This wasn’t just about a strategic marriage or financial security. This was about being used, manipulated, and positioned like apiece on a chessboard by men who saw me as nothing more than a means to an end.
I was no longer just a reluctant fiancée trying to navigate an impossible situation.
I was a pawn in a deadly power game where the stakes were higher than I’d ever imagined.
And the most terrifying part?
I wasn’t sure I wanted to escape at all.
6
CASSIE
The wrought-iron gates of Roman’s estate rose before us like something out of a Gothic nightmare. As our car passed through the checkpoint—armed guards, German Shepherds, and enough firepower to outfit a small army—I realized this wasn’t just a home. This was a fortress.
"Holy shit," I whispered, pressing my face to the tinted window.
"Language, sweetheart." Roman’s voice carried a familiar note of amusement that made my stomach flip. "You’re about to meet my family. They expect a certain level of... refinement."
The mansion stretched across the horizon like a dark castle, with all stone walls and narrow windows that looked designed more for defense than decoration. Ivy crawled up the sides, and massive oak trees created shadows that seemed to move with the wind. It was beautiful in a terrifying way—the kind of place where fairy tale princesses got locked in towers.
"This is where you live?" I asked.
"This is where we live now." His hand found mine, fingers intertwining with warm possessiveness. "My ancestors built this place in 1847 when they first came to America. It’s been in the Creed family ever since."
The car stopped in front of massive wooden doors that looked like they belonged to a medieval cathedral. Roman stepped out first, then offered his hand to help me from the car. The moment my heels hit the gravel, I felt eyes on me—watching, evaluating, judging.
Men in expensive suits emerged from various corners of the property. Some I recognized from the office; others were complete strangers. All of them moved with the predatory grace of people who were intimately familiar with violence.
"Gentlemen," Roman said, his arm sliding around my waist with a territorial claim. "I’d like you to meet my fiancée, Cassie James."
The introductions blurred together—Connor, Joey, Tommy, names attached to faces that belonged in mafia movies. Each handshake was firm but respectful, their eyes calculating as they assessed whether I was a threat, an asset, or just another liability.
But the way they looked at Roman really caught my attention. These weren’t just employees or business associates. These men would die for him. And more importantly, they’d kill for him without hesitation.
"Welcome to the family, Ms. James," said Connor, a man with silver hair and kind eyes that didn’t match the gun clearly outlined beneath his jacket. "Roman told us wonderful things about you."
"Has he?" I glanced at Roman, who was watching the interaction with intense focus. "That’s... surprising."
Connor laughed. "He said you make excellent coffee and have a backbone of steel. High praise from our boy here."
"Connor," Roman’s voice carried a warning.
"Right, right. Business later." Connor winked at me. "Welcome home, dear."
Home. The word hit me like a physical blow. This wasn’t my home. This was a prison disguised as luxury, complete with armed guards and men who called Roman "boss" instead of using his name.
Roman’s hand pressed against the small of my back, guiding me toward the entrance. "Come on. Let me show you around."
The interior was just as imposing as the exterior—marble floors, crystal chandeliers, and oil paintings of stern-faced men who looked like they’d seen too much violence. Everything screamed old money and older secrets.
"The west wing is private," Roman explained as we walked through hallways lined with Irish Celtic symbols carved into dark wood. "That’s where our rooms are. The east wing houses my office and the meeting rooms. You don’t go there without me. Understood?"
"Understood." I tried to keep my voice steady, but the weight of this place was crushing. "Roman, how many people live here?"
"Twelve permanently. More when business requires it." He stopped in front of a portrait of a man who looked like an older, harder version of Roman. "My father, Patrick Creed. He built this empire from nothing."
There was something in his voice—pride mixed with pain. I studied the painting, noting the same blue eyes, the same stubborn jawline. But where Roman carried himself with controlled power, his father looked like he’d never met a problem he couldn’t solve with his fists.
