The ballroom of the Grand Regency Hotel glittered like a cage made of crystal and gold. Chandeliers dripped light over hundreds of the city's elite—men in tailored tuxedos, women dripping in diamonds and silk that barely covered their bodies. Elara stood beside Lucien at the entrance, her hand resting lightly on his arm because the photographers were watching.
She wore a backless emerald-green gown that hugged every curve, the slit running high up her thigh. Lucien had chosen it. Of course he had. The fabric felt like a second skin, and every time she moved she was painfully aware of how little separated her body from the cool air… and from his gaze.
Lucien looked devastating in his black tuxedo. The top button of his shirt was undone, giving the faintest glimpse of the hard chest she had seen the night before. His presence was suffocating—tall, broad, radiating that quiet, dangerous control that made her thighs clench even as she hated him.
This was their first appearance as a married couple.
In public he played the perfect husband. His arm slid around her waist, fingers splaying possessively over the bare skin of her lower back. The touch burned. His thumb brushed slow, deliberate circles against her spine, sending unwanted sparks straight between her legs. When a camera flashed, he leaned down, lips brushing her ear.
"Smile, wife," he murmured, voice low and rough. "Or I'll make tonight's lesson much harder."
Elara forced a smile, cheeks heating. That deep, commanding voice from last night—telling her to spread her legs, to fuck herself with her fingers while he watched—echoed in her mind. She was still sore from how hard she had come under his orders. Her pussy throbbed at the memory.
As soon as the photographers moved on, Lucien dropped his arm like she was nothing. He turned to speak with a group of businessmen, completely ignoring her. She stood there like a pretty accessory, sipping champagne and trying not to let the rejection sting.
Then Viktor Volkov appeared.
Lucien's younger brother was almost as tall, with sharper features and a predatory smile. He moved like a shark cutting through water. His eyes raked over Elara slowly, lingering on the swell of her breasts and the long slit of her dress.
"Little sister-in-law," Viktor drawled, voice smooth and mocking. He took her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing her knuckles a second too long. "You clean up nicely. I almost didn't recognize the fiery waitress who smashed an ice bucket into my brother's head."
Elara's pulse jumped. She forced herself to stay calm, using the moment to dig for information. "You must be Viktor. Lucien mentioned you… briefly."
Viktor laughed softly, stepping closer than necessary. "Did he now? My brother doesn't mention much. But between us—" his eyes flicked down to her cleavage again, "—if you ever get tired of his cold bed, I know how to warm a woman properly. I don't make my wives watch other sluts finger themselves just to teach them how it's done."
Heat flooded Elara's face. He knew. Somehow he knew about last night.
Lucien appeared beside her in an instant. His arm snapped back around her waist, yanking her flush against his side so hard her breasts pressed against his chest. The mask of indifference cracked for one dangerous second—gray eyes flashing with pure, ice-cold jealousy.
"Touch her again," Lucien said quietly, voice deadly soft, "and I'll cut your hand off and feed it to you."
Viktor raised both hands in mock surrender, but his smile was sharp. "Just being friendly, brother. Enjoy your… marriage."
He walked away, but not before shooting Elara one last lingering look that made her skin crawl.
Lucien's grip on her waist tightened possessively. His fingers dug into her bare skin, almost bruising. He didn't say another word to her for the rest of the evening, but every time another man glanced her way, his hand would slide lower, cupping the curve of her ass through the thin fabric, reminding her exactly who she belonged to.
By the time they climbed into the back of the limousine, Elara's body was on fire. Her nipples were tight peaks against the dress. Her pussy was slick and aching from the constant teasing touches and the memory of his deep, filthy kiss at the wedding. She hated how aware she was of him now—as a man, not just a monster. The hard line of his thigh pressed against hers. The faint scent of his cologne mixed with something darker, more masculine. She shifted in her seat, trying to ease the throbbing between her legs.
Lucien noticed. Of course he did.
He leaned back, eyes hooded, watching her squirm. "Wet again, wife?" His voice was low, amused, and cruel. "From one little touch and a few jealous words? Pathetic."
Elara turned her face to the window, cheeks burning.
"You flatter yourself,"
Inside the mansion later that night, after the event she didn't see Lucien for the rest of the night.
She pulled out her phone and opened the hidden photos of her parents.
The Volkov world was far more dangerous than she had realized. Viktor's words about Lucien lingered in her mind. Her mind moved to Lucien's casual cruelty—they were all sharks circling.
But she was inside now.
And she would learn every secret before she tore them all apart.
