After marrying my nemesis, I fell ridiculously in love. My days became a blur of sweet nothings and blistering fucking. Six months into this intoxicating routine, I decided to surprise him for a lunch date. Instead, I walked into a brawl between him and my childhood best friend. My friend landed a solid punch. “You son of a bitch. You dared to force her into this marriage? Do you have any idea how much she despises you?” Griffin slowly wiped a smear of blood from his lip. The words hit their mark, and his eyes turned venomous. “Of course I know,” he hissed. “So what? You really think I’d ever let her go?” A wave of sympathetic glances washed over me from the onlookers, as if I were the tragic heroine in a dark romance, stolen and caged. I looked down at myself, dripping in jewels and designer clothes. My world shattered. Weren’t we… weren’t we a love story? The kind where you marry first, and fall in love later? 1 Deep in the night, I was waging war from behind my laptop screen. “Let me spell it out for you,” I typed, my fingers flying across the keyboard. “Your boyfriend is gaslighting you. Grand gestures and sweet talk are cheap. The only real metric is his wallet. Follow the money, honey. That’s where the love is.” A user shot back instantly. “Who is this high-and-mighty bitch telling people how to live? They’re a happy couple, leave them alone.” The replies piled on. “Seriously. How much did your husband spend on you? Bet he bought you a tacky gold bracelet and now you think you’re a relationship guru.” A few seconds later, I uploaded a photo of the diamond on my finger. A rock the size of a quail’s egg. “Auction price was five million. A little gift from my husband.” The replies trickled to a halt, then started again. User 1: “…Why do you guys always have to poke the bear?” User 2: “Ugh, rich people. Get out of our comment section.” I rolled my eyes, tapping out one last defiant message. “I told you my husband genuinely loves me… you just didn’t want to believe it.” I snapped the laptop shut. Griffin was still in the shower. I kissed the massive diamond, then slipped into a red lace nightgown, all strategic cutouts and delicate straps, and draped myself across the bed to wait for him. Six months into my marriage with Griffin, and our relationship was blossoming. The evidence was clear: One, my family may have gone bankrupt, but Griffin’s vast fortune was more than enough to sustain my lavish lifestyle. Two, Griffin may have been a scholarship kid I used to torment for years, but he held no grudges. After the wedding, he became my loyal servant. Whatever I wanted, he provided. Click. The bathroom door opened. The man I’d been waiting for emerged, a towel slung low around his hips. Droplets of water clung to the hard planes of his chest and abdomen, catching the lamplight like tiny pearls. I drew out his name, my voice thick and syrupy. “Griffin. Come serve your queen.” His dark gaze raked over my body as he silently crossed the room. I decided to praise him generously. “I’m very satisfied with this gift. Next time, I want something bigger. An emerald, I think—” He silenced me, his mouth crashing down on mine. The sound of tearing silk filled the air, and my expensive nightgown was reduced to ribbons. Outside, a gentle rain began to fall. Inside, my muffled protests turned into whimpers. “Griffin, you dog, I didn’t say you could start—” “Hush, Sloane. If you want the emerald, you’ll be quiet.” 2 A few days later, I was adorned with a new set of priceless emeralds. Strolling through the city, I felt like a pedigreed Persian cat, sleek and untouchable. It was a weekday, so the high-end department store was quiet. That’s why I easily heard someone call my name. “Ms. Hayes?” A young woman in a sensible pantsuit stood among a small group of people. She was plain, the kind of forgettable face you see once and never again. I’d known a face like that years ago. A classmate of Griffin’s. Audrey. Back in prep school, our year had two charity cases. Griffin, the major one, and Audrey, the minor one. The two of them were always eating lunch together, a little island of have-nots. Inseparable. I studied her for a moment before her name surfaced. “Audrey.” “I’m surprised you remember me.” She extended a hand. “I work for Mr. Vance now. I’m his assistant.” I offered a tight, polite smile, making no move to take her hand. “Is there something I can help you with, Audrey?” She slowly retracted her hand. “Oh, no, don’t get the wrong idea. I’m just here to do a site inspection for Mr. Vance. I didn’t expect to run into you.” Her gaze lingered on my emeralds, a flicker of something in her eyes before she smiled. “It must be nice being a housewife. Not a care in the world, just shopping and spending. After all the hell you put Griffin through back then, it’s amazing he can be so forgiving. You’re a lucky woman.” I watched her, letting the silence hang in the air before I laughed. “You’re lucky too, you know. You just happened to get that scholarship my father donated to the school. Otherwise, you wouldn’t be here, working for my husband.” The corner of Audrey’s mouth twitched, her practiced smile flattening into a thin line. I beamed at her. “What’s wrong? You look upset. I’m sorry, I thought you enjoyed these little trips down memory lane.” She had no idea what I’d put Griffin through. She