The heavy oak door of the master suite clicked shut behind us with a finality that echoed in the cavernous silence of Vincent de la Rosa's private domain. The lavish ceremony, the sea of intimidating faces that blurred into a single impression of calculated appraisal, the weight of the obscenely large diamond now cold on my finger – it all felt like a grotesque dream from which I couldn't wake. Reality was this room, this man, and the suffocating dread coiling in my stomach.
Vincent didn't look at me. He moved with the predatory grace I was already learning to fear, shrugging off his impeccably tailored black tuxedo jacket. He draped it over the back of a high-backed chair that looked more like a throne than furniture. The room was a study in imposing luxury: dark woods, deep burgundy accents, heavy velvet drapes drawn against the city lights. A massive four-poster bed dominated the space, its dark silk coverlet looking less inviting and more like an executioner's block. The air smelled faintly of expensive leather, cigar smoke, and something else… power, cold and absolute.
He turned then. The dim light from a single ornate lamp carved harsh angles into his face. His dark eyes, the color of obsidian under a moonless sky, fixed on me. There was no warmth there, no flicker of the nervous groom, no hint of the reluctant husband. Only assessment. Calculation. I felt like a ledger entry being audited.
"Penelope," he said. His voice was low, perfectly modulated, devoid of inflection. It wasn't a greeting; it was an acknowledgment of a presence now officially bound to him. "Sit."
He gestured not towards the bed, but towards a pair of stiff, high-backed chairs positioned near a cold fireplace. Obedience felt like the only viable currency in this gilded cage. My legs, trembling slightly beneath the layers of exquisite white silk and lace of my wedding gown, carried me forward. I perched on the very edge of the indicated chair, the fabric rustling loudly in the silence. He took the chair opposite, leaning back, steepling his long fingers. The diamond of his signet ring caught the light, a cold, hard wink.
"This," he began, his gaze never leaving mine, "is not a love story. It is not a romance. It is a transaction. A consolidation of interests. A settlement of a debt." Each word was delivered with chilling precision, like a judge reading a sentence. "Your presence here erases your father's obligation to me. In return, you provide certain… services. Primarily, the appearance of legitimacy and stability. You are Mrs. Vincent de la Rosa. A title. A role. Nothing more."
The cold finality of it stole my breath. I'd known, intellectually. My father's terrified pleas, the research into the man known as "The Viper" for his swift, silent strikes, had prepared me for ruthlessness. But hearing it stated so baldly, on what was supposed to be a wedding night, was a different kind of violence. The diamond on my finger felt like a shackle.
"To ensure this arrangement functions smoothly," he continued, his voice dropping even lower, becoming almost hypnotic in its intensity, "there are rules. Non-negotiable rules. Your compliance is not requested; it is required. Deviation will have consequences. For you. And," he paused, letting the threat hang heavy in the air between us, "for those whose safety currently relies on my… forbearance."
My knuckles were white where I clutched the arms of the chair. The unspoken threat to my father, and now, chillingly, the implication of others – Elena? – was a vise tightening around my chest. Nyx on the other hand was unfazed by his display of ruthless arrogance They were all like that,the agency had encountered worse.
"Rule One: He leaned forward slightly, the movement deliberate, predatory. "Your world is now contained within these walls and the approved social engagements I dictate. No unsupervised contact with your former life. No phone calls, no emails, no messages to friends, family, or acquaintances without my explicit, prior authorization, monitored by Silas. Your old life is over. Attempts to circumvent this will be interpreted as betrayal."
The finality of it was a physical blow. Cut off. Completely. Trapped. My carefully constructed digital escape routes felt suddenly flimsy, dangerous. Nyx couldn't operate if the physical Penelope was under constant surveillance.
"Rule Two: His eyes raked over my wedding dress, a dismissive flicker. "In public, you are the devoted, respectable wife. You will smile. You will be gracious. You will stand by my side, speak when spoken to, and project unwavering loyalty and contentment. Your demeanor reflects directly on me and my organization. Any sign of distress, reluctance, or dissent in public view is unacceptable. You will learn the names, the alliances, the enmities. You will navigate social functions with flawless precision. Failure is not an option."
The thought of performing happiness, of pretending devotion to this man in front of a room full of predators, made me nauseous. It was another layer of imprisonment, demanding the sacrifice of my very expressions.
"Rule Three: His voice hardened, like steel quenching. "When I give an instruction, you follow it. Immediately. Without question. Without hesitation. Whether it concerns your attire, your schedule, your interactions within this house, or your presence at my side. My word is law within these walls and beyond. Questioning me, arguing, or exhibiting defiance will be met with swift correction."
The word "law" hung in the air, filled with unspoken horrors. It wasn't just about following orders; it was about the complete surrender of my will. My autonomy, already fragile, felt extinguished.
"Rule Four: He gestured vaguely towards the rest of the suite, particularly the closed door that presumably led to his private study. "This wing is mine. My study is off-limits. Always. My business is not your concern. You do not pry. You do not eavesdrop. You do not enter spaces not explicitly designated for your use. Consider any closed door a boundary you cross at your peril."