Chapter 3 Naomi
NAOMI
Idon’t cry when I sign my name next to his on the marriage agreement.
Or when the notary congratulates us like this is some fairy-tale union instead of a hostile takeover.
But the moment the front door closes behind the bespectacled stranger and the echo of his polite “best wishes” fades, I feel the whole house exhale.
Paintings of long-dead Kanes stare down at me with mute judgment, and the chandelier above trembles in the draft like it, too, senses the shift in ownership.
Vasso stands beside the marble console, sleeves rolled with surgical precision, his fountain pen still uncapped in hand as though he might pierce the paper a second time just to make the ink bleed deeper.
He doesn’t look at me; he studies the signature, his lower lip caught between his teeth in a way that would seem almost vulnerable on any other man.
“Are you happy now?” I ask, voice scraping against the back of my throat.
He sets the pen down with a deliberate click. “Ecstatic.”
The word hisses through the foyer like acid. I cross my arms, robe sleeves whispering against skin still chilled from signing my freedom away. “You dragged me into this—”
“Correction,” he cuts in softly, pivoting to face me. “You arranged the engagement announcement first. Your move, Naomi. I merely… accepted the invitation.”
“Don’t gaslight me.” I pace three steps to the grand piano, tracing a dusty key. “You did this because you saw leverage. You saw a chance to humiliate me—humiliate my name—”
His laugh is low, humorless. “Humiliate you? Princess, your father did that with every scandal he heaped on your precious name.”
The reminder stabs.
My father’s sins are heavy, and yes, they’ve destroyed my family but they’ve always seemed to hover just above my head, never quite touching me. Until now. I press trembling fingers to my temples, forcing breath into aching lungs. “That was all in the past,” I attempt feebly.
“You’re still defending him.” Vasso’s voice lowers, almost gentle, which makes the accusation hurt more. “You wear the Kane crest like armor even after it’s rusted through.”
I spin on him. “What would you have me do—renounce my own blood? My grandfather’s blood?”
A flicker crosses his eyes. Regret? Sympathy? I can’t tell, because it vanishes behind steel just as fast. “That old man is the one Kane worth saving. Which is why I let him stay.”
“Let?” I echo, the word like broken glass on my tongue. “You let him?”
Heat surges up my neck. I march back, stopping a breath away. For a heartbeat we share air, memories of summers past crackling between us: my laughter echoing in the orangery, his shy smile when he sneaks leftover pastries to me in the servants’ hall.
But those ghosts turn to ash under the weight of the present.
“You think you hold all the cards,” I whisper. “But power is fickle, Vasso. Even billionaires bleed.”
His gaze sweeps down my face to my parted lips, lingering with unsettling softness. Then it ices over again. “We all bleed. The difference is I learn how to make every drop count.”
I hate that I shiver. Hate the coil of something molten, stubborn, alive that tightens in my belly whenever he stands too close.
I step back first, because losing ground physically is better than losing it emotionally. “If you’re done chest-beating, I have packing to do.”
“You’ll find your belongings already crated,” he says. “My staff arrives tomorrow to transport them. Bring whatever personal items you need tonight.”
The efficiency, so casual, knocks the breath from my lungs. “You went through my room?”
He shrugs one shoulder. “They needed to estimate volume for shipping.”
The image of strangers folding my childhood into boxes, plucking porcelain ballerinas from dusty shelves makes my throat burn. “You’re unbelievable.”
“Necessary,” he corrects. “We leave in two hours. A car will take us to the helipad.”
Panic flutters, a trapped sparrow behind my ribs at the speed, the finality. Grandfather believes I’m marrying for love. I can’t shatter that fragile illusion yet. “He’ll ask questions.”
“Tell him the truth,” Vasso says. “That you’re honoring our engagement. He’ll be proud—relieved.”
My laugh cracks. “Proud that I sell myself to the highest bidder?”
His jaw sets. “I’m hardly a bidder. I’m the man you should’ve ended up with from the start.”
That stuns me silent. Because once, at eighteen, I believed exactly that. He promised the world in hushed tones under summer stars. Back then he was only the housekeeper’s son with calloused hands and dreams too big for his pockets. I kissed him anyway. Believed him anyway.
Now the same boy stands before me gilded in ruthlessness, dangling my future like a sparkling lure.
“I’ll play my part,” I say finally, forcing composure. “But don’t expect a trophy bride.”
He leans in, breath brushing my cheek. “I expect a woman who understands stakes. You want your grandfather in this house until the day he dies? You smile on cue. You hold my hand. And—if I decide it—” his gaze dips to my mouth, heat flaring “—you let me kiss my wife in public.”
My pulse throbs at the base of my throat. “Public?” I force a scoff. “I can fake a kiss.”
He smirks. “I’m not talking about pretending.”
The audacity steals my retort. He straightens, smoothing invisible creases from his cuffs, mask back in place. “The jet’s on standby. Don’t be late.”
I watch him stride down the hallway that once barred him, each footfall an exclamation point on his victory.
When he disappears around the corner, the heavy silence returns. I press trembling fingers to my lips—lips that tingle as though he’s already claimed the kiss he threatens.
This isn’t just a marriage of convenience.
It’s siege warfare.
And I’m the city walls, cracking brick by brick.
But I don’t crumble yet.
I square my shoulders, gather the fractured shards of Kane pride, and climb the stairs to pack the remnants of my life, determined that if I must walk into the enemy’s fortress, I’ll do it wearing my crown of thorns like diamonds and dare him to bleed.