“She’ll have to survive thirty days in plain sight,” Luca said, his voice flat. “Thirty days while her family knows she’s marrying us. She’ll have a target carved into her back.”
“They’ll never let her stand on the island. They’ll move before then.”
“Then we plan like it’s war,” Luca said. “Because it is.”
I dragged my palm down the glass until the blue arteries bled fully into black.
“We lock the Adams in. Once the noose tightens, they’ll sign the marriage agreement or choke on their own collapse. And the second they sign, we don’t blink. We protect her until the ink dries and the vows are carved.”
“Protection first,” Luca said, already moving to the console. “Every exit covered. Double detail she can’t see. Rotate every guard who’s ever taken Adams coin. Medic in the second car. Overwatch on every door.”
“Cut their advisors out,” I muttered. “Anyone still whispering Adams loyalty—gone. Replaced. Quietly.”
He gave a single nod. “And the wedding itself—we camouflage the move. Dress it like a weekend at the estate. She boards a helicopter for dinner, she lands to vows. By the time Adams realize, she’s untouchable.”
I pressed both hands against the glass, teeth clenched until my jaw shook.
“She doesn’t see it yet,” I said, low. “Doesn’t see she handed us the crown of her dynasty or realizes what that makes her.”
Luca’s reflection met mine. His voice came steady. “It makes her our wife.”
Chapter Fifty-Two
LUCA
Near midday, the bedroom was too quiet.
Bastion was dead asleep, arm flung across the tangle where she should’ve been, his hand still clamped on a pillow like his body refused to let go even in dreams. We’d stayed up too late in the war room, building a life on screens and paper, routes, redlines, safe corridors, a plan with teeth. It should’ve eased the ache.
It didn’t.
My chest hurt in that old, familiar way—like the finish line was finally in sight.
I slid out of bed without waking him. Her phone sat on the nightstand, black screen, no new notifications—because I’d made sure no one could reach her direct this morning. Not Alexander. Not the advisors who wanted to drown her in paper and call it duty.
I didn’t do it to control her. I did it to protect her. Her mornings were to be peaceful, sacred.
The bathroom door was open. The shower running. I stepped inside and found her standing in front of it, arms crossed tight over Bastion’s shirt, staring at the water.
She looked wrecked.
“I can’t be bothered standing in there,” she didn’t look at me.
“Awe, baby.” I cupped her face. Her eyes were swollen.
I reached past her and switched the shower off. Then I turned to the marble tub and twisting the taps. Last night I had ordered the final adjustments on our penthouse to be completed this week. I wanted her in a palace.
“You don’t have to do that, Luca,” she murmured, the apology already forming out of habit. “I’m sure you have more important things to do this morning.”
I didn’t answer her apology. I only adjusted the hot water.
In my head, I saw the spa nestled into the new penthouse, programmed with her presets. Light-dim at 40%. Temperature 38.5°C. Sound filters that drown the city into a hush. A built-in lavender release that releases in the air the moment the sensor reads her pulse above ninety.
Every small piece designed to quiet her body when the world wouldn’t. And when she couldn’t tell us what hurt, the house would. Vitals to our phones. Overhead thermal if she fell asleep in the tub. Alerts if her breathing shifted, if her steps dragged, if she spent more than ten minutes staring at a mirror without moving.
It wasn’t to be creepy or to smoother her.
It was just another kind of love because we didn’t trust the world to be kind.
