped. I don't want to be used. Please, Father. Don't do this."
Her father turned away, tears streaming down his face.
"I have no choice."
And just like that, Mariam became collateral.
The wedding was quiet. Efficient. Transactional.
George arrived late, dressed in black, his presence commanding the room without effort. He was tall, broad-shouldered, his face carved from restraint. His eyes never softened—not when he looked at her, not when he slipped the ring onto her finger.
Mariam saw no love there.
Only ownership.
When the officiant pronounced them married, George leaned in just enough for her to hear.
"This changes nothing," he said calmly. "Do not make this difficult."
Her hands trembled beneath the lace gloves.
George's mansion was colder than she expected.
Too clean. Too quiet. Too controlled.
Two women greeted her.
Hi, Arendel, an older, sharp-eyed, introduced herself as the head housekeeper. Efficient. Distant.
Maya was younger. Softer spoken. Her eyes lingered on George with something dangerously close to devotion.
"I handle the private quarters," Maya said softly.
Mariam noticed the way George didn't correct her.
She was shown to a massive bedroom—their bedroom. Dark walls. Heavy curtains. A king-sized bed scattered with red flowers.
Her heart pounded painfully.
That night, she sat on the edge of the bed, fully dressed, waiting.
George never came.
And as she lay alone in that vast bed, Mariam realized the truth:
She had not married a husband.
She had been delivered into a world ruled by power, silence, and blood.
Chapter Two
The Silence Between Orders
Days earlier.
The first thing Mariam learned about George Valentino's house was that it functioned like a machine.
Every hour had its purpose. Every corridor had rules. Every person moved with quiet precision, as if the walls themselves were listening. There were no unnecessary conversations, no laughter echoing through the halls, no warmth lingering in the air. Even the light seemed measured—soft but restrained, illuminating without comforting.
Mariam woke before dawn the first morning, her body stiff from sleeping fully clothed atop silk sheets that felt foreign beneath her skin. For a brief moment, she forgot where she was. Then she remembered the ring on her finger, heavy and unfamiliar, and the truth crashed back into her chest.
She was married.
Not to a man who loved her, or even wanted her company—but to a man who had bought her.
A soft knock came at the door precisely at seven.
"Madam," Arendel's voice called, calm and emotionless. "It is time to wake."
Mariam sat up slowly. "I'm awake."
Arendel entered without waiting for permission. She carried herself with the authority of someone who had served powerful men for most of her life and survived by never overstepping, never sympathizing too much.
"Your schedule has been prepared," Arendel said, placing a neatly printed paper on the dresser. "Meals, permitted areas, and household expectations."
Mariam stared at the paper. "Permitted areas?"
"Yes."
"And the rest?"
"Restricted."
Mariam exhaled sharply. "Am I a prisoner?"
Arendel met her gaze without flinching. "You are protected."
This word.
Protected.
It followed Mariam like a shadow , it tormented her .
Breakfast was served in the dining hall—alone.
The table was long enough to seat twelve people, yet only one place was set. George's chair sat at the head, untouched, as if no one dared disturb it in his absence. The emptiness across from her made the silence louder.
Mariam pushed food around her plate, appetite gone.
"He doesn't eat here?" she asked Arendel, who stood at a respectful distance.
"Mr. Valentino eats when his schedule permits," Arendel replied.
"And when is that?"
"When he decides."
Of course.
After breakfast, Mariam wandered the mansion under Maya's watchful eye. The younger maid followed her closely, almost eagerly, pointing out rooms and amenities as if giving a tour she had rehearsed many times.
"The library is available to you," Maya said. "The west garden too. But not the east wing."
"What's there?" Mariam asked.
Maya's smile tightened. "Private matters."
Mariam noticed the way Maya's tone changed when speaking of George—soft, reverent, almost intimate. It unsettled her more than Arendel's cold professionalism.
That afternoon, Mariam caught her reflection in one of the many mirrors lining the hallways.
She barely recognized herself.
The woman staring back looked composed, dressed impeccably in clothes George's staff had selected for her—but her eyes were dull, cautious. Like an animal placed in a golden cage.
She pressed her palm against the glass.
