He didn’t strike me where the makeup artists would see.

He used the heavy door, the corners of the furniture, the sheer force of his intimidation, leaving deep, painful shadows on my ribs and upper arms—marks only a husband was meant to uncover.

“This marriage happens tomorrow at noon, exactly as planned,” he hissed, his face inches from mine while I struggled to catch my breath against the floorboards.

“The moment those vows are spoken, your family’s voting shares transfer to my holding company.

Your father’s seat on the board becomes my seat. You will stand there, you will look beautiful, and you will obey. If you try to embarrass me, I’ll have my medical team declare you psychologically unstable before the cake is even cut. Do we understand each other?”

I had nodded, staring at the intricate pattern of the Persian rug.