Chapter 2: Sylvester

She was even softer than I imagined.

The way her lips trembled beneath mine at the altar — not from desire, not yet. Fear. Resistance. Disgust. And still, she looked up at me with those wide eyes like she hadn’t yet decided if I was her savior or her executioner.

I wanted her indecisive.

A woman who knows what she wants is harder to break.

But Caroline… she was delicate confusion wrapped in silk and spite. And I’d never wanted anything more.

I watched her through the crack in the bathroom door as she stood frozen in the middle of the bedroom, a pale statue in a wedding gown she hadn’t chosen, in a life that now belonged to me.

She thought she still had pieces of herself to protect.

She didn’t know I already had them.

The veil hadn’t just fallen off her head — it had shattered between us. I’d spent months preparing this union, pulling strings behind politicians and priests, coercing her aristocratic father with debts he didn’t have the power to repay. Not with money. Not with dignity.

But he had one thing I wanted.

Her.

Caroline.

I rolled my sleeves up, watching the black ink snake up my arms in the mirror — markers of sins I no longer regretted. They said a man like me shouldn’t touch someone like her. And they were right.

But I would anyway.

Not tonight. She wasn’t ready. But I would make her. Slowly. Patiently. Every inch of her resistance was a ribbon I would pull until she unraveled for me.

Because that’s what she didn’t understand yet — this marriage wasn’t punishment.

It was worship.

She would hate me for it. Maybe forever. But hate is a kind of intimacy. And I had time. Power. Patience.

She had nothing but me now.

———

Later that night, I stood outside the bedroom door.

I could hear her moving inside — slow steps, like she was pacing. Her thoughts loud enough to almost echo. I imagined the way her fingers brushed the silk sheets, the way her hands ghosted over the closet door, seeking something familiar. Something she would not find.

There was nothing of hers here.

Only what I’d given her.

And that was the point.

I opened the door without knocking. Slowly. I wanted her to know there were no boundaries between us now.

She stood near the window, arms crossed, her white nightgown too thin to hide the soft curve of her figure. I didn’t look away. I wanted her to know I would never look away.

Her back straightened when she saw me. “Do you knock?” she asked coldly.

I stepped inside. “Not on things I own.”

The flash in her eyes — fire. She had pride. That was good. Breaking her would be an art form.

“I’m not a thing,” she said.

I reached for the decanter on the side table and poured myself another drink. “You are to them.” I gestured toward the world outside. “To the vultures watching to see if the Moreau bride bleeds.”

She flinched.

Good. She needed to understand the reality. The weight of the name she now carried.

“To me,” I added, stepping closer, “you’re not a thing. You’re a vow.”

Her lips parted slightly, like she didn’t know what to say to that.

So I gave her no chance.

“You’ll sleep in this room. With me. You’ll eat under this roof. You’ll never walk the city streets without my men within reach. For your safety, Caroline.”

Her voice cracked the silence. “For your control.”

I tilted my head. “Is there a difference?”

We stood like that — two creatures trapped in a castle of shadows — until I finally spoke again.

“I won’t force you.”

I saw her shoulders sag, a small breath of relief.

“But make no mistake,” I added, voice dropping, “I will seduce every part of you. Slowly. Ruthlessly. You’ll give yourself to me, and when you do, Caroline… you’ll never want to take it back.”

She didn’t speak. But her hands curled into fists, and her eyes shimmered with something between fear and fury.

I turned and walked toward the bed.

“I’ll sleep on the left,” I said as I unbuttoned my cuffs. “You can have the right. Unless you decide otherwise.”

And I lay back against the pillows, watching her stand frozen like a doe in a lion’s den.

She didn’t move for several minutes.

But when she finally slid into the bed, as far from me as she could get, spine rigid and body trembling beneath the blankets, I closed my eyes…

And smiled.

Because she was here.

In my bed.

In my house.

My name was on her lips.

And she would be mine.

Eventually.

She sleeps like a prisoner.

Silent. Stiff. Facing the edge of the bed like it’s an escape route.

Her back is to me, but I see everything — the soft rise and fall of her breath, the way her fingers grip the sheet as if it’s armor. As if she can ward me off with a fistful of silk.

She doesn’t understand yet: there’s no warding me off.

No spell. No prayer. No mercy.

She’s already under my skin, lodged between ribs and bone like a splinter I’ll never remove — not because I can’t… but because I don’t want to. The pain is exquisite. Sharp. Alive.

