Chapter 3

The plush leather of the private jet felt alien against Sarah's skin. It was a world away from her cramped apartment and the worn armchair she used to sink into after a long day. Across from her, Ace was studying the cool glow of his tablet, a study in controlled indifference. Not even close to the barely contained turmoil churning inside her. Near the table stood his secretary, Lisa, ready at all times.

She barely had her feet inside the jet when Sarah was nudging Lisa out of the seat next to Ace. "I'll sit here," she'd said, with a polite smile masking her act of defiance. Ace rolled his eyes predictably. He was a master of non-verbal communication: every sigh, every nearly-there smile was a carefully crafted tool to keep her at arm's length.

She tried to draw him out. She asked him about his latest business deal, about his hobbies, things she should have known about the man she was inexplicably married to. Each question was met with a curt answer or a grunt. It was like extracting teeth, painful and ultimately unrewarding.

"Is that your mother's birthday next month? Or your sister's?" she tried, this time taking a different tack.

"I don't think it's any of your business, Mrs. Cassano," he said in a clipped, dismissive tone, his eyes still on the screen.

"Sir," Lisa broke in, her voice tight, "Maybe Mrs. Cassano can let you work. You don't like being interrupted."

She simmered with anger. First he fooled me to marry him and now this female, his employee, is acting as a shield between us? "Please," she said, voice low and almost growling, "Don't interfere between husband and wife. You have no place here." She glanced across at Lisa who paled fractionally at the words. This was a handsome woman, polished and intelligent and Sarah felt an ache of something that was little more than resentment.

Lisa opened her mouth to retort, her eyes flashing with a hurt that belied her professionalism. But before she could speak, Ace, still focused on his tablet, said, "Yes, Mrs. Cassano is right." Those few words, devoid of any warmth, felt like a physical blow to Lisa. They were said without looking up, but the dismissal was undeniable.

The rest of the flight was spent in uncomfortable silence. Sarah stared out the window, a knot forming in her stomach. She knew she was playing a dangerous game, but the alternative—a life lived under the cold authority of Ace Cassano—felt unbearable.

The tires bumped into the tarmac to signal arrival. The change in pressure popped Sarah's ears. Then, she was being ushered into a sleek, black car; the city skyline was blurring in the distance. The mansion loomed before them: their "home." It was a silent, brooding testament to this gilded cage, wherein Sarah was now trapped. She was a wife, but not in a manner she had ever imagined; and everything felt strange.

Before her lay the imposing wrought iron gates of the mansion, an imposing structure so starkly contrasted to the small, cozy apartment Sarah had called home only yesterday. Now, she was Mrs. Ace Sterling, a title that felt as foreign and heavy as the mansion's stone walls. Ace, her husband in name only, yanked her out of the car with a bruising grip. He did not look at her as he dragged her inside, through the sumptuous entryway and down a long echoing hallway. He stopped abruptly before a dark oak door, not the master suite she'd imagined but a room tucked away at the end of the corridor.

"This is yours," he said, his voice as cold as the marble floor beneath their feet. "Don't ever enter my room." He pointed toward a door at the far end of the hallway, its wood polished to a blinding sheen.

Sarah's heart sank; the fragile hope she had clung to broke into a million pieces. "Why?" she asked, her voice shaking. "I'm your legally wedded wife. I have the right to be wherever you are.

Ace's eyes, the same mesmerizing shade of grey as a storm cloud, narrowed. He grabbed her jaw, his fingers digging into her skin. "You're nothing but a business deal," he hissed, his voice dangerously low. "I'll never accept you as my wife. Ever."

The words, sharp and cruel, were like a physical blow. Tears welled in Sarah's eyes, blurring the already oppressive surroundings. She hadn't expected roses and romance, but this… this was beyond anything she could have imagined. He didn't want her, not even a little. He saw her as a transaction, a means to an end. The weight of the realization crashed down on her, suffocating her.

Without another word, Ace flung open his door and shut it again behind him, leaving Sarah dazed in the hallway. She staggered into the room he'd allocated to her; though large, the space seemed empty and desolate. The door slammed shut behind her and she slid down against the cool wood, finally succumbing to the tears that had threatened to fall. It was a raw, gaping wound of betrayal, and she couldn't comprehend how her life had veered so drastically in the span of a single day. Yesterday, she was a successful marketing executive with a close-knit group of friends and a life she loved. Today, she was a pawn in a cruel, heartless game.

The sob racked her body, and the sound resounded in the empty room. She cried till her throat hurt and her head throbbed. Finally, after a shaky breath, she used her hand to wipe away the tears, a resolve now set as she gazed with a renewed hardness. This would not break her. This would not turn her into a victim.

She stood up, her legs a little shaky, and went to freshen up. She washed her face and looked at herself in the mirror. She was strong, and she knew she would find her way through this nightmare. She got her phone, and among hundreds of notifications popping up, one caught her eye: an email from Jennifer, her boss and best friend, reminding her of tomorrow's meeting. Sarah realised that she almost forgot her professional life amidst the chaos of today.

Exhausted from the turmoil of emotions, she crawled onto the large bed and fell into restless sleep.

The morning dawned gray and heavy, mirroring Sarah's mood. She made no effort at all to hunt down Ace, instead taking any cab that appeared and heading back to the offices. The sight of the surrounding offices was kind of a cold comfort, she found herself blankly walking towards the meeting room. 

She sought out Jennifer after the meeting. Jennifer was clearly worried. Sarah spilled everything, the forced marriage, the cruel words, the isolation. Jennifer listened, her face tight with sympathy. When Sarah finished, Jennifer took her hands.

"Sarah, I'm so sorry," she said, her voice soft but determined. "But you can't let him win. You can't just let him treat you like this. You need to change things."