wasn’t even there for most of it. Did he not warn her to stay away from me? She was playing with fire. “I have to get back to work,” she said, her voice clipped. “Enjoy your day, Ms. Hayes.” That evening, when Griffin came home, he found me slumped on the sofa. An empty bottle of red wine lay on its side at my feet, a dark stain bleeding into the cream-colored rug. He set down his briefcase and silently took out his phone, texting the cleaner. Then he came over and bent to lift me into his arms. I gave him a weak shove. “Kneel.” Griffin paused, then carefully knelt before me, the fabric of his suit trousers creasing. I prodded his shoulder with the toe of my shoe. “You hired a female assistant?” He caught my ankle, his thumb stroking the delicate skin. “It’s a corporate policy. Gender diversity.” He lowered his head, his lips tracing a path up my calf. “But my executive assistant, the one who deals with me directly, is a man. Does that ease my queen’s mind?” The bad mood that had been poisoning my day began to evaporate. In less than a minute, I was his again, completely. I draped myself over his shoulders, scrolling through my phone. “I don’t get it,” I mumbled. “Mom and Dad took your money, so why won’t they answer my calls?” “They’re busy with their new venture. You can’t answer the phone when you’re building an empire.” “Oh.” The wine was making my head swim. Griffin carried me to the bed and gently stroked my hair. “Sloane,” he said softly, “if they were broke, completely penniless, would you still want to talk to them?” I burst out laughing. “I don’t talk to paupers. You know that.” His dark eyes were unreadable, like pools of ink. “What if I went bankrupt?” A truly terrifying thought. I pressed my fingers to his lips. “Shh, don’t even joke about that. It’s horrifying.” I wrapped my arms around his neck, smiling. “If you ever lose your money, I’ll be the first one out the door.” Griffin’s expression remained placid as he looked at my smiling face. Then, he suddenly flipped me over. “I’ve just realized something,” he murmured, his voice a low rumble against my back. “I think I prefer the sound of your crying.” His hot, hard body pressed against me from behind. “And if my queen ever tries to run… I’ll just have to break her legs.” 3 The alcohol sent me into a deep, dream-filled sleep. Seeing Audrey had dredged up memories I hadn’t revisited in years. It had been so long since I’d dreamt of the young Griffin. The year he transferred to our school was one of the driest summers on record in New York. For months, not a single drop of rain fell. The drone of the cicadas was a constant, piercing scream that seemed to tear at the sky. During homeroom, our teacher walked in with a new student. He wore a faded, washed-out school uniform, his dark eyes downcast, radiating a cold indifference. I’d never seen anyone so obviously poor. His backpack was literally held together with patches. But he was also devastatingly beautiful, and the girls in our class stared at him, their eyes practically boring holes through his cheap clothes. Scholarship kids weren’t a novelty. The school had a quota to fill every year. Usually, a handsome one like him would be claimed by some rich girl within a year, turned into a pretty accessory. So I admired his proud, isolated posture. I was curious to see how long it would last. A year passed. Griffin hadn't become anyone’s plaything. Instead, he’d become class president. Our class was full of lawless trust-fund babies. The teachers, not wanting to antagonize our powerful parents, had chosen the boy with no connections to be their enforcer. One day, Griffin announced it was time to collect class dues. He then read out a list of students who were delinquent. The first boy whose name was called swaggered to the front, pulled a wad of cash from his pocket, and threw it in Griffin’s face. “You think everyone’s a broke piece of trash like you? Can’t even afford the dues?” “So I forgot. You had to call me out in front of everyone?” “Who are you trying to humiliate, huh? You charity case.” A ripple of laughter went through the classroom. The next few students did the same, showering Griffin with bills that fluttered to the floor. Griffin bent down and began to silently pick them up. Snickers followed him. “Hey, mutt, you can keep the change. A little tip for you.” I was about to pull out my phone to text the principal when my best friend, Ford, grabbed my arm. “Don’t get involved, Sloane. If these people want to slum it with us, they should expect this.” I hesitated, then pulled out my own thick roll of cash and walked over. “Here’s mine.” Griffin glanced at the money, his voice flat. “It’s too much.” “The rest… do whatever you want with it.” I’d heard he was from an orphanage, that he had to scrimp and save just for tuition. The poor thing. Suddenly, Audrey appeared from nowhere and shoved me. “Get lost! Can’t you people just leave him alone?” I stumbled, my hipbone cracking against the corner of a desk. A sharp pain shot through me. Griffin finished collecting the money and stood up, his face an emotionless mask, his eyes deep and dark. “You want to be like them, Queenie? Go on. Throw it in my face.” I had a temper, too. The next second, a storm of bills engulfed his face, harder and more furious than anyone else’s. His beautiful features flickered in and out