CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The drive into his estate was long, stretching through a private road lined with towering trees and pristine landscaping. Nadia watched silently as the gates—taller than most buildings—opened automatically, revealing a compound so massive it could have been mistaken for a luxury resort.

But she wasn't surprised.

Zayne Alaric was the most powerful man in the country. Of course, he lived like it.

Still, nothing quite prepared her for the underground garage.

The car descended smoothly down the private driveway, disappearing beneath the earth, and when they emerged into the vast underground space, she inhaled sharply.

Rows upon rows of luxury vehicles filled the dimly lit garage—sleek Bugattis, Ferraris, Lamborghinis, Aston Martins, and cars she couldn't even name. The sheer wealth displayed so casually was overwhelming.

Her brows arched slightly. "You collect cars?"

Zayne stepped out first, adjusting his cufflinks before glancing at her. "I collect things that belong to me. These are just accessories."

Her lips pressed together as she stepped out of the car, taking in the perfectly polished machines gleaming under soft LED lights.

"So which one's your favorite?" she asked, more to fill the silence than anything.

For a moment, he simply looked at her, his gaze slow and indulgent. Then, his lips curled into something unreadable.

"The one you choose to ride in next."

She froze her cheeks slowly tinting red before scoffing. "That's a ridiculous answer."

His smirk deepened, but he said nothing more as he led her toward the entrance.

There were no staff waiting. No maids, no butlers, no security standing at attention, the only security she actually saw where the ones way out at the gate.

She glanced around, frowning. "You live here alone?"

"Yes."

"No staff?"

"Only hired cleaners. They come on Tuesdays and Wednesdays. I don't like unnecessary people in my space."

She folded her arms. "So who does everything else?"

He unlocked the door with a scan of his fingerprint, stepping aside so she could enter first.

"I do."

That made her pause.

She stepped inside, her heels clicking softly against the polished marble floor. The interior was even more breathtaking than the estate itself—black and gold accents, modern architecture, and walls of floor-to-ceiling windows that overlooked a private courtyard.

The scent of expensive wood and leather lingered in the air. Everything was spotless, perfect, and cold.

She turned back to him, arms still crossed. "You cook?"

Zayne gave a slow nod, watching her reaction.

"Clean?"

"Yes."

"Do laundry?"

Another nod.

She narrowed her eyes. "Why?"

His gaze flickered, something unreadable passing through it. "Because I should."

But the truth ran deeper than that.

It was because she couldn't.

Because years ago, he had learned every skill a husband should have—not for himself, but for her.

Because from the moment he decided she was his, he had prepared.

For the life they would have.

For the days where she would wake up in his bed, in his house, bearing his last name.

For the mornings where she wouldn't have to struggle over something as simple as making breakfast—because he had already learned how to do it for her.

For this.

She would never know that. Never know the extent of what he had done.

She didn't need to.

She folded her arms, studying him. "So I guess I'm married to a househusband."

Zayne chuckled, low and deep. "If that makes you feel better."

Her eyes narrowed slightly. "Good Because I wasn't planning on relying on you."

He tilted his head, gaze darkening as he stepped closer.

"Keep telling yourself that, habibti," he murmured.

Something in her stomach clenched at the way he said it—possessive, knowing.

She turned away before he could read her expression, focusing instead on the sprawling interior.

This was her new home.

Forever.

She just didn't know it yet.