CHAPTER-1

CHAPTER-1

LENA

In the late night, when people sleep in their cozy little houses, I was also supposed to be in bed, reading one of my favourite romance novels with a glass of my favourite wine. Here I am, driving from the most famous club in the city, thanks to my now ex-best friend, who dragged me into this. If she hadn't, I wouldn't be here in front of my so-called husband.

Hell, I wouldn't even be driving him home and ignoring him for the rest of his life like he ignores me. But I can't, because he is injured, and my morals compel me to help an injured person even if he doesn't deserve it.

It's even weirder because he is giving directions to his home, which I have never visited since we married.

I have a wonderful life. Note the sarcasm.

He hasn't spoken a word yet—not even a thank you for saving his life. Just directions in his Antarctic glacier like tone. The atmosphere in the car is suffocating, and the stench of blood is stronger than I have ever smelled. He didn't tell me how deep his wounds are, but by the amount of blood, I can tell they're deeper than I thought. We should be on our way to the hospital, but he insisted on not going, I let it go.

Maybe he got hit in the head too.

Worse, he might have amnesia or short-term memory loss. That would justify his reason for abandoning me, because I am not going to accept another excuse. After his wounds are stitched up, we are going to have a serious talk.

'Lena, he is your husband; take care of him, not make fun of him. You are expected to be with him, and you must have taken those knives for him. Bad Lena, you are such a disgrace to the family.' Those generous words will definitely be delivered to me by my more generous father when he hears of his precious son-in-law's accident. After all, his only dream is to fall into the category of family members of his son-in-law, and in the process, dying doesn't matter to him. They should be thankful I didn't leave him there to bleed out.

After a while, I cannot stand this silence; the night is already cold, and my loving, warmth-filled husband beside me is worsening my mood.

"By the way, how did you get injured, and why is nobody with you? Aren't you supposed to have a bodyguard?" I tried to talk as a human who should help another, you know, for things like humanity, not out of curiosity to know why my husband was there and stabbed by those thugs in the middle of the night.

"Hey? Are you awake? You are not dead, right?" I tried again.

"Stop talking, just drive," he replied in his cold Antarctic breeze-like voice. His voice sent shivers down my spine. Fear, maybe? Isn't he supposed to be more thankful to me? After all, I saved him.

"Yes," I said meekly. What the hell happened to my self-esteem? Aren't I supposed to yell at him for abandoning me after our marriage? And here I am, weak from his words and his voice, which sounds like his words are absolute orders. I hate that kind of man who thinks everyone is beneath him. Where is my vow that I will never live a pathetic life?

I continue to drive, cursing my fate for marrying him. He is looking ahead on the roads we are driving by. His eyes are sharp, and frowns are on his face. He is stabbed in his guts and also bleeding from his nose; it must be broken now, but he looks emotionless, with not a hint of pain on his face. What kind of psycho is he? His face is not showing any signs of pain, he is sitting in the passenger seat, one hand clenched on his lap, another clutching my cashmere white jacket, which is around his wounds to stop the bleeding. His white dress shirt is almost red, and his jawline has blood smeared on it. My heart throbs.

No, Lena, what the hell? You shouldn't be concerned for him; remember he abandoned you. You should be more worried about the jacket you bought after saving three months' salary in college.

 He is wounded right now. I should be worrying, right.

And of course, if he dies, I will be free from this marriage. That will be a bonus point for me. Maybe if I slow down a little bit, that would work?

Just stop thinking; you are not a murderer, Lena. Bad idea.

"Hey," he said in his monotone voice. He is looking straight at me, like he is trying to find some type of answer, seeing through my soul like a transparent glass. He is literally open from the stabbing he got, but his eyes are so clear. Those Gray eyes have no pain in them; they are frozen, like storm clouds, before they have a chance to storm.

His jaw is so prominent; his face is well-crafted; and his body is muscular but also lean. His olive skin completes all of this. It's just inhuman how well-crafted he is. He is beautiful.

If we had met under different circumstances, I would have preferred to date him. Reality is harsh.

Whatever, I just want to get over this soon and be on my way. I sigh and lean my head against the car seat. I don't have the energy to fight with him. I should have stayed at home tonight.

