ADRIAN'S POV
The gunshot never came.
I tackled the assassin from behind before he could pull the trigger, slamming him into the hallway wall with enough force to crack the plaster. The gun skittered across the marble floor.
Iris scrambled backward, still screaming.
"Get in the bedroom and lock the door!" I shouted at her while wrestling with two hundred pounds of trained killer. "Now!"
She didn't move. Frozen in terror.
The assassin's elbow connected with my ribs. Pain exploded through my side but I didn't let go. Couldn't let go. If I did, he'd reach that gun and Iris would die.
"IRIS! MOVE!"
She finally ran, slamming the bedroom door behind her.
The assassin twisted in my grip, going for a knife strapped to his ankle. I was faster. Grabbed his wrist and slammed it against the floor until his fingers opened and the blade fell.
"Who sent you?" I demanded, pressing my forearm against his throat. "Marcus Westbrook?"
He smiled. Blood on his teeth from where I'd hit him. "You're dead, Thorne. Both of you. Should've stayed in the city where—"
James appeared at the end of the hallway with three security guards, all armed.
"Sir! We heard screaming—" He saw the situation and his weapon came up. "Don't move!"
"Secure him," I ordered, shoving the assassin toward my team. "I want answers. How he got past security, who hired him, everything."
They hauled him away. He was still smiling.
I ran to the bedroom door. "Iris? It's me. Open up."
Nothing.
"Iris, please. He's gone. You're safe."
The lock clicked. The door opened a crack. Iris's face appeared, pale and tear-streaked.
"You're bleeding," she whispered, staring at my split lip.
"It's nothing." I pushed into the room and locked the door behind me. "Are you hurt? Did he touch you?"
"No. You got there first." Her whole body was shaking. "Adrian, how did he get in? You said this place was safe!"
"I don't know. But I'm going to find out." I pulled out my phone, already calling the head of my security company. Someone was getting fired. Maybe several someones.
Iris sank onto the bed, hugging herself. "He was going to kill me. Just... just shoot me like I was nothing."
The broken sound in her voice made something twist painfully in my chest.
I sat beside her. Carefully. Like she was made of glass.
"Hey." I waited until she looked at me. "Nothing's going to happen to you. I swear it."
"You can't promise that."
"Watch me." I took her hand. It was ice cold. "I've survived twenty years of people trying to destroy me, Iris. Marcus Westbrook is just another enemy. And I always win."
"What if this time you don't?"
"Not an option. Especially not now that I have something worth protecting."
She blinked. "Your inheritance?"
"You," I said quietly. "I'm protecting you."
The words hung between us. True but dangerous. This was supposed to be business. Just business.
So why did holding her hand feel like the most important thing I'd ever done?
My phone buzzed. James: *Assassin talking. Says Marcus paid him $500K, gave him security codes and staff schedules. We have a mole, sir. Someone on the inside.*
My blood ran cold.
"We need to leave," I said, standing abruptly. "Now. This location is compromised."
"Leave? But you said—"
"I was wrong. If they have someone inside my security team, nowhere is safe." I was already pulling clothes from the closet, throwing them into a bag. "We're going back to the city. To the penthouse. At least there I know every person who has access."
"Adrian, that's the first place they'll look!"
"Exactly. They'll expect us to run. To hide. We're going to do the opposite." I zipped the bag and grabbed her hand. "We're going to that gala tonight. We're going to smile and dance and show everyone that Adrian Thorne doesn't scare easily. And tomorrow, we're going to destroy everyone who threatened my wife."
The word felt natural now. Wife. Mine.
Even though it was fake. Even though it was temporary.
Even though I was lying to myself about what I felt every time I looked at her.
We made it back to Manhattan by noon. The penthouse felt safer somehow. My territory. My rules.
"You should rest," I told Iris as we stepped off the elevator. "We have a long night ahead."
"I can't rest. Every time I close my eyes, I see that gun." She wrapped her arms around herself. "How do you do this? Live with people trying to kill you?"
