Chapter 1 - The Weight of a Vow
The wind hit the slate roof of the Catskills mansion like a fist, rattling the heavy leaded glass of the French doors. Inside the master suite, the fire crackled, casting dancing amber shadows across the vaulted timber ceiling and the towering four-poster bed that dominated the center of the room.
Claire stood near the hearth, wrapping her arms around her waist. The heavy silk of her emerald dinner gown felt like armor that had begun to weigh ten tons. Her heart was still hammering against her ribs, the lingering echo of Salvatore’s oily breath and predatory gaze burning on her skin.
Adrian was standing by the window, staring out into the white abyss of the blizzard. He had removed his jacket, and his white dress shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms corded with muscle and faint, pale scars from a life she knew almost nothing about.
"He won't try that again," Adrian said quietly, his voice cutting through the hiss of the wind.
"He didn't have to," Claire replied, her voice tight. "He already made his point. Your control over this table—over this entire commission—is rotting from the inside out."
Adrian turned slowly. His dark eyes caught the firelight, cold and unyielding. "My control is absolute. You don't need to concern yourself with the internal politics of monsters, Claire. You have your two million. You have Madison's treatments. That was the bargain."
"Is that all this is to you?" She stepped away from the fireplace, her anger finally overriding her terror. "A transaction? Because up there, at that table, when Salvatore looked at me like I was a piece of meat you'd dragged home, you didn't look like a businessman protecting an asset. You looked like a man ready to tear his throat out."
Adrian closed the distance between them with unsettling speed. Before she could blink, he was standing right in front of her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating off his body, close enough to smell the faint trace of cedar, scotch, and expensive soap.
"In my world, what is mine is mine," he murmured, his voice dropping into that dark, gravelly register that made her breath hitch. "And whether this marriage is real on paper or not, you bear my name. No one touches what is mine. No one looks at you the way Salvatore did unless they want to die."
Claire swallowed hard, looking up into his face. For a terrifying second, she forgot to be afraid of the mafia boss. Instead, she found herself noticing the sharp line of his jaw, the faint stubble shadowing his chin, the intense, fierce protectiveness burning behind his cold exterior.
"You're insane," she whispered, her voice trembling. "We agreed to a year. Separate rooms. No complications."
"Circumstances change," Adrian said, his gaze dropping slowly to her lips before flicking back up to her eyes. "And the storm has trapped us here. Carmine is watching every breath we take. If we don't look like a couple deeply, desperately in love, he will test us. And the next test won't be a whispered word in a hallway."
He reached out.
Claire’s breath caught as his large, calloused hand brushed against her cheek, his thumb tracing the high curve of her cheekbone. It was the first time he had touched her outside of public view—outside the flash of cameras and the scrutiny of the commission.
His skin was rough, a stark contrast to the refined silk and polished mahogany of their surroundings, and it sent an electric jolt straight down her spine.
"Adrian..." she warned, though her eyes drifted shut for a fraction of a second against her will.
"Act your part, Claire," he whispered against her skin, his voice thick and suddenly dangerously low. "Because right now, I'm finding it entirely too easy to believe."
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Before she could form a reply, the power in the mansion flickered.
The brilliant chandeliers overhead sputtered, dimmed, and then died completely, plunging the grand suite into sudden, absolute darkness, illuminated only by the dying amber glow of the hearth.
