8. Simone
SIMONE
T he drive to what was once my family's estate passes in suffocating silence.
Every mile that brings us closer to what should be my sanctuary feels like another nail in the coffin of my old life.
The estate has been in my family for three generations, purchased by my great-grandfather when he first made his fortune in Miami.
It was mine. My home, my life, my sanctuary.
And now it all belongs to him.
The thought sits in my stomach like a stone as we pull through the familiar gates.
The security guards—men I don't recognize, Tristan's men rather than the ones who've protected my family for years—wave us through with respectful nods. Even they know who the real master of this house is now. Everything, I realize, is being replaced to suit him. He’s remaking it all in his image, faster than I expected he would. It feels like whiplash.
"Welcome home, Mrs. O'Malley," Tristan says as he opens the front door, and the name hits me like a physical blow.
Mrs. O'Malley. Not Simone Russo, the woman I've been for twenty-two years. Not even Simone O'Malley, which would at least acknowledge that I had an identity before I became his possession. Just Mrs. O'Malley, as if I exist only in relation to him now.
The house feels different as we step inside.
The same marble floors, the same crystal chandelier casting prismatic light across the entryway, but there's something alien about it now.
It's no longer mine. It's his, and I'm just a guest in the place where I grew up.
It feels cold and hollow, the same way it did the morning I found out my father died, before I found out all the other truths about him.
When I was still grieving the man I knew, and not the man he turned out to be.
"I've had some of your things moved to the master suite," Tristan says, hanging up his jacket with casual familiarity. "Nora supervised to make sure everything was handled properly. I believe the furniture was changed out as well. I left some suggestions as to what I’d like."
The master suite. My father's room, with its massive four-poster bed and adjoining sitting area. The room where my parents slept when my mother was alive. It’ll all look different now. That sensation of whiplash comes back again.
"I'll sleep in my own room," I say, moving toward the staircase. My heels click against the marble, a quick patter as I try to get there as quickly as possible.
"No." The single word stops me in my tracks. "You won't."
I turn to face him, and there's something different about his demeanor now. The careful politeness he maintained during the reception is gone, replaced by something harder, more determined. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me. We're married now, Simone. Married couples share a bedroom."
"Not all married couples. Plenty of people have separate bedrooms?—"
"We're not plenty of people." He's moved closer, and I can see the green fire in his eyes. I don’t know if the heat is from anger or something else, and my heart beats rabbit-fast behind my ribs, my brain urging me to flee.
"We're husband and wife, and there are certain expectations that come with that. "
I draw in a slow breath. "Expectations?"
His voice is cool, calm. "Consummation isn't optional."
The word hangs in the air between us like a blade, sharp and fatal. I've known this moment was coming. I’ve been dreading it since the day Konstantin delivered his ultimatum, but hearing it stated so bluntly still makes my breath catch.
"I'm tired," I manage, grasping for any excuse to delay the inevitable. "It's been a long day. Surely we could?—"
"No." He shakes his head, and there's something almost regretful in his expression. "This has to happen tonight, Simone. You know that as well as I do."
I do know it. A marriage that isn't consummated can be annulled, and annulment would put me right back where I started—unprotected and at the mercy of whoever decided to claim me next. But knowing something intellectually and being ready for it emotionally are two very different things.
"Fine," I say, lifting my chin with as much dignity as I can muster. "Let's get it over with. The master suite, you said?" My only defense is to shrug it off as if I don’t care. To refuse to give him a reaction.
Something flickers across his face—surprise, maybe, or disappointment. "Get it over with?"
"Isn't that what you want? To fuck me so you can officially claim ownership of everything that belonged to my father?" The crude words taste bitter on my tongue, but I force them out anyway. "So let's do it. Let's complete this business transaction."
For a moment, he just stares at me. Then, to my complete shock, he laughs.
It's not a cruel laugh or a mocking one. It's genuinely amused, like I've said something that delights him rather than insults him. The sound is rich and warm, and it does something strange to my insides that I don't want to examine too closely.
“At least you’re fighting back again.”
“I’m not.” I offer him a saccharine smile. “I’m giving in. Let’s go, Tristan. Let’s go upstairs so you can fuck me.”