of view through the fluttering cash. I had to admit, the sight of Griffin’s face surrounded by money was a perfect match. Of course, from that day forward, Griffin and I were at war. If he wouldn’t accept my charity, then he could expect my wrath. We spent the next few years locked in a bitter rivalry. I usually had the upper hand. It wasn't uncommon to see Griffin standing in the sweltering heat, waiting in line at an ice cream truck for me. Or on cleaning day, mopping up the ink I’d “accidentally” spilled on the floor. Did he not fight back? He couldn’t. A poor student who’d pissed off the richest, most powerful girl in school had nowhere to run. Of course, when he got really pushed, he’d grab my wrist and pin me against the wall of the empty basketball court. A warning. But that only ever resulted in more creative and vicious retaliation from me. I thought he would spend his entire life under my thumb. But the old saying, “never underestimate a poor boy with ambition,” proved to be true. Years later, my family’s empire crumbled. Griffin, on the other hand, had risen like a phoenix, becoming a titan of industry, a man everyone wanted to please. The day he proposed our marriage alliance, I nearly destroyed his office. “You want revenge? Dream on!” I swung a golf club, smashing the last of his computer monitors. “You want to marry me? Fine. Give my family a hundred million dollars, and promise that everything you earn after we’re married is mine to spend. Otherwise, I’ll shatter that window and take you down with me!” I expected him to back down. Instead, his face darkened, and he bit out one word: “Done.” That night, a hundred million dollars was transferred to my parents’ account. The prenuptial agreement was signed. All of Griffin’s income was legally mine. To spend as I pleased. And that’s when things got awkward for me. Because it turned out… he really, really wanted me. Our wedding night lasted for three days. I was practically broken. I made a burner account and anonymously posted on a forum: “My husband wants to have sex seven times a night. Does this mean he hates me?” The internet exploded. “Shut up. Your happiness is deafening.” “Yes, he despises you. He loathes you. You should divorce him immediately and send me his contact info.” “The rich get richer, and the thirsty stay thirsty…” “Okay, serious answer: A man who can still go seven times a night after 25? Cherish him. He is biologically, fundamentally attracted to you. You can’t hate someone into your bed like that.” Even though I’d suspected Griffin had a secret crush on me, seeing it confirmed was deeply satisfying. All those other rich girls couldn’t tame him. But in the end, he was mine. I really was a master of my craft. 4 When I woke up, Griffin was already at the office. I glanced at my phone and saw that our old high school group chat, usually dormant for years, was buzzing with activity. My childhood best friend, Ford, was back in town. He messaged me right away: “Sloane, dinner tonight?” “Just us?” “And a few others from the old crew.” I knew exactly who “the old crew” was. “No thanks. Griffin doesn’t get along with them, so I’ll pass.” Ford: “??? What does Griffin have to do with anything???” Oh, right. He’d been in Antarctica for the last few years photographing penguins, practically disconnected from civilization. “Griffin and I are married.” “Was it your choice?” “Not entirely, but now I think—” “Okay, got it.” Ford hung up before I could finish. My thoughts drifted back to Griffin. It occurred to me that since we got married, we’d never actually been on a proper date. I put on a full face of makeup, feeling giddy, and headed to Griffin’s company. His assistant told me Griffin had also gone to the class reunion. He was kind enough to call a driver to take me there. The whole way, my anger simmered. What was Griffin thinking? Going to a class reunion without even telling me. He didn’t bring Audrey, did he? The car pulled up, and I stormed inside. As I rounded the corner of a staircase, I could hear a commotion from a private room down the hall. Then, a sickening thud. “You son of a bitch. You dared to force her into this marriage? Do you have any idea how much she despises you?” I came around the bend just in time to see Ford’s fist connect squarely with Griffin’s jaw. Griffin staggered back against the wall, spitting out a mouthful of blood. The words hit their mark, and his eyes turned venomous. “Of course I know,” he hissed. “So what? You really think I’d ever let her go?” “Fuck you! Why don’t you get Sloane over here and see who she chooses.” Griffin grabbed Ford’s wrist, his voice a low, cold sneer. “No need. I’ll never give her that choice. She is—and always will be—my wife.” “You’re… a monster,” Ford seethed. “This is imprisonment! It’s abuse!” “Call it what you want. I don’t care.” Suddenly, someone spotted me. “Sloane! What are you doing here?” Every head in the room swiveled in my direction. Their faces were filled with pity. “Poor thing. No wonder we haven’t seen her in so long.” “Locked away and tortured all this time. She must have come here to run away with Ford.” My head was spinning. I caught my reflection in a nearby window—a woman dripping in jewels and designer clothes. My world shattered. Weren’t we… weren’t we a love story?
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