Marceline trailed behind Cross, her steps hesitant yet steady, like a prisoner walking into an unknown fate. The heels of her shoes clicked softly against the polished marble floor, echoing through the grand corridor of Cross Dejeva's mansion. The silence between them was thick with unspoken tension, every step winding tighter the invisible thread of control he held over her.

He pushed the door open subtly, the heavy oak creaking softly as it revealed the master bedroom. It was breathtaking—modern elegance met old-world luxury. A blend of cream and gold draped the room in a warm, regal light, with chandeliers hanging above and floor-to-ceiling windows framing the city’s night skyline....