“That’s not…” He pauses, as if I’ve thrown him off, and I feel a small flush of victory.
"Isn't it? You said yourself that you married me for my territory. That I was just a nice bonus that came with the deal." I throw his own words back at him, wanting to hurt him. "So congratulations, you got your bonus. Now you get to fuck a woman who was bought for you by daddy and Konstantin."
The smile fades from his face, and something dangerous flashes in his eyes. "Careful, célie . That mouth of yours is going to get you in trouble."
"What kind of trouble?” I taunt. “Are you going to punish me for speaking the truth?"
His mouth tenses. “Don’t tempt me, Simone.”
He closes in on me then, in a few quick strides, backing me up until I’m at the very edge of the stairs.
I can’t take a step backwards, or I’ll trip.
“I’m not going to lose what I worked for,” he murmurs, his voice low and insistent.
“This is the way the world works, Simone. I take you to bed, and you’re officially my wife. I’m not going to lose?—”
“Fucking a woman that your daddy bought for you isn’t working for anything.” I keep that too-sweet smile on my face. “It’s just doing as you’re told.”
“I’ll change your mind,” he purrs, his voice low and husky. “Eventually. You won’t be able to keep this charade up forever, Simone. You can’t always pretend?—”’
“I’m not pretending anything.” I force my voice to remain steady, to not sound as uncertain as I feel. “Let’s go, Tristan. I want to go to bed.”
He smirks. “To bed? Or?—”
“Sleep,” I clarify. “So let’s get this over with.”
I can tell he hates it, every time I say that. His jaw tightens, his eyes flaring, as if he can’t stand the thought that I’m going to stare at the ceiling and pretend I’m doing anything but fucking him.
“Over with,” he repeats, again. And then, before I can breathe or say another word, he reaches down, scooping me into his arms with a suddenness that makes an undignified squeak escape from my lips.
I hate it. I hate him. His chest is warm and broad, his arms holding me possessively, and I hate that it makes heat pool low in my belly, that I have the sudden urge to lean into him, to relax into the strong safety of his grip.
I just want to be held, I tell myself. It’s unfortunate that it’s Tristan. I’m lonely. That’s all .
He walks to the master suite with me in his arms, pushing open the door with his shoulder before setting me down.
I turn away from him instantly, facing the bed, and I can see that all the furniture in the room is different now.
It’s all heavy and masculine, darker wood than before, the duvet a deep red.
I’ve only ever been in here a few times. This was my parents’ sanctuary, and then my father’s, not a place for me to enter. I can see why Tristan had it stripped bare and redone, and I don’t resent him for erasing my father from this room. It makes sense. Knowing what I know now, I prefer it.
What makes me angry is that he wants me in this room, this bed, with him—and he didn’t ask me what I wanted.
What bed I’d like, what curtains I’d choose, what wardrobe I’d pick out.
He chose it all, just like he’s chosen everything that’s going to happen to me since the moment he walked into this house as if it belonged to him.
And now it does.
Resentment seethes through me as I stand there, staring at the blood-red duvet, and I feel Tristan’s fingers on the back of my neck, sweeping strands of hair away from the nape as he reaches for the first button of my dress.
A shiver runs down my spine at the touch of his fingers. It’s just the nape of my neck, but it feels intimate. I wouldn’t allow someone else to touch me there. I don’t want him to touch me there, and yet…
When his fingers flick open the first button and brush down the first knob of my spine, I feel that shiver again…
and something else, too. A slow, liquid heat that starts to spread through my belly, around my ribs, up into my chest, and over my limbs with every button that he undoes, every trace of his fingers over my flesh, and down my back.
My hands curl into fists as I realize what he’s doing, my jaw tightening with impotent anger.
I told him to get it over with. He’s doing the exact opposite. He’s undressing me like a lover, like a treasure, button by button and inch by inch, unwrapping me like a gift that he’s been waiting for indefinitely.
It’s torture… and it feels better than I could have imagined.
For such a brutish man, his hands are gentle, graceful, gliding down my spine with the precision of an artist as he lays the back of my dress open.
And then both of his hands slide into it, against my bare skin, over the curve of my waist and up to my flushed ribcage, stopping just below the wire of the bra that I’d chosen to go underneath the dress.