The bathroom was a cathedral of Carrara marble and polished chrome, a space so large and opulent it felt like another country compared to the communal showers at Fraser Valley. Hannah sat in the massive, deep-soaking tub, the water nearly scalding, the steam rising in thick, white plumes that obscured the mirrored walls.
She didn't scrub the dirt off at first. She simply sat there, submerged to her chin, watching the gray silt from the shipyard swirl into the crystal-clear water. She stayed until her skin turned a flushed, angry pink. She stayed until the water began to lose its heat, turning lukewarm and then tepid.
If I stay here long enough, she thought, her eyes tracing the gold-plated faucets, he'll get bored. A man like Dermin Doren doesn't wait for anyone. He has a company to run. He has a world to conquer. He'll eat his expensive dinner, drink his expensive wine, and forget I'm even in here.
That was the dream: to be forgotten. To be a ghost in the corner of his life until she could find the hundred million dollars or a way to make him disappear. She leaned her head back against the cool marble rim of the tub and closed her eyes, listening to the silence of the house. It was a heavy, expensive silence.
Then came the knock.
It was a soft, rhythmic tapping, polite but persistent.
"Mistress?" a voice drifted through the heavy door. It was the housekeeper from earlier. "Master Doren is waiting for you at the dining table. He requested that I check on your progress. Dinner is served."
Hannah didn't move. She didn't even open her eyes. "Tell your 'Master' that I'm not hungry," she called out, her voice echoing off the tile. "Tell him the thought of a formal dinner makes me sick. I'm staying in here."
"But, Mistress—"
"Go away," Hannah snapped.
She heard the soft retreat of footsteps. Silence returned. Hannah let out a long, shaky breath. Success, she thought. He'll realize I'm a liability. He'll realize I'm not the docile little trophy wife he can show off to his tech billionaire friends.
She spent another twenty minutes watching the steam evaporate. She felt a small sense of victory, a tiny spark of rebellion in the darkness of her situation.
Then came the second knock.
This one wasn't soft. It was three sharp, authoritative raps that seemed to vibrate the very hinges of the door.
"The maid said you weren't hungry, Hannah."
The voice wasn't the housekeeper's. It was Dermin's—low, resonant, and carrying a terrifyingly calm edge that made the water in the tub seem to turn to ice.
"I'm not," Hannah shouted, her heart starting to gallop again. "I'm tired. I'm going to sleep. Go eat your dinner and leave me alone!"
"I don't think you understand the nature of our arrangement," Dermin replied. She could hear him leaning against the other side of the door, his voice so close it felt like he was whispering directly into her ear. "I've waited ten years to sit across a table from you. I am not eating alone tonight."
"Well, you're going to have to!"
"Hannah," his voice dropped an octave, becoming a dark, velvet threat. "You have exactly sixty seconds to stand up, dry yourself, and put on the robe I left for you. If that door doesn't open by the time I count to sixty, I am coming in. I will dry you myself. I will dress you myself. And I will carry you downstairs in front of every member of my staff and seat you at that table. Do you want to test if I'm joking?"
Hannah froze. She looked at the door. There was no lock. In this "matrimonial" suite, Dermin had ensured there were no barriers between him and his prize. She knew that tone. It was the tone of a man who had spent a decade turning "no" into "yes." If he walked in now, while she was vulnerable and naked, the last shred of her dignity would be incinerated.
"I'm coming out!" she yelled, her voice high and frantic. "Don't you dare come in here! I'll be out in a minute!"
"Fifty seconds, Hannah," he replied coolly.
She scrambled out of the tub, her wet feet nearly slipping on the marble floor. She grabbed a towel, dried herself with manic speed, and reached for the robe hanging on a heated brass hook. It was silk—heavy, midnight-blue silk that felt like water against her skin.
As she tied the sash, she realized the robe was designed with a cruel precision. It clung to her damp skin, the fabric tracing every curve of her hips, the swell of her breasts, and the long line of her legs. It was modest in coverage but devastating in its silhouette.
She took a deep breath, straightened her spine, and pushed open the door.
She expected the room to be empty.
He wasn't.
Dermin was standing right there, leaning against a mahogany dresser, a glass of dark amber liquid in his hand. He hadn't moved an inch. He was still in his white dress shirt, the top two buttons undone, looking like a king waiting for a tribute.
As she stepped out, the steam from the bathroom curling around her like a shroud, his eyes locked onto her. His gaze didn't just look; it devoured. It started at her bare, damp feet, traveled slowly up the curve of her calves, lingered at the tight cinch of the sash around her waist, and finally settled on her flushed, defiant face.
The hunger in his eyes was so visceral, so naked, that Hannah felt her knees go weak. It wasn't the look of a husband; it was the look of an artist seeing his masterpiece finally unveiled—or a predator looking at a kill he had waited a lifetime to taste.
"Beautiful," he murmured, his voice thick. He set the glass down on the dresser and took a slow step toward her.
Hannah clutched the lapels of the robe together at her throat. "I'm out. Happy? Now go downstairs."
Dermin ignored her command. He kept moving until he was standing in her personal space, the scent of his cologne mixing with the flowery steam of her bath. He reached out, his hand hovering just inches from her waist, tracing the air around her silhouette.
"I knew I chose well," he said, his eyes dark with an intensity that made her pulse thrum in her ears. "That robe... it fits you even better than I imagined. You have a magnificent figure, Hannah. Ten years of prison rations haven't been able to hide the grace of your body."
"Stop it," she whispered, her voice trembling. "Stop talking to me like I'm a... a piece of jewelry you just bought."
"But I did buy you, didn't I?" Dermin leaned in, his face so close she could feel the heat radiating from his skin. "I bought your freedom. And in return, I got a wife who is far more stunning than the girl I left behind."
He reached out and captured a damp lock of her hair, rubbing the strands between his thumb and forefinger. "The girl was pretty. The woman... the woman is breathtaking."
Hannah stared at him, trapped between his heat and her own hatred. She wanted to slap him, but she was terrified that if she moved, he would take it as an invitation to close the remaining inch of space between them.
"Dinner," she choked out, her eyes wide. "You said dinner."
Dermin smiled, a slow, dark tilt of his lips. He let go of her hair and stepped back, just enough to let her breathe, but not enough to let her feel safe.
"Indeed. Dinner," he said, gesturing toward the door. "After you, Mrs. Doren. Let's not keep the wine waiting."
As she stumbled past him toward the hallway, she could feel his eyes on her back, marking every step she took, claiming every inch of the floor she walked on.