Chapter 20
CHAPTER TWENTY
ADDIE
Itossed and turned until the pre-dawn light turned the shadows of my room into haunting silhouettes. Every time I drifted off, the phantom pressure of Vidar’s hand pressed down against my throat. I woke with a start, my heart hammering.
The room was empty.
After getting dressed, I fully expected the door to be locked. It clicked open with a soft, silent pivot. I tiptoed into the hallway, my sandals sinking into the plush runner.
Vidar’s bedroom door was firmly closed. I hesitated, my hand hovering in the empty air.
Part of me wanted to knock, to walk in there and—what?
Apologize? Demand a seat at the table? He’d made it devastatingly clear last night what my role in this marriage would be, and "equal partner" wasn't on the list.
I turned away and headed downstairs. The Great Hall was quiet, but this time, it didn't feel lonely.
There was a clear divide in this house, a psychological border between the grand rooms where outsiders were entertained and the warm, lived-in spaces where the family embraced each other. I was standing on the family side.
The low drone of a lawnmower drifted through the window.
I peered out and froze. Gunnar was outside, shirt off, pushing a mower across the vast emerald lawn with a casualness that defied his status as a high-level enforcer.
He glanced up, caught me staring, and offered a wink before turning back to his work.
I pulled back, a flush warming my cheeks, and retreated into the family room.
Ivar was sprawled on the couch, a thick math textbook open on his lap and earbuds jammed into his ears.
He was nodding along to a beat I couldn't hear, completely lost in his own world.
I didn't want to disturb the peace, so I slipped past him toward the scent of garlic and ginger.
In the kitchen, Mei Ling stood at the stove, humming as she stirred a pot.
Fenrir stalked behind her, his large arms wrapped around her waist as he nuzzled the side of her neck.
It was a private, tender moment that I had never witnessed with my parents.
Most of my memories of my mother were of her anxiously shoving me into a corner and placing herself in front of me, or trying to get my baby brother to settle while glancing at a locked door.
Fenrir’s gaze shifted. He caught me watching and winked. I blinked, completely caught off guard at his grin. A small smile tugged at my lips, a treacherous sense of belonging blooming in my chest.
I backed away, overwhelmed by the warmth, only to thud into a wall of solid muscle.
I didn't even have to look up to know it was Vidar.
For a split second, his chest felt like something I wanted to melt into, a sanctuary against the confusion of the morning.
But when I looked up, the man standing there wasn't the one from my dream.
His face was a mask of hard, expressionless marble. He barely spared me a glance.
"I’m taking Addie to the penthouse in the city," Vidar announced.
Fenrir’s brow furrowed into a deep frown. Mei Ling’s hand stilled on the spoon. Neither of them argued, but the air in the room shifted from gold to gray. I felt the weight of it in my stomach. This wasn't a honeymoon trip; it was a relocation. It was a punishment.
"Be careful," a voice rumbled from the dining table. I hadn't even noticed Magnus sitting there, a cup of black coffee in his hand. "Things in the packs are more than a bit shaky after last night."
My ears pricked up. Strategy. Intel. I leaned in, hoping to learn more. Anything I could use to extricate my brother from this family.
"The Volkis and the Lupettos aren't happy. They’re calling it a breach of—"
"We’ll discuss it later," Vidar cut his brother off.
The wall went back up, higher and thicker than before. My husband didn't want things discussed in front of me. Because I’d been caught snooping.
"Can I say goodbye to my brother?" My voice sounded small even to my own ears.
Magnus smirked, a jagged, wolfish expression. "The kid’s upstairs sleeping off a righteous hangover."
Hot annoyance flared in my chest. They’d gotten my twenty-year-old brother drunk, yet they were treating him like one of the boys, accepting him into the fold with a shrug and a laugh. Meanwhile, I was being ushered out the door under armed guard, a prisoner being moved to a smaller cage.
The drive back to the city was a war of attrition. Every time I tried to bridge the gap with a question, Vidar met me with a monosyllabic "Yes," "No," or "Perhaps," before finally turning on the radio.
The choice of music surprised me. I expected something aggressive—something that matched the rhythmic violence of his life—but instead, the car filled with the intricate, soaring strings of a cello concerto.
The gentle tones acted like a sedative on my frayed nerves, lulling me into a shallow, dreamless nap.
When I opened my eyes, the rural greenery of the estate had been replaced by the concrete and brick of a private garage in the heart of Manhattan.
Vidar didn't wait for a valet. He stepped out and opened my door, his hand firm as he helped me onto the pavement.
He didn't let go of my hand. He kept my fingers locked in his as we walked toward the private elevator bank.
His hold reminded me of those parents who put their children on a tether attached to a backpack.
As we stepped out onto the top floor, the silence returned, heavier than before.
"Are you going to carry me over the threshold?" My voice dripped with flippant irony. "Is that the next step in the 'Perfect Husband' handbook?"
Vidar didn't smile. He didn't even look annoyed. He simply reached out, his hand ghosting past mine to open the massive, reinforced doors. He stepped back, his eyes fixed on mine, waiting for me to enter.
The penthouse was a masterpiece of cold, impersonal opulence.
It was all floor-to-ceiling glass, polished slate, and sharp, minimalist lines.
It had none of the warmth of the family estate; no humming mother at the stove, no brothers lounging on the furniture.
It was a fortress of luxury, a museum where the only exhibit was my own isolation.
I turned back to ask where I would be sleeping. Vidar hadn't moved past the threshold. He stood in the hallway, the elevator dinging and the doors back open behind him.
"Make yourself at home. Your clothes are in the guest room. The kitchen is fully stocked. I have to go to work. I’ll be back late."
Before I could find the words to argue or even to ask, he pulled the heavy doors shut. The sound of the deadbolt sliding home echoed through the cavernous living room like a gunshot. Followed by the sound of the elevator dinging its doors closed.
I stood in the center of the pristine, silent room, looking out at the sprawling skyline of Manhattan.
I had everything a woman could want—a million-dollar view, a designer wardrobe, and a pantry full of delicacies.
But as I walked to the window and realized the glass didn't have a single latch to open, the truth settled into my bones.
Vidar hadn't brought a wife home. He’d transferred his new asset to a high-security vault.