(Lucas' POV )
I woke before dawn because I always did. Sleep was inefficient, and dreams were liabilities. They dig up things better left buried; faces, memories, moments of weakness. So I trained myself to wake before my mind could betray me. But lately, even waking early wasn't enough because my first thought; unwanted and persistent; was her. My wife, Clara Thompson. Thompson, my surname. I feel like cursing out loud.
The title sat wrong in my head. It was heavy, intrusive and ike a variable I hadn't accounted for in an otherwise flawless plan. I stood by the window of my study, watching the estate slowly come alive. Gardeners moved across the lawn, staff entered through the service doors and everything ran with precision.
Everything except her.
She was the only uncontrolled element in this house. And that bothered me more than I cared to admit. The marriage had never been about companionship. Or desire. Or even appearances, really. It had been leverage. A Strategy and a solution to a problem that needed to be solved quickly and decisively.
She needed money.
I needed silence.
Simple.
And yet, from the moment she'd signed the contract, things had not unfolded the way I expected. She hadn't begged. She hadn't complained about her lack of awareness before being sold. She hadn't clung to me with gratitude shining in her eyes. She'd looked at the paper, swallowed, and signed like someone stepping willingly into fire.
That memory lingered longer than it should have. A knock sounded at the door.
"Enter."
My assistant stepped in, tablet in hand. "The board is uneasy, sir." "Let them be uneasy," I replied without turning.
"They feel the marriage was… rushed." I finally faced him. "They don't get to feel anything."
He nodded, wisely choosing not to argue. "There's also concern about your wife."
Of course there was. "What about her?" I asked coolly. "She doesn't fit the image they expected."
Good.
I dismissed him and returned my attention to the window, but irritation simmered beneath the surface. They expected a woman who is polished, calculated and publicly flawless. A woman who knew how to play the role.
Instead, I had a wife who moved through my house like she was afraid to leave fingerprints. I told myself that was a good thing.
"Fear breeds obedience".
Yet when I'd seen Clara yesterday, standing alone after breakfast, shoulders tense, eyes too alert, I hadn't seen fear. I'd seen restraint and restraint required strength.
I clenched my jaw. I didn't need a strong woman. I needed an obedient one.
I saw her again later that morning. She was at the far end of the corridor, sunlight spilling through tall windows, washing her in pale gold. She was wearing something simple again, soft fabric, muted color. She looked out of place like a shadow in a house of light. She didn't notice me at first. Her steps were slow, cautious, like she was still memorizing the geography of my home. My home. I cleared my throat and she froze.
That immediate reaction sent a sharp, unpleasant sensation through my chest.
She turned to face me, hands folded neatly in front of her. "Yes?" she asked. Her voice was calm, way too calm. "You'll attend the gathering tonight," I said. "Seven o'clock."
She nodded. "I'll be ready."
She neither questioned nor protested, just compliance.
I should have been satisfied. Instead, irritation flared. "You don't need clarification?" I asked. Her gaze lifted slightly, meeting mine. "You've made it clear mistakes aren't tolerated." The honesty caught me off guard. "I have," I said slowly.
"Then I'll do what's required," Clara replied.
She walked past me without waiting for dismissal. I stood there, inexplicably unsettled. She wasn't afraid of punishment. She was afraid of failure and that was far more dangerous.
By the time the guests arrived, the house was spotless. Perfect lighting. Perfect music. Perfect illusion of warmth.
I watched Clara descend the staircase. The dress Martha had chosen suited her; dark, elegant, restrained. It didn't scream for attention, but it demanded it quietly. I told myself I was evaluating presentation. But when she reached the bottom step and hesitated, fingers brushing the handrail of the staircase, as if she was forbidding herself from going out, something twisted inside me.
She looked… exposed. The guests noticed her immediately. Of course they did. Whispers followed her through the room like gum. I stayed close, not touching, but near enough that no one mistook her availability. A man lingered too long at her side. I intervened without thinking.
"My wife," I said coolly, positioning myself between them. Her breath hitched.
I felt it and stepped back instantly, annoyed at myself. Possession was a liability. Later, someone laughed about my marriage like it was a curiosity. "She's quieter than expected," one man said. "Not your usual taste." "My tastes," I replied evenly, "are not public property." The room shifted and the message landed. Across the hall, she watched me.
For a brief moment, our eyes met.
Something passed between us, sharp, and electric. *Understanding*
She was learning how power moved in this room and she was adapting. That realization unsettled me more than defiance ever could. When the guests finally left, silence reclaimed the house. Clara stood near the staircase, waiting. "Go rest," I said.
She didn't move.
"Why do you watch me like I'm about to shatter?" she asked quietly. The question struck too close to something I didn't name.
"You're mistaken," I said.
But even as the words left my mouth, I knew they were a lie. I watched because I didn't know what she would become. Because I'd brought her into my world expecting fragility and found resilience instead. She walked away without another word. I remained where I was, staring into the empty space she left behind.
She was my wife, the one I bought with my money.
She was my responsibility.
She was my leverage.
Mine!!!!!
And somewhere between strategy and silence, an unwanted truth began to surface. I didn't just own her future.
She was beginning to occupy my thoughts.
And that....
That was the first loss of control.