The morning after their explosive kiss in the study, Elena was different.
She didn't feel owned. She didn't feel broken.
She felt... dangerous.
The scent of Henri still clung to her skin, and the bruises his lips left on her throat were proof that something inside him had cracked. Maybe it was the start of something real. Or maybe just the start of a bigger lie.
She ran her fingers through her loose hair and stared at the antique mirror across from their bed. "Who are you becoming, Elena Cruz?"
"Someone who's finally playing the game," a voice said behind her.
She jumped.
Henri leaned against the doorway, dressed in a black suit again—sleek, powerful, distant. But his eyes softened when they met hers.
"You scared me," she whispered.
"Good," he said. "You should always be on edge in this house."
"You kissed me like you didn't want me to be."
His jaw tightened. "Kissing you was a mistake."
She rose, pulling her robe tighter around her. "If you say that again, I swear I'll leave. I don't care what threat you think I need protecting from."
Henri walked toward her, slow and deliberate. "Don't make promises you can't keep, Elena. We both know you're not going anywhere."
"Try me."
His fingers brushed her waist. "I'd rather try something else."
Elena slapped his hand away—not hard, but not soft either.
"I want answers," she snapped. "That man at the cemetery, the woman in your staff who doesn't speak—don't pretend I'm imagining things."
Henri looked away, jaw twitching. "There are things you aren't ready to hear."
"I wasn't ready to marry you either," she said. "But here I am."
He exhaled sharply, then pulled something from the inside of his suit pocket—a flash drive. "Put this into the laptop in your room. Watch the folder labeled 'Primrose.'"
"What's on it?"
"The truth."
Elena waited until Henri left for a meeting before opening her laptop and inserting the drive. Her heart beat like a ticking bomb.
The folder popped up.
Inside it were videos, documents, photos. She clicked on the first file: a surveillance video—grainy footage of a younger man, blonde, laughing. Her stomach flipped.
Her ex-fiancé. Matteo Serrano.
She hadn't seen him since the night he vanished—just days before their wedding. He'd left nothing but a voicemail and a thousand unanswered questions. That was two years ago.
The video switched to a new angle. Matteo was meeting with someone in a dark garage.
It was her father.
Elena leaned forward, heart racing. Her father—Senator Cruz—was handing Matteo a briefcase. Their conversation was muted, but the gestures were loud.
Threats. Promises. Orders.
Matteo looked shaken. He tried to walk away.
Senator Cruz pulled out a gun.
The screen went black.
Elena clutched the sheets. Her father hadn't just disapproved of Matteo—he'd destroyed him.
A second video loaded automatically.
Matteo, alive. Present day. Speaking into the camera.
"If you're seeing this, Elena… you need to know the truth. I never left you. I was taken. And it wasn't just your father—it was Henri Castellanos too. They've been at war for years, and you and I were caught in the crossfire. I'm still alive. I'm coming for you. And when I do, nothing will stop me from taking you back."
The video ended.
Elena stared at the screen, bile rising in her throat. Her pulse hammered.
Henri had known this.
He'd kept it from her.
She had to confront him.
That night, Elena cornered Henri in the wine cellar—where she knew cameras were limited.
"You lied to me."
Henri, inspecting a bottle of rare scotch, barely glanced up. "I gave you the flash drive. I didn't lie."
"You withheld. You let me believe Matteo abandoned me. That my father was just protective. You let me walk into this marriage thinking I had no one."
Henri set the bottle down gently. "And now you know the truth. So what's your next move?"
"I should hate you," she hissed.
"But you don't."
Silence stretched between them, thick with heat and fury.
"No," she said quietly. "I don't. And I don't know why."
Henri stepped closer, the low light casting his face in gold and shadow. "Because deep down, you understand this world. You were born into it, just like me. We don't get to love freely. We love dangerously."
"You think this is love?"
"I think it's becoming something neither of us can control."
His hand slipped behind her neck. Elena wanted to pull away. She didn't.
His lips hovered just above hers. "Tell me to stop."
She couldn't. She didn't.
And so he kissed her again—harder, needier, full of twisted emotion. His hands gripped her hips, hers tangled in his hair. The wine bottles clinked faintly behind them as their bodies pressed against the shelves.
This time, Elena kissed him back not because she needed comfort—but because she needed fire.
They didn't make it back upstairs. The wine cellar became their battlefield.
Henri went downwards and pulled Elena's skirt by the time he had removed her underwear she was already moaning, Henri then used his tongue to seduce her under area while she just stood there moaning, Then she stood Henri up and kissed him until they were both breathless, Henri on the other hand didn't want this to end so he thrust into her and her loud moan gave him satisfaction so he kept thrusting and with each moan the closer he felt to climax, I have never felt this good in a long time, Elena said to herself, then with one deep and final thrust she moaned at the top of her voice resulting into her climax while Henri on the othe hand was ejaculating already and then she bent down and sucked all of his semen, feeling satisfied they both went to bed.
Later that night, Elena lay awake in bed while Henri slept beside her, chest rising and falling peacefully.
She traced the lines of his jaw with her eyes, wondering how someone so dangerous could feel so safe.
And then she remembered Matteo's voice: He's part of it too.
Elena slipped out of bed and padded down the hall in silence.
If she was going to survive between two devils, she had to find her own wings.
She opened the locked drawer of Henri's office using the key she stole from his jacket earlier. Inside were classified files, floor plans, encrypted names… and a photograph.
A black-and-white image of a young girl.
Elena's blood froze.
It was her. Maybe six years old. Smiling. Holding a daisy.
Beside her stood a woman Elena didn't recognize—but her face was unforgettable.
The same woman Elena had seen in flashes. In dreams. In brief, terrifying moments of déjà vu.
Her real mother?
The back of the photograph had one word written on it: "Primrose."
Elena's hands trembled.
"Looking for something?" a voice said behind her.
She whirled around—and gasped.
The blonde maid.
But now she wasn't in uniform. She wore all black. Combat boots. Gloves.
"Who are you?" Elena demanded.
The woman smiled faintly. "The person who's going to help you escape. But first—"
She stepped forward.
"You need to know who you really are."