I will not disappear, she promised herself.
George did not come home that night.
Or the next.
Or the one after that.
Days stretched into a strange routine. Mariam read in the library, walked the garden paths, practiced poses and lines in secret, refusing to let her dreams rot. At night, she slept alone in the massive bed, listening to the house breathe around her.
On the fifth night, she heard him.
Footsteps—heavy, deliberate—echoing down the hall long after midnight.
Her heart leapt violently.
She sat up, pulse roaring in her ears, eyes fixed on the bedroom door.
It opened.
George stepped inside, loosening his tie as he moved. The sight of him knocked the breath from her lungs—not because of desire, but because of the blood.
Dark stains marked his shirt. His knuckles were split, dried blood crusted along his skin. A cut ran along his jawline, fresh enough that it still glistened under the dim light.
Instinct overrode fear.
"You're hurt," she said, climbing out of bed.
He froze.
Their eyes met.
Up close, Mariam saw the truth others whispered about. George Valentino was not chaotic or wild—he was controlled to the point of menace. Every movement deliberate. Every breath measured. His eyes were sharp, cold, but tired in a way that suggested a life lived constantly on the edge of violence.
"Stay where you are," he said quietly.
She stopped, hands trembling at her sides. "You need help."
"I said stay."
She obeyed, even as frustration burned through her fear.
George turned slightly, and pain flashed across his face before he masked it. He reached for the door.
"Maya," he called.
She appeared almost instantly, as if she had been waiting.
Her eyes widened when she saw his injuries, and she rushed to him without hesitation, touching his arm, his shoulder, her fingers reverent.
"I'll take care of you," she whispered.
George did not stop her.
Mariam watched from the bed, something tight and unpleasant coiling in her chest.
Maya guided him away without looking back at Mariam once.
The door closed.
The silence afterward felt heavier than before.
The next morning, Mariam confronted Arendel.
"She acts like she owns him," Mariam said, keeping her voice low. "Like she's more than a maid."
Arendel considered her carefully. "Maya has been with Mr. Valentino for many years. Before wealth. Before the title."
"Is she his lover?"
Arendel hesitated.
"No," she said eventually. "But she believes she belongs to him."
Mariam swallowed. "And what does he believe?"
"That is not a question you want answered too quickly."
Weeks passed.
George remained distant, speaking to Mariam only when necessary. His words were clipped, emotionless, but his presence filled every room he entered. When he looked at her, it felt like being assessed—not as a woman, but as an asset.
Still, Mariam began to notice contradictions.
He never touched her.
Never raised his voice.
Never forced himself into her space.
For a man rumored to be ruthless, he exercised restraint that confused her more than cruelty would have.
One evening, as they sat across from each other at dinner, Mariam finally spoke.
"I need something to do."
George glanced up slowly. "You live in luxury. That is not enough?"
"I want to work," she said firmly. "I want to model. Act. I don't want to sit in this house waiting for you to come home bleeding."
A muscle in his jaw tightened.
"That life is not for you."
"Why?" she demanded. "Because you don't trust me—or because you don't trust other men?"
His gaze darkened.
"I will not have my wife displayed for strangers to consume," he said coldly. "Men looking at you, imagining things they have no right to."
Her hands curled into fists. "I'm not your property."
The air between them turned sharp.
"You became mine the moment your father signed that contract," George replied calmly. "Learn the difference between what you want and what you are allowed."
Something inside her snapped.
"I hate you," she said, standing abruptly. "I hate what you've done to me."
For the first time, his composure cracked.
"Good," he said quietly. "Hate keeps you alive in my world."
She left the table shaking, tears burning her eyes.
That night, as Mariam lay awake, staring at the ceiling, one terrifying realization settled into her bones:
George Valentino was not a monster who acted without control.
He was a man who chose restraint.
And that made him far more dangerous.
Chapter Three
Lines That Were Never Meant to Blur
Mariam began to understand the true cruelty of George Valentino's control: it was quiet.
There were no chains on her wrists, no locked doors she could see, no shouted orders echoing through the halls. Instead, there was permission—granted sparingly, withdrawn without explanation. There were boundaries she could not cross and rules she was never formally told but somehow always violated when she tried to breathe too freely.
