CHAPTER 8 – Marcus
The white garment bag arrives precisely at noon, carried by a stone-faced woman who handles it as if it contains explosive materials rather than silk and lace.
In a way, perhaps it does. What's inside will transform Leona Varela from my captive to my wife in the eyes of the law—a detonation of sorts.
"The alterations are complete, sir," the woman informs me, hanging the bag on a hook by the door.
I nod, dismissing her with a gesture. She exits without another word, leaving me alone with the pristine package and the whiskey in my hand.
Gabriel enters moments later, his expression characteristically unreadable. "The judge will be ready at two. The documents are prepared."
"And security?"
"Triple coverage. The courthouse's private entrance has been secured. We'll be in and out in twenty minutes."
"Good." I finish my whiskey, setting the glass down with deliberate care. "Any word on our leak?"
"Still investigating. The Delgados shouldn't have found the penthouse so quickly."
"Keep digging. I want names."
He hesitates. "Are you sure about this, Marcus? Marriage is—"
"A legal contract. Nothing more."
Gabriel's skeptical look speaks volumes, but he keeps his thoughts to himself.
"I'll tell her it's time to get ready."
When Gabriel leaves, I approach the garment bag, unzipping it just enough to glimpse what's inside.
The dress is a strategic choice—elegant enough to be appropriate for the occasion, provocative enough to remind Leona exactly what kind of arrangement she's entering.
White, of course. The irony isn't lost on me.
An hour later, I stand in the living area of the safehouse, checking my watch for the third time. Women are traditionally late for their weddings, I suppose, but this particular bride has little cause for sentimentality.
When I hear her door open, I keep my back turned deliberately, maintaining the upper hand. Control is everything, especially today.
"This is absurd."
Her voice drips with disdain. Now I turn, and the sight of her nearly makes me lose my cultivated composure.
The dress clings to her like a second skin, the white fabric stark against her olive complexion. It's cut low—scandalously so—exposing the generous swell of her breasts. The material hugs every curve before ending mid-thigh, showcasing legs that seem endless despite her modest height.
She looks like sin wrapped in innocence. Exactly as intended.
"The dress fits, I see." I keep my voice neutral despite the immediate, visceral reaction of my body.
"Barely." She tugs at the neckline futilely. "I can't wear this to a courthouse."
"You can and you will." I step closer, noting the flush that spreads across her chest at my approach. "Consider it your first act as my wife—dressing the part."
"The part of what? Your trophy?"
I brush an imaginary piece of lint from her shoulder, using the gesture as an excuse to touch her. Her skin is warm beneath my fingertips. "No one will question our arrangement if they believe passion drove us to this... hasty ceremony."
She jerks away from my touch. "No one will believe that."
"You'd be surprised what people are willing to believe when the alternative is questioning Marcus Drake."
Her eyes narrow, but she doesn't argue further.
"The car's waiting," I tell her, offering my arm with mock gallantry. "Shall we, future Mrs. Drake?"
The look she gives me could wither steel, but she places her hand on my arm. "Let's get this over with."
The courthouse is eerily empty when we arrive, my security team having cleared the entire floor. Judge Reynolds waits in his chambers, a man whose silence I purchased years ago. He raises an eyebrow at Leona's dress but wisely keeps his thoughts to himself.
"The paperwork is in order," he says, placing the marriage certificate before us. "Just need signatures and you'll be legally wed."
I sign first. Then I hand the pen to Leona, watching her closely as the full weight of the moment settles on her.
Her hand trembles slightly, but her signature is bold, almost defiant. I admire her composure, even now.
"The rings," Judge Reynolds prompts.
Gabriel steps forward, producing a small velvet box. Inside are two platinum bands—simple, elegant, and extremely expensive. I place the smaller one on Leona's finger. She reciprocates mechanically, sliding the heavier band onto my hand without meeting my eyes.
"By the power vested in me by the state, I now pronounce you husband and wife." The judge closes his book with a snap. "Congratulations."
No kiss. No celebration. Just the rustle of papers being gathered and the heavy silence of a transaction completed.
Leona stares at the ring on her finger like it's a shackle. In many ways, it is.