Hours ago,

Shivers run down my body like someone is staring at me. I am alone in the parking lot two feet away from my car. The click of my heels against the concrete echoes off the lot, the sound somehow both reassuring and eerie. Someone is behind me. I sense him before I see him—a shift in the shadows. My fingers tighten around the strap of my bag. My other hand balls into a fist, though I keep it at my side.

I attack without thinking twice. After all, offense is the best defence. With all the strength coursing through my body, I bring my right fist to bear on his nose. There's a loud, unmistakable crack. He lets out a cry and staggers backward, his hands shooting up to his face as blood spurts forth, bright against the thin light.

I meet a pair of dark grey eyes. His olive skin contrast against the white dress shirt. If not for the eerie atmosphere I would mistake him for angel. However, his eyes indicate he is sinful man.

I gasp. The one clutching his nose is none other than my elusive husband. My husband is most beautiful man I met. I froze. I am seeing him for the first time in one and a half months of marriage. Hell, I didn't even see him at our court marriage; only his lawyer came carrying an already signed marriage certificate, giving me the excuse that he was busy with a business meeting in Sri Lanka. Even after that, he didn't contact me. No call, no text. I am still living in my old apartment. It's like we weren't even married. God bless me if I break his nose successfully.

Our marriage was arranged like a business deal. My father one day just called me to inform me about the wedding and which family he belongs to. Of course, I questioned and protested, but he refused. My marriage to my father is a multimillion-dollar deal to sign off on. If I hadn't married him, my father would have threatened my profession and would have influenced the industry to not hire me any longer. I would not care to listen to him had I also not had my own reason to marry him.

"What the fuck?" he is mad.

Long story short, he is my husband. This is my first time meeting him in the parking lot of the club. Alarik Andressano, owner of the Andressano Group of Industries, is one of the richest men in America as well as the mafia king of the underworld, and he is looking at me with a gun in his hand.

Wait, a gun?

The revelation of the gun in his hand sends shivers down my spine as I try to piece together the terrifying puzzle unfolding before me. Is this the end? Is he here to end my life in a cold, calculated move orchestrated by him? My eyes go wide in shock. The thought sends a wave of panic coursing through my veins, and I find it hard to breathe, let alone think straight. Is he here to kill me and marry his girlfriend or something? Did his family also force him to marry me?

One thing is definite: I am going to die tonight.

Questions swirl in my mind seem elusive in the face of such danger. I refuse to go down without a fight, to accept my fate without making an effort to cling to any scrap of hope that could come my way.

Before I could make a run for my life, I heard the gunshot. I closed my eyes, and my body fell backward. I feel heaviness on my body, and I only wish my body could be found for cremation.

"Hey, you did not just pass out, right?" I hear the most delicious, velvety voice of a man. Am I in heaven?

Wait, I don't feel any pain; I feel something above me. A hand grabbed my shoulder, shaking me. I open my eyes to see dark gray eyes. The heaviness I feel is him on top of me. I am not dead, is my first thought, and my second is that he is so close to me. I can feel his rapid breath on his face and his musky, piney cologne.

I look around, trying to get as much distance as I can from him, and I definitely hear the gunshot. I can only conclude that someone just fired at us and he saved my life.

"Where is your car?" he asked. I pointed at my car, which is two feet behind me. He looked up from the car we were hiding behind. As I sit up to slowly crawl toward my car, I feel that my clothes are wet. Not just wet; it is wet with blood, and that's not mine.

Alarik must be hurt somewhere. He is clutching his gun tightly; his gun must be empty right now. That's why he is agitating.

"I keep a gun in my car. "Looking at your gun, I believe you're out of bullets," I remarked, my voice steady but my heart racing. Alarik's face tightened at my remark, and a glint of regret appeared in his eyes. He seems to realize that disappearing for the last two months had been a mistake.

Even though our lives were in immediate danger, I couldn't resist the temptation to aggravate him.

Alarik indicated for me to follow him, so I took a step toward my car. I was only inches away from the door when I heard the unsettling click of a rifle being cocked behind me.

My heart raced in my chest, each beat ringing in my ears. The air appeared to thicken around me, and I felt a cold sweat break out on my forehead