Chapter 1: Caroline

The cathedral was too quiet for something so sacred.

Not a whisper, not a breath. Just the sound of my heels against the marble floor and the slow, deliberate tolling of a bell that didn’t sound like celebration — it sounded like a funeral.

Maybe it was.

My funeral.

I clutched the bouquet tighter, fingers trembling beneath the satin gloves. Pale roses — white, with a tinge of blood-red at the tips. A reminder, perhaps, that nothing in this world remains pure for long. Not even a bride.

Not even me.

The train of my dress trailed behind like a shroud, heavy with embroidery and suffocating weight. I hadn’t chosen it. Nothing about today belonged to me — not the dress, not the ceremony, not the name I would soon be forced to take.

Moreau.

The name tasted bitter in my mouth even as it curled around my fate like smoke. I had seen it in headlines, whispered in back alleys, muttered like a curse in the kitchens of certain restaurants — always with fear, always with awe.

Sylvester Moreau.

The youngest and most ruthless crime lord in Europe. CEO of a conglomerate that controlled half the continent’s underground networks. Billionaire. Untouchable.

And now… my husband.

I didn’t look up until I reached the steps of the altar. My vision tunneled, tunneled until it was only him.

He stood tall in a black suit that fit him like it had been sewn onto his frame. Every detail of him was razor-sharp — the hard line of his jaw, the cold silver of his eyes, the cruel curve of his mouth. He looked like a god carved from granite. Unmoving. Unsmiling.

His gaze pierced through my veil. Unblinking. Possessive.

A shiver danced down my spine.

I wanted to run. But there was nowhere to go — only gilded walls, armed guards, and a thousand eyes watching, waiting for the ceremony to finish so the empire could secure its next pawn.

So Sylvester Moreau could secure me.

The priest began speaking, but I didn’t hear him. My heart thundered too loud, drowning out everything but my own pulse.

“Caroline de Valois,” Sylvester said suddenly, voice low and deliberate, “do you take me as your husband?”

He didn’t ask.

He declared.

I looked up — really looked at him — and for a moment, something flickered behind those silver eyes. Not cruelty. Not lust. Something darker.

Obsession.

My throat was dry. My lips parted, the word caught behind my teeth.

“…Yes,” I whispered.

I hadn’t meant it. I didn’t want this.

But this wasn’t a wedding. It was a transaction. And I was the collateral.

He said nothing in return — just stepped closer and lifted the veil from my face. His fingertips brushed my cheek like a whisper of frost.

“Beautiful,” he murmured, almost to himself. His voice was velvet-wrapped steel. “Too beautiful to belong to anyone else.”

Then he kissed me.

Possessive. Public. Cold fire.

I didn’t kiss him back — my lips were still, my spine rigid. But he didn’t care. He kissed me like he’d won something. Like I was the crown at the end of a bloody conquest.

The room applauded.

I heard none of it.

———

The ride to the Moreau estate was silent.

I sat stiffly in the back of the bulletproof black car, my gown swallowing the seat, my heart strangled beneath my ribs. Sylvester sat beside me like a predator at rest — legs spread, one hand relaxed on his knee, the other holding a crystal glass of dark scotch. He hadn’t said a word since the kiss.

Neither had I.

Outside the window, Paris turned to countryside. Fields faded into forests. I realized how far from my world I was already being taken.

“You look tired,” he said suddenly.

I blinked. “I’m fine.”

His gaze drifted over me, slow and thorough. “I doubt that.”

I looked away, fingers twisting in my lap. “Why me?”

A long pause.

He took a sip of his drink. “Because you’re exactly what I want. And no one says no to me, Caroline.”

“I didn’t say yes,” I said quietly.

Another pause. “You did today.”

I clenched my jaw. “Because I had no choice.”

He leaned in, so close I could smell the expensive cologne on his skin — cedar and smoke and something dark. “No,” he murmured. “But I’ll make you want to choose me eventually.”

I looked up at him then. “And if I never do?”

He smiled.

It wasn’t kind.

———

The estate was a fortress masquerading as a mansion — all black stone, high towers, and wrought-iron gates. Inside, it was colder. Opulence dripped from the chandeliers, from the gilded furniture and glass staircases. But there were no windows open. No laughter. Only silence. Thick, expectant.

He showed me to the master bedroom himself.

It was vast. Marbled. A king-sized bed in the center, black silk sheets like the surface of a dark ocean. I crossed the threshold like I was stepping into a cage.

“You’ll stay here,” he said.

I turned to him. “And you?”

He raised a brow. “What kind of husband would I be if I left my wife alone on her wedding night?”

My stomach flipped. I took a step back. “I don’t want—”

He moved faster than I expected. Not to touch me — just to corner me.

He placed a hand on the door behind me, trapping me with his body and his scent and his gaze.

“I won’t touch you,” he said. “Not until you beg me to.”

I felt heat crawl up my throat, fury and fear mixing in my chest. “I’ll never beg.”

Another smile. Another lie beneath it.

“We’ll see.”

Then he stepped back, undoing the top button of his shirt, as casual as if he were alone.

“You’re mine now, Caroline. You can run. You can scream. But I’ll always find you.”

His words echoed as he disappeared into the adjoining bathroom, leaving me breathless, shaken — and terrifyingly unsure of where hatred ended and something else began.

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