Chapter 3
ANNA
The car ride is silent except for the hum of the engine.
I sit as far from Luca as the backseat allows, staring out the window at streetlights blurring past. My hands are folded in my lap, fingers laced tight to stop them from shaking. The wedding ring on my finger feels heavy, foreign. I want to rip it off and throw it out the window.
But I don’t.
Because this is my life now. This is what I agreed to.
Luca hasn’t said a word since we left the reception. He’s on his phone, typing something with quick, efficient movements. Business, probably. Always business with men like him. I’m just another transaction he closed tonight, another asset added to his portfolio.
I pull out my phone and dial the home number.
“Who are you calling?” Luca asks without looking up from his own phone.
“My kids.”
He doesn’t respond. Just goes back to typing whatever message he was working on.
The phone rings twice before someone picks up.
“Anna, hello.” Mrs. Dan’s voice is warm. “How was your evening?”
“Fine. Are the twins asleep?”
“Sound asleep. They went down around seven. Mila asked for you before bed, but I told her you’d see her in the morning.”
My chest tightens. “Thank you.”
“Of course, dear.” There’s a pause. “Are you not coming home tonight?”
I glance at Luca. He’s still focused on his phone, but I know he’s listening.
“No,” I say quietly. “I’ll be back tomorrow morning.”
“Alright. Don’t worry about a thing. The children are perfectly safe.”
I end the call and stare at my phone. Mila asked for me. Of course she did. She always does when I’m not there for bedtime.
“Satisfied?” Luca asks.
“No.”
The car turns onto a private drive, passing through iron gates that open automatically.
The estate comes into view, massive and glowing against the night sky.
Three stories of stone and glass, balconies, tall windows.
This is where my children are going to live.
This is the world I just sold them into.
We stop in front of the main entrance. A man opens my door before I can reach for the handle. I step out, heels clicking on smooth pavement, and follow Luca up the steps.
The foyer is all marble and chandeliers. Art on the walls, furniture that looks untouchable. Everything is cold and perfect.
“Your things will be moved in tomorrow morning,” Luca says. “Your children as well. I’ve arranged rooms for them on the second floor.”
“How thoughtful.”
He doesn’t react to the sarcasm.
“Upstairs.” He heads toward the staircase.
I follow him down a long hallway to a suite at the end. King-sized bed, dark sheets, windows overlooking the grounds.
He closes the door behind us. The lock clicks.
“You can use the bathroom if you need a moment,” he says, already shrugging off his suit jacket.
I walk into the adjoining bathroom and close the door. Marble everywhere. A shower big enough for three people. I brace my hands on the counter and stare at my reflection.
I look exhausted. Pale. My eyes are too bright, too wide.
I can do this. I’ve done this before. Five years ago, in fact, with this same man. One night that resulted in two children and a secret I’ve been keeping ever since.
And my body remembers. Even now, standing here in his bathroom preparing to sleep with him again, I feel the pull.
The heat. It’s been five years since I’ve had sex with anyone.
Five years of being a mother, working awful jobs, surviving day to day.
Five years of celibacy because no one else felt right after him.
I hate that. Hate that my body still wants him even though he forced this marriage.
But it does.
I strip out of the black dress and leave it folded on the counter. The pearls come off next. I stand in my underwear for a moment, then walk back into the bedroom.
Luca is by the window, tie loosened, shirt unbuttoned. He turns when he hears me, eyes sweeping over me once.
“Come here,” he says.
I cross the room. When I’m close enough, he touches my jaw, tilting my face up.
“You’re shaking,” he says.
“I’m fine.” I’ll never admit to him that I’m shaking from desire rather than fear.
“No, you’re not.” His thumb brushes my lower lip. “But you’ll do this anyway.”
“Do I have a choice?”
“You always have a choice.” The implication is clear, his words a reminder of the consequences should I refuse.
Then he kisses me.
His mouth slams down, hard and claiming, tongue forcing its way past my lips like he already owns every part of me.
I taste coffee and something sharper, metallic, the edge of the man who just bought my life.
Rage surges through me along with my desire.
I bite his lower lip, hard enough to draw blood.
He growls low against my mouth but does not pull away.
Instead, he deepens the kiss, punishing, swallowing the copper tang like it is nothing.
Weakly, I try to shove at his chest with both hands, but he barely budges.
His fingers clamp around my wrists and yank them above my head, pinning them to the wall beside the bed.
My back hits the plaster and I let out a gasp, breathier than I want it to be.
He presses his body flush to mine, the thick length of his cock grinding against my stomach through his open pants.
“You think you can fight me?” His voice is low, dangerous, and amused. “You are my wife now. This body belongs to me. You will learn to take what I give.”
“Fuck you,” I spit.
He smiles against my mouth, slow and cruel. “Soon.”
He releases my wrists only to rip the bra straps down my shoulders.
The lace tears. He shoves the cups below my breasts, exposing me.
My nipples pebble instantly in the cool air.
He palms one roughly, thumb scraping the peak until I hiss.
