Chapter 3 - Shadows in the East WingThe guest suite in the east wing had been hastily converted into a makeshift medical recovery room. A private doctor—a discreet, middle-aged man who asked no questions and charged exorbitant fees—had stitched up Liam’s split lip, treated his bruised ribs, and administered a mild sedative that finally put the young man into a deep, dreamless sleep.
Norah sat in the velvet armchair by the fireplace, staring down at her hands. The gold ring seemed to burn against her skin. Everything had changed in less than twenty-four hours. She was no longer just running from her problems; she was living inside the eye of a hurricane, married to a man who dispensed justice with a bullet and mercy with a stroke of a pen.
The heavy oak door clicked open, and Dominic stepped inside. He had removed his suit jacket, rolling up the sleeves of his crisp white shirt, revealing lean, corded forearms marked by faint, jagged scars she hadn't noticed before.
"He's resting," Dominic said quietly, walking over to pour himself a glass of water from the porcelain pitcher on the side table. "The doctor says he'll be stiff for a week, but there's no permanent damage."
"Thank you," Norah said, her voice small in the vastness of the room. She looked up at him. "You didn't have to go there tonight. You could have just sent Victor. Or paid them off."
Dominic took a slow sip of water, then turned to face her, leaning casually against the mahogany desk. "Monetary debts can be paid, Norah. Disrespect to my family cannot. The moment Nikolai threatened you, he signed his own death warrant. He just hasn't realized it yet."
"You talk about me like I'm actually your wife," she said, a bitter edge creeping into her tone. "Like this isn't a business arrangement designed to trick the FBI and humiliate your rivals."
Dominic pushed off the desk and walked toward her. He moved with that same terrifying, silent grace, stopping just inches from her chair. He leaned down, placing one hand on the armrest beside her hip, trapping her in the warm, cocoon-like space between his body and the velvet upholstery.
"Look at me, Norah," he commanded softly.
She forced herself to meet his dark, fathomless eyes. There was no mockery in them, no cold calculation—only an intense, suffocating gravity.
"When I put that ring on your finger in my back room, I told you the truth," Dominic said, his voice dropping to a low, gravelly register that sent a shiver straight down her spine. "I don't play games with vows. The FBI thinks you're my shield? Let them think it. The underworld thinks you're my weakness? Let them try to exploit it. But you are my wife. And by tomorrow morning, the entire city—from the Mayor's office to the docks—will know it."
"What are you planning?" she asked, her breath catching in her throat.
"Tomorrow night is the annual Boston Heritage Gala," Dominic said, a faint, dangerous smirk playing on his lips. "Every politician, federal prosecutor, and high-society socialite in Massachusetts will be in attendance. Including Special Agent Vance."
Norah’s eyes widened. "Vance? The man auditing you? You're walking right into his trap?"
"I am walking into his living room," Dominic corrected smoothly. "And I am bringing my beautiful, respectable, fiercely loyal nurse of a wife on my arm. You wanted your brother safe? He is safe. Now, it is time for you to earn your place at my side."
He reached out, his warm fingers gently tracing the line of her jawline, lingering for a fraction of a second against her lower lip before standing up straight.
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"Get some sleep, Norah," he said softly, turning toward the door. "Carla will bring you a new dress at noon. Something white this time. I want the city to see an angel."
The door clicked shut, leaving her alone with the crackling fire and the overwhelming realization that she had just chained her soul to the devil himself—and part of her didn't even want to run.