"Practice. And rage. Mostly rage." I poured us both a drink. "But Iris? That fear you're feeling? Use it. Let it make you sharp. Dangerous. That's how you survive."
She took the glass with shaking hands. "I don't know how to be dangerous."
"Yes, you do. You've been taking down corrupt CEOs for two years with just your words. That's dangerous." I clinked my glass against hers. "Tonight, you're going to walk into that gala on my arm and make everyone in that room realize they underestimated you. Can you do that?"
"I don't even know what to wear."
"Already handled." I gestured to the bags that had been delivered while we were gone. "My stylist sent over options. Pick whatever makes you feel powerful."
She looked at the bags, then at me. "Why are you being so nice? This isn't part of the contract."
"Call it protecting my investment." The lie came easily. Too easily. "Can't have my wife showing up underdressed."
But the truth—the truth I wasn't ready to admit—was that I wanted to see Damien's face when he saw her. Wanted everyone to know that Iris Chen belonged to me now.
Even if it was only for a year.
Even if it was only pretend.
"Go," I said, pushing her gently toward the bedroom. "Get ready. We leave at seven."
She disappeared with the bags. I tried to focus on work, on emails and phone calls and the million things that needed my attention.
But my eyes kept drifting to the bedroom door.
Two hours later, it opened.
And I forgot how to breathe.
Iris stood in the doorway wearing that emerald dress. It fit her perfectly—hugging curves I hadn't noticed before, making her dark hair and eyes stand out even more. She'd done something with makeup that made her look older. Sophisticated. Powerful.
She looked like a queen.
My queen.
"Is it okay?" she asked, nervous. "The stylist said this color would—"
"You're beautiful." The words came out rougher than I intended. "Damien's going to hate himself when he sees you."
She smiled, and it was sharp. Dangerous. "Good. That's the whole point, right?"
Right. The point. The plan. The revenge.
Except somewhere between yesterday and now, the plan had gotten complicated.
Because looking at Iris in that dress, wearing my ring, about to face the world as Mrs. Adrian Thorne—I realized I didn't want this to be fake anymore.
I wanted it to be real.
And that was a problem. A huge problem.
Because the contract specifically said no feelings. No attachment. No falling in love.
I'd written those rules myself.
And I was already breaking them.
"Adrian?" Iris walked closer, concerned. "Are you okay? You look..."
"Fine. I'm fine." I grabbed my jacket. "We should go. The car's waiting."
We rode the elevator down in silence. The lobby was empty—I'd arranged for privacy. But outside, paparazzi were already gathering. Word had spread fast about my surprise marriage.
"Ready?" I asked, offering my arm.
Iris took it. Her hand trembled slightly, but her chin was up. Her shoulders back.
"Let's go make them regret everything," she said.
We stepped outside into a storm of camera flashes.
"Mr. Thorne! Mr. Thorne! Is it true you married Damien Hartwell's ex-fiancée?"
"Mrs. Thorne! How do you respond to accusations this is a revenge marriage?"
"When's the baby due?"
That last question made Iris stumble. I caught her, pulling her closer.
"No comment," I said coldly. "We're late for an event."
We got in the car. The door closed, cutting off the shouting.
"Baby?" Iris whispered. "Why would they ask about a baby?"
"Because sudden marriages usually mean pregnancy. They're fishing for scandal."
She looked down at her flat stomach. "There's no baby."
"I know."
"But what if they keep asking? What if people think—"
"Let them think whatever they want. We know the truth." I took her hand. "Tonight, just smile. Let me handle the questions. All you have to do is look like you're madly in love with me."
"I'm not an actress."
"You don't have to be. Just remember—every person in that room either pitied you yesterday or ignored you completely. Show them they were wrong."
The drive to the Plaza Hotel took twenty minutes. The charity gala was already in full swing—Manhattan's elite gathered to throw money at causes while showing off their wealth.
This was my world. These were my people.
And tonight, I was bringing my wife to meet them.
"One more thing," I said as we pulled up to the entrance. "Damien and Vivienne will be here. Are you ready to see them?"
Iris's hand tightened on mine. "Yes."
