The champagne was still flowing when I left the ballroom.

The applause, the whispers, the flash of cameras—they all faded the second I shut the doors behind me.

That was the thing about power. You could choke a room with it, but once you stepped away, it was just you and the silence.

And the silence was always louder.

I loosened my tie, walked down the private corridor toward my study. Marcus trailed behind, his expression as unreadable as ever.

“You didn’t warn me you’d announce it tonight,” he said finally.

“I didn’t warn myself.” I poured myself a drink the moment I reached my desk. “It was the right time. The right stage.”

Marcus didn’t argue. He knew I didn’t need agreement—I needed results.

“She’s furious,” he said instead. “Embarrassed. Humiliated.”

A low chuckle escaped me as I swirled the amber liquid in my glass. “Good. Fury burns longer than fear. It’ll keep her alive.”

Marcus gave me that look he saved for when he thought I’d gone too far but didn’t dare say it aloud. I ignored it.

Because the truth was, Christiana Moretti needed fury. She was walking into a world where people smiled at you while planning your funeral. She could hate me all she wanted—it didn’t matter. As long as she wore my ring, no one else could touch her.

That was the plan. That was the control.

…

When I returned upstairs, I found her on the balcony outside her room.

Her gown was wrinkled from pacing, her heels abandoned. Light brown eyes glared at the night sky like it had personally wronged her.

“You should thank me,” I said, leaning against the doorway.

She spun around. “Thank you? For humiliating me in front of half the city?”

“For saving your life,” I corrected. “Do you know how many vultures circled you tonight? The only thing keeping them from tearing you apart is my name.”

Her laugh was bitter. “Don’t flatter yourself. I don’t need your protection.”

“Everyone needs my protection,” I said simply.

She stalked toward me, barefoot on the marble, fire in every step. “You could’ve asked me. You could’ve given me a choice.”

I held her gaze, unblinking. “Choice is an illusion, Christiana. You’ll learn that soon enough.”

Her chest rose and fell like she’d just run a marathon. For a moment, I thought she might hit me. God knows part of me wanted her to. At least it would’ve been honest.

Instead, she hissed, “I hate you.”

I stepped closer, close enough to catch the citrus on her skin, the heat rolling off her. “Good. Hate me all you want. Just keep walking beside me when the cameras flash.”

She shoved past me, retreating into her room, slamming the door with a force that rattled the frame.

I stood there in the hall, staring at the closed door, the echo of her fury still ringing in my ears.

Hate. Fury. Defiance.

It should’ve annoyed me. It should’ve bored me. But instead, it… stirred something. Something I’d buried years ago, the day Sophia’s mother was lowered into the ground.

I drained the rest of my drink, set the glass aside, and whispered to no one, “Better hate than fear.”

Because fear killed.

Fury, at least, could keep her alive.

…

Later that night, Marcus found me in the study again. The fire had burned low, the clock ticked past two, and I hadn’t moved from my chair.

“Word is already spreading,” he said, placing a folder on my desk. “They’re calling it the union of the century. An heiress and the devil himself.”

I opened the folder. Photos from the gala. Christiana at my side, fury in her eyes, lips pressed into a stubborn line. The camera couldn’t capture the heat that rolled off her when she looked at me, but I could still feel it.

“Good,” I said, flipping through the pages. “Let them talk. Let them choke on it.”

Marcus hesitated. “And her? How long until she breaks?”

I closed the folder, leaned back in my chair, and stared at the fire.

“She won’t break,” I said finally. “That’s why she’ll survive.”

And for the first time in years, I wasn’t sure if I was making a promise to protect her… or a threat to myself.