The house adjusted around her like a living thing.
On the morning after their argument, her breakfast was served later than usual. Her schedule sheet—once neatly printed—was missing from the dresser. When she asked Arendel about it, the older woman only inclined her head.
"Mr. Valentino has decided your days will be less… structured," she said.
Mariam frowned. "That doesn't sound like a gift."
"It is not meant to be."
George did not speak to her for days.
He passed her in corridors without acknowledgment, his presence slicing through the air like a blade. When their eyes accidentally met, something heavy settled in Mariam's chest—a mixture of anger, fear, and something far more dangerous she refused to name.
She hated that he affected her.
Hated that she noticed the way his voice dropped when issuing commands, the way his suits fit him as though tailored to his violence, the way servants stiffened when he entered a room.
She hated that she felt safer when he was in the house.
That realization terrified her.
"You shouldn't provoke him," she said one afternoon as she helped Mariam choose a dress.
Mariam's reflection stared back at her, calm on the surface, storm behind the eyes. "I didn't realize speaking was provocation."
Maya's fingers tightened briefly on the fabric. "Men like him don't forgive disobedience."
"And women like you defend it?" Mariam asked quietly.
Maya's gaze snapped up, sharp and wounded. "You don't understand him."
"Neither do you," Mariam replied.
The room grew tense.
"He saved me," Maya said after a moment, voice trembling. "He took me off the streets. Gave me purpose."
"And now you live for him," Mariam said softly. "That's not salvation. That's surrender."
Maya's face hardened. "Be careful, Madam. He may tolerate your defiance now, but that won't last forever."
The warning lingered long after Maya left.
That evening, Mariam did something reckless.
She crossed into the east wing.
The corridor was darker, quieter, guarded by an unspoken threat. Her heart pounded with every step, adrenaline sharp in her veins. She didn't know what she expected to find—secrets, weapons, proof of the monster everyone feared.
She found George's office.
The door was unlocked.
Inside, the room was minimalist, almost stark. A massive desk. Shelves lined with files. Security monitors displaying different parts of the estate—and beyond.
Mariam approached the desk, fingers brushing the surface.
Photos caught her attention.
Not of lovers or luxury—but of men. Some bruised. Some bleeding. Some looking directly into the camera with terror etched into their faces.
She recoiled.
"You shouldn't be here."
George's voice cut through the air behind her.
Mariam spun around, heart slamming violently against her ribs. He stood in the doorway, jacket removed, sleeves rolled up, revealing scars she hadn't seen before—old, pale reminders of violence that went both ways.
"I was curious," she said, lifting her chin despite the fear screaming inside her.
"Curiosity gets people killed," he replied calmly.
"I am not 'people,' remember?" she shot back. "I amyour wife."
Something dark flickered in his eyes.
"That does not give you freedom," he said, stepping closer. "It gives you protection."
"From you?" she asked bitterly.
He stopped inches away from her.
"Yes," he said quietly.
The word landed harder than a slap.
For a long moment, neither of them moved.
Mariam could smell him—leather, steel, something faintly metallic. She was acutely aware of the size difference between them, the way he filled the space effortlessly, the way his control radiated outward.
"You think I enjoy this?" he asked suddenly.
She blinked. "Enjoy what?"
"Being the villain in your story," he said. "Being the man you fear."
Her voice softened despite herself. "Do you?"
He studied her, expression unreadable. "Fear keeps you alive."
"That's not an answer."
"No," he agreed. "It's a rule."
He turned away, signaling the conversation's end. "Go back to your wing."
Mariam hesitated. "Why won't you touch me?"
The question slipped out before she could stop it.
George froze.
Slowly, he looked at her again.
"Because once I do," he said evenly, "things will change."
Her pulse raced. "Is that a threat?"
"It's a promise."
That night, Mariam dreamed of fire.
Of being burned without pain. Of hands she could not see guiding her through the heat. She woke breathless, sheets twisted around her legs, heart racing with emotions she didn't understand and refused to name.
Two days later, a new presence entered the house.
His name was Victor.
He arrived mid-morning, dressed in an expensive suit that failed to hide the dangerous ease in his movements. He smiled too easily, eyes sharp with intelligence and amusement.