"If it gets too hard—"
"It won't." Her eyes met mine, fierce and determined. "I'm done being weak. Done letting people hurt me. Tonight, I'm Mrs. Adrian Thorne. And that means something."
Pride surged through me. This was the Iris I'd known existed—the strong one, the dangerous one.
The one who could stand beside me and burn down empires.
We stepped out of the car. More cameras. More questions. I kept my hand on Iris's back, guiding her through the chaos.
Inside, the ballroom was packed. Hundreds of guests in expensive clothes, drinking champagne, pretending to care about whatever charity this was for.
Conversations stopped as we entered. Heads turned. Whispers spread like wildfire.
"That's her. That's the girl Damien left at the altar."
"She married Adrian Thorne? When?"
"This has to be revenge. Poor Damien."
Poor Damien. Like he was the victim.
I felt Iris tense beside me.
"Smile," I whispered. "Show them you don't care what they think."
She plastered on a smile. It looked real enough to fool everyone except me.
We made it three steps into the room before Damien appeared.
He looked terrible. Pale, exhausted, his suit rumpled like he'd slept in it. His eyes went wide when he saw us.
"Iris," he breathed. "You came."
"Of course she came," I said coldly. "She's my wife. She goes everywhere I go."
Damien's eyes dropped to the ring on Iris's finger. Then to mine. His face crumbled.
"When?" he asked hoarsely. "How long have you—"
"Yesterday," Iris interrupted. Her voice was steady. Strong. "We got married yesterday morning."
"Yesterday? But that means..." Damien did the math. "You got married the day after I—"
"The day after you left me at the altar? Yes." Iris's smile sharpened. "Funny how things work out."
Damien looked at me. Really looked at me. And something flickered in his eyes. Recognition? Suspicion?
"I know you," he said slowly. "From somewhere. Your face is familiar."
My heart rate spiked. This was it. The moment he figured out we were brothers.
But before he could say more, Vivienne appeared at his side.
She looked perfect. Healthy. Glowing. Not a trace of the "dying girl" act.
"Adrian Thorne," she purred. "How lovely to finally meet you. I've heard so much."
Her eyes landed on Iris. Pure hatred flashed across her face for just a second before she hid it behind a sweet smile.
"Iris! You look... different. Marriage agrees with you."
"It does," Iris said quietly. "Being with someone who actually values me makes all the difference."
The barb hit home. Damien flinched.
"We should talk," he said desperately. "Alone. Please, Iris. I need to explain—"
"There's nothing to explain." Iris stepped closer to me. "I've moved on. You should too."
Music started playing. The first dance of the evening.
I looked at my wife—my brave, fierce, perfect wife—and made a decision.
"Dance with me," I said.
Iris's eyes widened. "What?"
"You heard me. Dance with me. Let's show everyone exactly what they're dealing with."
I pulled her onto the dance floor before she could protest. My hand found her waist. Hers landed on my shoulder.
We moved together, and it felt natural. Right.
"You're doing great," I murmured. "He can't take his eyes off you."
"I don't care about him anymore," she whispered back. "Is that wrong? Should I care?"
"No. You should be angry. And when you're ready, you should make him pay."
"When?"
"Soon." I spun her, and she laughed—a real laugh. "Very soon."
The song ended. We pulled apart, but just barely.
That's when I saw him.
Marcus Westbrook. Standing at the edge of the ballroom. Staring directly at us.
He raised his glass in a mock toast.
Then he turned and disappeared into the crowd.
"Adrian?" Iris had seen him too. "Was that—"
"Yes." My hand tightened on her waist. "And he just declared war."
My phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number: *Beautiful wife you have, Thorne. Shame about what's going to happen to her. Check the champagne fountain. You have five minutes. —M.W.*
The champagne fountain.
My blood turned to ice.
"Get everyone away from the fountain!" I shouted at security. "NOW!"
But I was too late.
The explosion ripped through the ballroom, sending glass and screaming and chaos in every direction.
And Iris—my wife, my responsibility, my everything—was thrown backward by the blast, hitting the marble floor hard.
She didn't get up.