Sarah felt the flicker of an idea, a small spark of rebellion. "How?" she asked, and the spark grew into a flame.

Jennifer smiled, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Become the perfect wife," she said. "Make him accept you. Kill him with kindness, but make sure it's kindness he's forced to acknowledge. Bring him to his knees, Sarah. Make him see you for who you are, not just as some business deal.

The idea resonated with Sarah, a powerful shift in perspective. It wasn't about winning anymore; it was about taking back her power, about refusing to be defined by this situation. She nodded, her chin lifting with newfound determination. "You're right," she said, her voice stronger than it had been in days. "I can change him. I will."

A wave of motivation washed over her. She would not be his victim. She was going to be a force to reckon with. She was going to become that wife Ace would never have wanted to see again-the wife Ace was going to start seeing differently: not like some business investment but a person, a life companion, possibly, even something he could truly love.

As Sarah headed back toward the mansion, a small smile played on her lips. The mansion, once a symbol of her despair, now felt like a challenge. This wasn't the end of her story; it was the beginning of a new chapter. And this time, she was going to write it on her own terms. Ace Sterling wouldn't know what hit him. She was done being heartbroken. The real game had just begun.

The grand dining room felt cavernous and cold, despite the warm glow emanating from the chandelier above. Sarah adjusted the meticulously arranged cutlery, the silver glinting under the light. Each dish set before her was a testament to her efforts, a silent offering of reconciliation. Ace's favorites, the butler, Mr. Abernathy had discreetly listed: roasted pheasant with herb stuffing, creamy potato gratin, asparagus with hollandaise, and a rich chocolate torte for dessert. She had spent the whole afternoon in the kitchen, her hands aching, her brow slick with sweat, but her heart hopeful.

"He likes the pheasant crispy," Mr. Abernathy had said almost apologetically as he watched her fumble with the bird.

Sarah had taken it to heart, diligently basting the pheasant until its skin was a perfect, crackling brown. She'd even added a layer of caramelized shallots, a technique she'd learned from her grandmother.

Her friend, Jennifer, was adamant: "You have to try, Sarah. Show him you care! Men are simple creatures; good food is a sure way to their hearts."

Sarah always was an optimist, despite all she had suffered. Clinging to that hope had gotten her through the worst nights. She looked at the antique clock against one of the walls. 8:30 PM. Ace should be here already. She arranged the wine glasses again, for the tenth time that day. She took a deep breath and sat on the chair placed near the head of the table. Her heart thudded like a trapped bird inside it. The silence of the manor pressed down on her, amplifying her anxiety.

Each tick of the clock was a hammer blow against her patience. 9:00 PM. Then 10:00 PM. The food was still warm under those cloche covers, but the anticipation that once burned in her chest had begun to dwindle to a feeble ember. Doubts crept in, whispering insidious taunts. Why was she even trying? He hadn't wanted her, hadn't ever looked at her with anything other than a cold, calculating gaze. He'd married her purely for control of her family's estate, a fact that was a constant, bitter taste in her mouth.

It was close to 11:00 PM when she heard the rumble of a car approaching, and the honk of Ace's vintage Bentley, which was unique, cut across the night air. Adrenaline jolted through her. She rose to her feet, jerky movements like a puppet whose strings had got all knotted. She readjusted her dress, smoothing it with her restless hands, and rushed to the main door.

And then, as the heavy door swung open, Ace stood there, tall, silhouetted against the dim porch light. His face was in shadow, but Sarah could make out the sharp angles of his jaw, the usual coldness in his steely gray eyes. He wore a dark suit, impeccable as always, and there was a faint smell of expensive cologne and something else.something bitter, acrid. The scent of a woman's perfume? Her heart twisted.

Ace!" she said, her voice a little too bright, a strained attempt at normalcy. "You are finally here. I made all your favorite dishes. Please, come in, you must be starving. I tried my best, and I hope you will like it."

He didn't stir, merely looked at her for a long moment, the silence stretching between them, thick and uncomfortable. His gaze was a cold, hard thing, dissecting her, making her feel raw under his scrutiny. Then, his lips curled into a sardonic half-smile, devoid of any warmth.

"I have already eaten," he said in a flat voice, devoid of emotion. It was a statement as simple as it was devastating. "There was no need for you to go through all this effort."

Each word fell like a small shard of ice, shattering the fragile hope she had so carefully nurtured. All the effort, time, and care she had put into preparing the meal meant nothing. She had hoped, foolishly perhaps, that a shared meal might lead to a shared connection. Instead, she was met with indifference, a calculated dismissal.

The flush that had begun in her face at the hurt was now mixed with humiliation, hope now a dying ember. She looked at him, trying to read something, anything, in his eyes, but found nothing but that familiar, soul-chilling coldness.

She nodded weakly, trying to find a word. It seemed as if the words had gotten stuck in her throat. Why bother anyway? Had she not known long ago that Ace would never regard her as anything but a tool to be used?

Not a word was said, but she turned and headed back toward the dining room. The weight of her disappointment weighed heavily on her shoulders. She pulled the cloches off the dishes, and the aroma of roasted pheasant was now tinged with the scent of her own defeat. She began to methodically transfer the food into storage containers, the clinking of the utensils stark accompaniment to the silence of the manor.

When she was done, she put the containers in the refrigerator with care, the cold air a chilling embrace. Her carefully arranged offerings now lay forgotten, another testament to her futile attempts to bridge the gap between them. With dragging footsteps, she climbed the grand staircase to her room. She closed the door of her suite, the heavy oak a poor substitute for the walls she had built around her heart while dealing with Ace. A few tears finally escaped her eyes, silent testaments to her shattered hope. But beneath the pain, a flicker of defiance remained. It was a small, breakable thing, but it was there. She wouldn't give up just yet. She would find another way. She had to.