My core is already dripping with want. Desperate to claim some level of control before I surrender to him completely, I grab his hair and yank his head back, forcing his eyes to mine.
“If you want this,” I say through clenched teeth, “you will not treat me like a thing you purchased.”
His eyes darken. “I purchased you. I own you. And I will fuck you exactly how I want.”
I shove him again, harder this time. He stumbles back one step.
I follow, pushing him toward the bed until the backs of his knees hit the mattress.
He sits, and I straddle him immediately, knees bracketing his hips, grinding down on the hard ridge of him still trapped in his pants.
His hands clamp my waist, fingers digging in.
I lean in close, lips brushing his ear. “You want to consummate this marriage? Fine. But I decide how.”
He laughs, short and dark, amused. “Try.”
I reach between us, fumbling with his belt, yanking it open.
The buckle clatters. I shove his pants and boxers down just enough to free him.
His cock springs up, thick and heavy, veins standing out, the head already slick.
I wrap my hand around him, squeezing hard.
He groans, hips jerking up into my grip.
I stroke him roughly once, then line him up and sink down in one brutal motion. I take him to the hilt, gasping at the sudden burn of fullness. He’s bigger than I remembered, stretching me wide, pressing against every sensitive place inside.
His hands fly to my hips, gripping hard enough to leave marks. “Fuck. Tight.”
I rock forward, setting a punishing rhythm, riding him fast and angry. My nails rake down his chest, leaving red lines over old scars. He hisses but doesn’t stop me, just thrusts up to meet me, driving deeper, matching my fury.
“You think you can control this?” he growls, voice strained. “You will take every inch. You will come on my cock because I allow it. Get used to it, Anna. This is your life now.”
“Shut up.” I slam down harder, grinding my clit against his pelvis on every downstroke. Pleasure coils vicious and tight in my core. I hate how good it feels. Hate how wet I am, how slick the slide is, how my body clenches around him like it never wants to let go.
He surges up suddenly, flipping us in one brutal move. My back hits the mattress. He hooks my legs over his shoulders, folding me open, and drives back in so deep I cry out. The new angle lets him hit that spot inside me over and over. Stars burst behind my eyes.
He pins my wrists above my head again, one big hand holding both. The other grips my throat—not choking, just holding, thumb pressing my pulse.
“Look at me,” he orders.
I glare up at him, breathing ragged.
“You fight all you want,” he says, voice low and filthy, “but your cunt is dripping for me. Soaking my cock. You can hate me. You can hate this. But you will come. And you will do it screaming my name.”
He fucks me harder, hips snapping. Skin slaps skin. The headboard bangs the wall in sharp, angry rhythm. I arch, trying to regain control, but every thrust shoves me closer to the edge. My thighs tremble. My toes curl.
I bite my lip until I taste blood, refusing to give him the sound.
He leans down, mouth at my ear. “Come for me, wife. Milk my cock like the good little thing you are going to learn to be.”
The words snap something inside me. Heat explodes through my body, shattering me. I come hard, clenching around him in violent pulses, a raw scream tearing from my throat. My nails dig into his shoulders, drawing blood this time.
He groans, deep and guttural, thrusts turning erratic, and then he buries himself to the root and comes, hot and thick, flooding me. I feel every pulse, every spurt deep inside. He stays there, breathing hard against my neck, cock still twitching.
After a long moment, he pulls out slowly. Wetness follows, slick and warm, dripping onto the sheets. He rolls off me and sits on the edge of the bed, back to me.
“There is a guest room down the hall,” he says, voice flat again. “Third door on the left. Sleep there if you want.”
My chest is heaving, body still shaking with aftershocks. I drag the sheet over myself, covering the evidence of what just happened.
Sitting up, I grab my torn bra and underwear from the floor. Pull them on with jerky movements. Walk to the door without looking at him.
I leave. Lock the guest room behind me. Sit on the edge of the strange bed.
My body hums. Still wants. Still aches for more even after all that anger.
I hate him. Hate this. Hate myself most of all for wanting him.
But tomorrow, I have to pack up my children and move them into this house. Tomorrow, this becomes our life.
I lie down and close my eyes, but I don’t sleep.
In the morning, I shower in the guest bathroom, put on yesterday’s dress because I have nothing else, and head downstairs. A woman in the kitchen offers me coffee. I take it and drink it standing by the window.
Luca appears around seven, already dressed in a suit. He looks like he slept fine.
“A car will take you home at eight,” he says. “Pack what you need. You and the children will be back by noon.”
“That’s not much time.”
“You don’t need much. Anything you’re missing can be purchased.”
I set down the coffee cup. “Fine.”
I start toward the door, but he stops me. “Anna.”
I turn.
“The twins. Their father.” His eyes are steady on mine. “Is he going to be a problem?”
My heart pounds. “He’s dead. He died years ago.”
“You’re certain?”
“Yes.”
He studies me for a long moment. “Good. I don’t need complications.”
“He’s not a complication. He’s gone.”
He nods once. “The car is waiting.”
I walk out without another word, and I don’t look back.