"Mariam," he said, bowing slightly. "I've heard so much about you."
She stiffened. "From whom?"
"Your husband," Victor replied lightly.
George shot him a warning look.
Victor laughed. "Relax. I'm just here on business."
But Mariam noticed the way Victor looked at her—not like an object, not like a possession—but like a puzzle.
That unsettled her even more.
Later, she overheard raised voices in George's office.
"You're losing control," Victor said. "This marriage is affecting your judgment."
"She is not a weakness," George replied coldly.
"Yet," Victor corrected. "But she will be."
Mariam pressed her hand to her chest, heart pounding.
Who are you? Mariam asked victor as he stepped into the living room
A friend.
What were you guys talking about?
None of your business, he replied.
I heard my name in your conversation, she continued
Shut it , George's voice echoes from over the hall .
Why ? I'm just asking a harmless question, she replied.
I said shut it , he yelled,he voice loud,cold and cruel .
She shivered in fear .
I told you, you're losing control, victor said leaving.
That night, George came to their bedroom for the first time.
He didn't touch her. Didn't undress. He simply stood by the window, silent, tense.
"You crossed a line today," he said without turning.
"I wanted answers."
"You don't get answers," he replied. "You get protection."
She swallowed. "At what cost?"
He finally faced her.
"At the cost of your freedom," he said. "And eventually—mine."
Their eyes locked.
Something shifted.
Not desire.
Not yet.
But inevitable.
And Mariam realized with chilling clarity that the most dangerous thing about George Valentino was not his power—
It was that he was already losing control.
Chapter Four
The Night the Walls Gave Way
A week later.
This George came into their bedroom with intention, Mariam knew before he spoke.
It was in the way the air changed.
The house always felt controlled, measured—but that night, something restless moved beneath the silence. Mariam stood by the window, watching the garden lights glow faintly in the distance, her reflection ghosted against the glass. She sensed him before she heard him, the weight of his presence settling into the room like a storm cloud.
George closed the door behind him.
Not gently.
Not violently.
Deliberately.
Mariam turned slowly.
He had removed his jacket, his sleeves rolled up as usual, but his posture was different. Taut. Restrained in a way that felt dangerously close to snapping. His gaze locked onto her, unblinking, unreadable.
"You should be asleep," he said.
"So should you," she replied quietly.
Silence stretched between them, thick with unspoken things. For weeks, they had circled each other—fear and defiance, restraint and curiosity. Tonight, the distance felt unbearable.
"You disobeyed me," George said at last.
Mariam lifted her chin. "I wanted answers."
"You invaded my space."
"You invaded my life," she shot back.
Something flickered across his face—anger, yes, but beneath it, something far more complicated.
"You don't understand what you're asking for," he said, stepping closer.
"Then explain it to me," she whispered.
He stopped a few feet away, eyes dark. "If I cross that line with you, Mariam, there is no turning back."
Her heart pounded violently. "You already crossed it when you bought me."
His jaw tightened. "No. I crossed business lines. This—" He gestured between them. "—this is something else."
She swallowed hard. "Are you afraid?"
The word hung in the air like a challenge.
George stared at her for a long moment, then let out a slow breath. "I don't fear many things."
"But you fear this."
"Yes," he said without hesitation.
That honesty stunned her more than cruelty ever could.
"Then why are you here?" she asked softly.
He stepped closer again, close enough now that she could feel the warmth of him, the tension radiating from his body.
"Because I don't know how much longer I can keep pretending you don't affect me."
The admission cracked something open inside her.
Mariam's voice trembled. "I was terrified of you."
"I know."
"I still am."
"I know," he repeated.
"Then why do I feel like this?" she whispered.
George lifted a hand slowly, giving her time to pull away.
She didn't.
His fingers brushed her cheek—just once, light as a question.
The touch sent a shiver through her entire body.
"This is your last chance to stop me," he said quietly. "If you say no, I will walk away."
Her breath came uneven. Her heart screamed fear, but her body—traitorous, aching—leaned toward him.
"Don't," she said.
The word wasn't a refusal.
It was a plea.
