I woke up the next morning, sunlight spilling into the room, bathing everything in a soft golden glow. For a moment, I froze, my mind disoriented as I took in the unfamiliar surroundings. The bed, the décor—it was all foreign. Then, with a sharp rush of clarity, the events of the last few days came crashing back. I’m a married man now. Andrea is my wife.

I turned my head and looked beside me. Andrea lay curled up, her back facing the sunlight that was beginning to warm the room. One of her hands rested precariously close to my chest, her breathing soft and even. Her serene face looked so peaceful in sleep, but there was something unsettling about how still she was, as though her mind was never truly at rest.

I tried to move, the slightest shift of my body, careful not to wake her. But in an instant, Andrea shot up, her movements swift and practiced, her hand reaching out blindly to the bedside table, searching for something. Panic flashed across her face for the briefest moment, her eyes wide and alert. She didn’t find what she was looking for and froze, her chest heaving as she tried to calm herself.

I watched, my eyes widening at the realization of how light a sleeper she was. That kind of alertness wasn’t normal. Anyone else would have thought she was simply frightened, perhaps scared of being hurt. After all, marriages like ours were not always about love; they were strategic, alliances for power. But the way Andrea reacted went beyond fear of abuse. There was something deeper there, something darker.

For a split second, her guard slipped, and I saw it—the pure terror that flickered across her face, gone as quickly as it appeared. She composed herself almost immediately, her expression smoothing back into one of cool indifference. But the damage was done. The questions had already started forming in my mind. What was Andrea hiding? What had she been through to have such deeply ingrained instincts of self-defense?

More disturbingly, what if she wasn’t just hiding trauma? What if she was an enemy? Our marriage, though sudden, had been well-calculated by our families. But what if she had her own agenda? What if marrying me was part of some larger scheme to infiltrate our empire? I couldn't ignore the possibility. I would have to be careful, alert. Trust, in our world, was a luxury few could afford.

I let Andrea freshen up first, watching her as she left the bed, her movements fluid but tense, like a predator always on guard. When she returned, she was dressed in a pair of high-waist black jeans and a black tank top, an oversized coat draped over her slender frame. The simplicity of her attire couldn’t hide the magnetic pull she had over me. My eyes roamed over her body, taking in the subtle curves, the strength in her posture. She was undeniably beautiful, and there was something about her that made me want her in ways I hadn’t expected.

Enemy or not, I wanted her. I wanted to devour her, to claim her in every sense of the word. I imagined her beneath me, her breath ragged as she begged me to let her release. The thought stirred something primal within me, but I pushed it down before my desire spiraled out of control. I couldn’t afford to lose focus.

Once Andrea was done, I went into the bathroom to freshen up. I chose black pants, a black turtleneck, and a tailored blazer—a sharp, imposing look fitting for someone of my status.

Andrea and I made our way downstairs, the smell of breakfast already filling the air. As we entered the dining room, Michael and his wife, Christina, were already seated at the table, serving themselves food. We joined them without delay, slipping into the familiar routine of a shared meal.

Andrea took a seat beside Christina, and I could hear their quiet conversation start almost immediately. From the way Andrea leaned in and her hushed tone, it seemed she was making sure Christina was alright.

I settled beside Michael and began to serve myself, making sure to follow the precise table manners that had been drilled into us since childhood. Every movement was deliberate, controlled, as it always was in our world. In this life, even the smallest sign of weakness could be exploited.

But Michael broke the quiet with a remark that caught me off guard. “You might want to sleep with your eyes open,” he muttered under his breath, his voice so low that neither Christina nor Andrea could hear him.

I looked at him, curiosity immediately piqued. “What are you talking about?”

Michael didn’t look up from his plate, his tone steady but edged with something darker. “Matteo tried to sexually assault Christina. That’s why she froze up when he got close to her yesterday.”

I stiffened. I had my doubts, but I never imagined Matteo would dare something so reckless. My fists clenched under the table, but Michael wasn’t done yet.

“And guess who stepped in at the last minute?” He paused, his fork held delicately between his fingers before he subtly gestured toward Andrea. “Your wife.”

Andrea must have sensed the attention because she glanced over, her sharp eyes catching the slight movement of Michael’s fork in her direction. Her expression remained composed, though her eyebrows lifted in faint curiosity.

“If you want to talk about me,” she said coolly, her voice steady, “at least have the courage to do it in front of me.”

Her calmness was unnerving. It was as if nothing could shake her. Most people would wilt under Michael’s gaze, but Andrea held her own, as though this was all routine for her.

Michael smirked slightly, matching her tone. “I heard you’re pretty good at breaking noses.”

I blinked. She broke Matteo’s nose? That wasn’t something I expected to hear about my wife, but there was no denying the twinge of admiration I felt.

Andrea’s eyes narrowed ever so slightly, a faint glint of cold steel flashing in her gaze before she returned her attention to her plate. She spoke without looking up, her voice as calm as ever. “He should be glad I didn’t break his spine.”

And with that, the conversation was over. Andrea’s tone left no room for further discussion. She had made her point—Matteo got off easy, and she wasn’t about to let anyone forget it.

Michael leaned back in his chair, his lips curling into a smirk. He was impressed, and I couldn’t blame him. Most men quaked in their boots when Michael used that tone, but Andrea had dismissed him without batting an eye. She didn’t just match his intensity—she surpassed it, reminding him that she wasn’t someone to be trifled with.

I stole a glance at her, this woman who had become my wife. It was hard not to feel a mix of emotions—admiration, intrigue, and, yes, a sliver of suspicion. She was strong, capable, and fearless, qualities that would make her an invaluable partner—or a dangerous adversary.

Whatever she was hiding, I would find out. And when I did, I would decide if she was a threat—or something far more dangerous.

Dante Caravello joined us at breakfast, informing us that Dad and his Enforcer had already left early that morning and that we were free to head back after we finished eating.

The remainder of breakfast passed without incident. Andrea, as usual, kept to herself, barely acknowledging anyone as we prepared to leave. The only person she seemed to genuinely care about saying goodbye to was her head bodyguard—Enzo, I think his name was. Their interaction was brief but noticeable, a small moment of connection that stood out against her otherwise cold demeanor.

Christina, on the other hand, was more polite and warm with her farewells. She exchanged a few words with everyone before giving Enzo a big hug, just like Andrea had. The gesture seemed familiar, almost like they shared some kind of unspoken bond.

Once the goodbyes were said, both women climbed into the car, ready for the drive to the airport.