The mansion felt like a tomb—silent, opulent, and empty. I’d stood at the altar this morning, alone, while strangers clapped and my parents beamed like they’d sold the finest piece of art. Eliot didn’t come. Not for the vows, not for the reception. Just a text from his assistant: 'Mr. Eliot sends his regards.' Regards. As if that made up for the humiliation of marrying a ghost.

Then the helicopters roared overhead. Servants scrambled. I hid behind the grand entrance door, heart hammering, when he walked in. Taller than I’d imagined—183cm of lean muscle in a black suit that hugged his frame. His hair was slightly messy, jaw sharp, and his eyes… God, his eyes. They cut through the room like razors until they landed on the door. On me.

He didn’t hesitate. Strides that ate up the distance, hand slamming against the wood beside my head, trapping me. I gasped, pressing back, but there was nowhere to go. His scent—sandalwood and something spicy—flooded my senses as he leaned in, chest almost touching mine. His gaze raked over me, slow, deliberate, like he was stripping me bare with just his eyes. 'Who the fuck are you?' he growled, voice low and rough, not cold—hungry. Like he wanted to devour the answer, whatever it was.