Something in George finally broke.
He cupped her face fully then, his thumb brushing beneath her eye as if memorizing her. His gaze softened, just barely, revealing the man beneath the armor—the one no one ever saw.
When he kissed her, it was nothing like she imagined.
It wasn't rough.
It wasn't hurried.
It was slow, controlled, almost reverent.
Mariam gasped softly, hands gripping his shirt as sensation flooded her senses. She had never been kissed before . Every nerve in her body felt awake, alive.
George pulled back slightly, forehead resting against hers.
"You don't belong to the world you dream about," he murmured. "You belong here.you are my wife"
The words should have angered her.
Instead, they made her tremble.
He guided her toward the bed without force, every movement deliberate, giving her space to change her mind. She didn't. She couldn't. Fear tangled with desire until she could no longer tell them apart.
When he laid her down, he did so carefully, as if she were something fragile. His hands explored her cautiously, learning her reaction, and undressing her in a swift moment.
"Mariam," he said softly, using her name like an anchor. "Look at me."
She did.
His eyes searched her face, making sure she was present, willing.
"Tell me to stop," he said.
She shook her head, tears stinging her eyes—not from pain, but from the overwhelming intensity of being wanted so completely.
He kissed her again, deeper this time, and the world narrowed to breath and warmth and closeness. Time dissolved as sensation overtook thought, fear giving way to something raw and consuming.
When he finally penetrated her fully, it was slow, careful, controlled—nothing like the violence she had feared. The moment was overwhelming, unfamiliar, but George stayed with her, murmuring reassurance, pounding her through the unfamiliar sensations.
She clung to him, breathless, heart racing, caught between vulnerability and need.
And when it was over—when the intensity finally faded into something softer—George did not pull away.
He stayed.
He wrapped his arms around her, holding her against his chest, his grip firm but protective. Mariam lay there stunned, emotions crashing over her in waves—shock, confusion, guilt, and something dangerously close to longing.
"I shouldn't feel this way," she whispered.
He exhaled slowly. "Neither should I."
Yet his arm tightened around her.
For the first time since the wedding, she slept in his arms.
And for the first time in his life, George Valentino lay awake afterward, staring into the darkness, realizing with unsettling clarity that he had made a mistake he could never undo.
Because taking her body had been easy.
But letting her into his world—
That would destroy him.
Chapter Five
What Remained After the Night
Mariam woke slowly, suspended between sleep and awareness, her body wrapped in warmth she did not recognize at first.
Then she did.
George.
His arm was heavy across her waist, possessive without being tight, his chest rising steadily against her back. The room was dim, dawn light slipping through the curtains in pale ribbons. For a moment, she lay still, afraid that if she moved, the fragile reality of what had happened would fracture.
Last night had not been a dream.
The memory settled into her bones—his voice, controlled yet unsteady; his restraint breaking inch by inch; the way fear had twisted into something else entirely. Something she had never known but now could not unfeel.
She closed her eyes.
Regret did not come immediately.
Instead, confusion did. Guilt followed close behind.
She had been sold into this marriage. She had sworn to herself she would hate him. Yet here she was, wrapped in him, her body remembering his touch with traitorous clarity.
George stirred behind her.
Mariam tensed instinctively.
He withdrew his arm almost immediately, as if realizing what he was doing and correcting it. The mattress dipped as he sat up, the quiet rustle of sheets filling the space between them.
"You're awake," he said, voice low, roughened by sleep.
"Yes."
Silence stretched.
Mariam sat up slowly, pulling the sheet around herself. She avoided looking at him at first, afraid of what she might see—or worse, what she might feel.
George stood, already reaching for his shirt.
"Last night doesn't change the terms of this arrangement," he said, his tone measured, businesslike once more. "You're still protected. Your father's contract remains intact."
The words landed like a cold splash of water.
"That's all it was?" she asked quietly.
He paused, his back to her. "That's all it can be."
She swallowed. "You called me your wife."
He turned then, eyes sharp. "You are."
"And you were… tender?" she asked, the word heavy on her tongue.
His jaw tightened. "That was not meant to be tender."
"But it was," she said.