I’ve never had a woman sleep beside me.

Plenty have shared my bed, spread their thighs for the Moreau name, moaned for the taste of power between their teeth. But none have slept beside me. None have dared to stay.

But Caroline sleeps — not because she trusts me, but because she doesn’t yet realize she’s already surrendered something far more valuable than her body.

Her silence.

Her presence.

Her rage.

The moment she opened her mouth and asked me Why me, I knew I’d won something rare.

A spark. A flame.

I’ve built empires from ash before. I’ll build an inferno from her.

———

The next morning, I dress in black. Always black.

Caroline is already awake. Sitting by the window, legs curled beneath her, still in the nightgown she refused to let the maids touch. She hasn't spoken to me yet. She doesn’t need to. Her silence is a language I’ve learned to read fluently.

She’s angry.

She’s confused.

She’s dangerous — but only to herself.

“Sleep well?” I ask as I adjust my cufflinks. They’re silver, the same shade as her eyes when they narrowed at me last night.

She doesn’t answer.

Instead, she turns her face to the light. The morning sun kisses her hair, catching the gold threads like a halo. It should make her look holy.

It doesn’t.

It makes her look breakable.

“I’ve scheduled your fitting for this afternoon,” I say, watching her through the mirror. “You’ll be dining with the family tonight.”

That gets her attention. Her head snaps toward me, eyes sharp. “Family?”

I nod. “The inner circle. Capos. Wives. Heirs. You’re the donna now. They’ll expect a performance.”

She rises slowly, like a knife being drawn. “I’m not part of this world.”

“But you married into it.” I turn to face her fully. “And now you wear my crown, Caroline. Whether you like it or not.”

She crosses her arms, voice low. “You can force me to stay. You can drag me into your world. But you can’t make me loyal to it.”

I step forward.

Not fast.

Just enough.

She holds her ground — which I admire — but I see the catch in her throat when I close the distance.

“I don’t need your loyalty,” I say softly. “I need your presence. Your name beside mine. Your smile when they’re watching. Your silence when they’re not.”

She looks at me like she wants to throw something — or cry.

I almost want her to.

Tears from Caroline de Valois would be sacred.

Not weakness. Offering.

Instead, she whispers, “And if I don’t play your game?”

I smile — but it doesn’t reach my eyes.

“Then I’ll change the rules until you do.”

———

By noon, the estate is bustling.

Guards rotate every forty-five minutes. The chef preps a blood-orange reduction for the roast. Maids arrange heirloom china that hasn’t been used since my father’s last gathering — the one that ended with three bullets and a closed-casket funeral.

This house is a mouth with too many teeth. Caroline hasn’t learned that yet. She thinks the silence is safe.

It’s not.

It’s a lull.

A warning.

The staff avoid her eyes. Not because she’s unworthy — because they know what she doesn’t: no one touches what’s mine. No one dares look too long.

I built this empire with violence. I maintain it with terror.

But for her, I would burn it to the ground.

And that, perhaps, is the most terrifying part.

———

Later, as I sit in my study reviewing shipment ledgers and coded communiqués, my consigliere enters without knocking. Only Jules has the right. He’s been with me since the beginning — when the blood on my hands was fresh, not lacquered in civility.

“She’s asking questions,” Jules says without preamble.

I lean back in my chair. “To whom?”

“The gardener. The maid. Asked about your father. About the locked wing.”

I smile faintly.

Curious little bird.

“She’s clever,” I murmur.

“She’s digging.”

“She’s testing the bars of her cage. Let her.”

He hesitates. “She’s not like the others.”

“No,” I say, voice turning cold. “She’s not. That’s why she’ll survive them.”

Jules studies me. “And you?”

I look at the glass of whiskey I haven’t touched in hours.

“I don’t want her to fear me,” I admit.

“But she does.”

“Yes.” My gaze sharpens. “And that’s how I know I’m losing control.”

———

That night, she enters the dining hall in black silk — the dress I sent her. Form-fitting. Modest. Regal. A diamond necklace glints against her collarbone, my family’s crest nestled above her heart like a brand.

She walks like she owns the room — not because she believes it, but because she knows they do.

The wives whisper. The men leer. The power-hungry study her like a piece of fruit ripe for plucking.

They don’t know she’s poison underneath the peel.

I don’t take my eyes off her all night.

When she sits beside me, spine straight, chin lifted, voice polite — I see it.

The hatred.

The heat.

The beginning of the end.

And it’s beautiful.

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