_______
The next day Lucien stood in the master bedroom doorway, arms crossed, watching Elara carry the last of her belongings inside. The room smelled faintly of her — something soft and feminine that clashed with the dark wood and crisp sheets.
"Everything stays here from now on," he said, voice even and low. "The clan heads will question whether this marriage is real if we keep separate rooms. Servants talk. Some of them are spies planted by Viktor and the others. We act the part 24/7 when eyes are on us."
Elara paused, folding a blouse with deliberate care. She remembered the day in his office when he had first laid out the contract. He had warned her then that living together would be necessary — that any crack in the facade could cost him the throne. She had nodded at the time, but hearing it now, in this bedroom that would be theirs, made the cage feel smaller. Tighter.
She would have to learn to look at him like a woman madly in love. Touch him like she craved him. Smile like his presence made her weak. All while planning how to slip into his systems and find the proof she needed.
Lucien stepped closer. "Rules are simple. No phone calls without my permission. No leaving the grounds without guards. Breakfast with me every morning. You sit where I tell you. You wear what I choose, I won't be going to work today in the pretence of wanting to spent time with my wife."
He reached into the closet and pulled out a fitted black silk blouse and pencil skirt he had already selected. "Change into this. Now."
Elara obeyed outwardly, turning her back to slip out of her robe. The silk whispered against her skin as she dressed. When she faced him again, the blouse clung to the curve of her breasts, the top button left deliberately undone.
Lucien's gaze lingered — slow, assessing. He adjusted the collar himself, knuckles brushing the soft swell just above her bra. Her nipples tightened instantly under the thin fabric. A faint flush crept up her neck.
He noticed. Of course he did.
"Better," he murmured, voice dropping a fraction. "When the maids are watching, you look at me like you can't keep your hands off me. Lean into my touch. Let them see how much you want your husband."
Elara's pulse raced. His fingers were still near her collarbone, warm and steady. She hated how her body reacted — a low, liquid heat pooling between her thighs at the memory of his deep kiss at the wedding and the filthy commands from the night before last night. She quickly pushed the thought away. Act. This is all an act for him. And for me, it's survival and revenge.
Lucien stepped back, satisfied with the outward obedience.
_____
He sat at the small breakfast table by the window, gesturing to the chair directly beside him instead of across. "Here."
Breakfast arrived — fresh fruit, coffee, eggs. They ate in silence at first, the way he preferred. Then he picked up a ripe strawberry, held it to her lips.
"Open."
She parted her lips. He slid the fruit inside, his thumb grazing her lower lip as he pulled away. The casual intimacy sent another unwanted spark through her core. She chewed slowly, hyper-aware of his thigh pressed against hers under the table.
"Spread your legs a little," he said quietly, eyes on his tablet as if discussing the weather. "I want to know if you're already wet thinking about how I'll eventually fuck you — slow at first, then deep enough to ruin you for anyone else."
Elara's breath hitched. Heat flooded her face and her pussy.
Was this really an act for him just for the servants? Or maybe he has always been this lewd.
She obeyed, thighs parting slightly under the table. The ache between her legs grew slick and insistent.
Lucien continued eating as if nothing had happened, but his free hand rested on her knee for a moment, thumb stroking once — a brief, possessive touch that promised more.
Later, while he worked at his desk in the study, Elara stood nearby organizing files he had assigned her. She caught sight of an old scar on the back of his hand — jagged, faded, clearly from something sharp and violent.
She stared a second too long.
Lucien noticed. He caught her wrist, pulling her closer until she stood between his spread knees. He pressed her palm flat against the scar.
The servants present quickly averted their gaze away from them.
"Curious?" His voice was low, almost intimate. " I'll leave marks on you too. Here—" his fingers traced the inside of her wrist, "and here." His other hand ghosted over her thigh, stopping just below the hem of her skirt. "Pretty ones. Ones that remind you who you belong to when I bury myself inside that tight cunt and make you scream my name."
Elara's knees weakened. Fresh wetness slicked her panties. She hated how her body responded to his calm, controlled filth — the way his restrained dominance made her ache even while her mind screamed revenge.
She pulled her hand back gently. Outwardly obedient. Inside, she noted the exact model of the laptop on his desk and began mentally mapping how she might access it later when he was away.
Lucien watched her leave the study a few minutes later, hips swaying in the skirt he had chosen. That same unexplained tightness returned to his chest — brief, annoying, quickly crushed.
She was a tool. A necessary one.
The way her body reacted to him, the way she flushed and obeyed… it was all part of the act.
Nothing more.