For a heartbeat, something dangerous flickered in his eyes—conflict, perhaps, or something like regret. Then it vanished.
"Get dressed," he said curtly. "We have guests today."
And just like that, the wall was back in place.
Downstairs, the house buzzed with unfamiliar energy.
Arendel moved with sharper urgency than usual, issuing quiet instructions. Maya avoided Mariam's gaze entirely, her expression tight, her posture rigid.
Mariam noticed.
At breakfast, she could barely eat. Her body felt strange—sensitive, aware of itself in ways it never had before. Every movement reminded her of the night, of the intimacy she could not reconcile with the cold distance George now wore like armor.
Guests arrived shortly after noon.
Men in tailored suits. Women dressed in elegance that rivaled hers. Power clung to them, visible in their posture, their confident smiles.
This was George's world.
And she was being presented within it.
He stood beside her as introductions were made, his hand resting lightly at her lower back—just enough to signal ownership, not affection.
"This is my wife, Mariam," he said calmly.
The words sent a ripple through her.
Some of the women smiled politely. Some of the men looked too long.
George noticed.
His hand tightened slightly.
Possession. Not protection.
She told herself it didn't matter.
Victor arrived last.
His presence cut through the room like a blade, all charm and danger wrapped in an easy grin. His eyes found Mariam immediately, assessing, curious.
"So you're here," he said lightly as he took her hand and kissed her knuckles. "I was beginning to think George would never bring you out in a social setting ."
Mariam forced a polite smile. "well I am here."
Victor's gaze flicked to George. "I see that."
George said nothing, but the air between the two men shifted—old tension, unresolved rivalry.
Throughout the afternoon, Mariam observed them.
Victor challenged George openly, casually questioning decisions, teasing him in ways others wouldn't dare. George tolerated it, but his patience was thin.
"You're distracted," Victor said quietly to George at one point, not bothering to lower his voice enough. "This marriage is already changing you."
George's eyes hardened. "Watch yourself."
Victor smiled. "Or what? You'll admit I'm right?"
Mariam felt the words like pressure against her chest.
Later, when the guests had moved to the terrace, Victor found Mariam alone by the window.
"Are you happy?" he asked suddenly.
The question startled her.
"I don't think that's your concern," she replied carefully.
"No," he agreed. "But I am concerned with George's downfall."
She frowned. "You speak as if you expect it."
Victor leaned closer, lowering his voice. "Men like him don't lose because of enemies. They lose because of attachments."
Mariam's breath caught. "I'm not an attachment."
Victor studied her intently. "Not yet."
Before she could respond, George appeared, his presence immediate and heavy.
"What are you doing?" George asked Victor flatly.
"Talking," Victor replied easily. "To your wife."
George's gaze dropped to Mariam, searching her face for something—fear, perhaps. Or betrayal.
"Go to your room," he said to her.
The command stung.
"I'm not a child," she replied quietly.
His eyes darkened. "Mariam."
She hesitated, then turned and left.
Behind her, Victor laughed softly.
That night, George came to her room—but he did not touch her.
He stood near the door, arms crossed, tension coiled tight beneath his stillness.
"You should stay away from Victor," he said.
"Why?" she asked. "Is he dangerous?"
"Yes."
"More dangerous than you?"
The question hung between them.
George's voice dropped. "In different ways."
Mariam hugged her arms around herself. "You can't keep ordering me around."
"I can," he said. "And I will."
She laughed bitterly. "Last night you were gentle. Today you're a tyrant again. Which one of you is real?"
His jaw clenched. "Both."
She met his gaze, something fragile but fierce rising in her chest. "Then stop pretending you don't feel anything."
He stepped closer, anger flickering. "Feeling is a liability."
"And what am I?" she asked softly.
He looked at her for a long moment.
"You are a complication I didn't plan for," he said. "And one I may not survive."
He turned and left before she could answer.
Alone again, Mariam sat on the edge of the bed, heart racing.
She should have hated him.
She should have felt used, broken, defeated.
Instead, she felt awake.
And that terrified her more than fear ever had.
Because deep down, she knew the truth:
That night had not bound her to George.
It had entangled them.
And whatever came next would be far more dangerous than desire—
It would be attachment.