Chapter 2

The study fell into stunned silence.

Every argument Charles had prepared stuck in his throat. He stared at his daughter, unable to recognize this woman who seemed reborn overnight.

Sophie froze, her performance cracking.

Henry, who'd just pushed open the door, heard those words and stopped dead in his tracks. The carefully rehearsed expression of pained reluctance shattered, leaving only disbelief.

Elizabeth took in their shock with cold satisfaction.

She said nothing more. Didn't even glance at Henry. Just turned and walked toward the door.

Her hand gripped the cold doorknob, the icy metal grounding her.

She pulled it open without looking back, leaving behind one sentence that echoed through the frozen study, "Tell Jacob I'll marry him."

In the darkness, a scorching hand with calluses roamed across her skin.

A heavy, burning male body pressed down on her, tearing her expensive gown into shreds without mercy.

Elizabeth abandoned all rational thought. Every drop of blood in her body was on fire, clouding her mind.

Primal desire drove her to chase the man's raw masculinity, tilting her lips up to match his brutal kiss.

It felt so good—his cool presence washed away her restlessness. She couldn't see the man in the darkness as he freed himself from constraints, gripping his massive length and moving toward her.

Her inexperienced body couldn't handle that size. The man tried several times but was instinctively evaded by the delirious girl. Frustrated, he flipped her over, leaving marks across her beautiful form.

His agile tongue, hot as fire, slithered into her like a serpent, making her scream.

She tried to escape the torment, only to be met in the next instant by tearing pain and a strange, drowning wave of sensation.

Elizabeth bolted upright, her silk nightgown soaked through with cold sweat and clinging to her back.

Outside the window, daylight blazed as if nothing had happened. But all she could hear was her own ragged breathing and the suffocating sensory memories left over from the dream.

After that night, her life had completely derailed.

The pregnancy. Henry's vicious insults. Hughes's protection until she gave birth. The news of the baby's death. Hughes's sudden passing right after. One thing after another, precise as clockwork—like a carefully orchestrated trap.

She was almost certain now that the man that night hadn't been there by accident.

Who was he? What was his goal?

She clutched the sheets until her knuckles turned white.

The flames of revenge burned in her frozen chest, but there were so few clues. Her enemies lurked in the shadows.

Just then, the brand-new phone on her nightstand rang out sharply, shattering the silence of the room.

Elizabeth answered the call, her voice still rough with the remnants of a nightmare. "Hello?"

The voice on the other end was devoid of personal warmth, carrying that unmistakable Upper East Side inflection.

"Ms. Windsor. This is Leon Hill, working for Mr. Alexander." Like a program that only cared about efficiency, he got straight to the point. "Please be at the entrance of the manor in thirty minutes. There will be a black Chevrolet waiting for you; Mr. Alexander wants to see you."

The command was crisp, clinical—not even a pause for questions before the line went dead.

Mr. Smith... Jacob.

The new godfather who'd built his empire on iron and blood. His rise had been painted in crimson legends, his methods more direct, more unpredictable than any who came before him.

Elizabeth didn't hesitate. She threw off the sheets, shaking loose the fragments of last night's chaotic dreams still clinging to her consciousness.

She dressed quickly and arrived downstairs right on schedule. A black Chevrolet sat waiting in the predawn stillness, silent as death itself.

The windows were tinted obsidian—impossible to see inside.

The rear door swung open automatically.

She ducked into the spacious interior. The driver in front passed back a thick black velvet blindfold.

Elizabeth stared at the fabric, her heart constricting.

She tied it tight over her eyes. The world plunged into absolute darkness.

She felt the car purr to life, gliding smoothly through empty streets.

Time became meaningless. Eventually, the vehicle stopped.

Hands guided her out. A woman's voice directed her movements.

"You need to be clean." The woman's tone was matter-of-fact as she led Elizabeth to a stop.

The blindfold was removed with swift efficiency.

The sudden light made her squint hard.

After several moments, her vision cleared. She found herself in an enormous bathroom with cold, luxurious finishes—all hard edges and expensive materials.

Beside her stood the woman who'd spoken—around fifty, in a sharply tailored dark suit, hair pulled back without a single strand out of place.

The woman issued her order, "Strip. Get in. You have twenty minutes."

The panic and humiliation crashed through Elizabeth's chest all over again.

This feeling of total control, of being nothing more than a lamb led to slaughter—it was more suffocating than anything Charles and Sophie had ever done to her.

She stood frozen.

The woman seemed to read her resistance, her lips pulling into something that barely qualified as a smile—mockery mixed with the weariness of routine.

"Ms. Windsor, questions and hesitation are pointless here. Mr. Smith prefers absolute control and cleanliness."

She emphasized that last word deliberately, and Elizabeth couldn't help but think of all those rumors about Jacob's ruthless, unforgiving nature.

She clenched her fists, nails biting deep into her palms.

Revenge crushed the shame.

She drew a sharp breath and stopped looking at the woman. In silence, she began removing her clothes.

Quick shower. Dry off and done.

Then that black blindfold descended over her eyes again.

Darkness reclaimed her.

This time, she was guided out of the bathroom, her feet sinking into carpet so thick it felt like walking on clouds.

The room had to be massive. Air circulated freely, carrying the scent of some cold, expensive fragrance.

"Arms up," the woman commanded.

Elizabeth obeyed.

She felt impossibly delicate fabric being draped over her body.

Thin straps settled against her neck. The woman gripped her feet, rolling sheer stockings up her legs—but leaving her most intimate places completely exposed to the air.

The sexual implication was crystal clear. Elizabeth bit her lip hard against the shame.

But she reminded herself—she'd endured worse torments in her past life. What was a little humiliation compared to that? She had to meet Jacob. She had to walk a different path this time.

"Wait here. Mr. Smith will see you when his business is finished." The woman's footsteps retreated.

The door opened, then closed with a soft click.

The room fell completely silent.

With her sight stolen, Elizabeth's other senses sharpened to an almost painful degree.

Time crawled. Every second stretched into eternity.

She was a gift—carefully cleaned, beautifully wrapped, waiting for the man who held her life in his hands to unwrap her.

Just when the suffocating wait reached its breaking point, footsteps echoed from outside—steady, powerful, and drawing closer.

Rough fingers traced her cheek.

Beneath the blindfold, Elizabeth's eyelids trembled uncontrollably.

She felt the silk ribbons that the woman had tied on her being pulled loose.

""Have you had sex?"?" The owner of that hand asked.

Jacob's voice was deep and rough, his Italian accent lending it a gravelly edge that matched the texture of his calloused fingers.

"Mr. Smith, I've had a child."

Elizabeth answered with a tremor in her voice, clenching her thighs together—Jacob's fingers had already mapped every inch of her body and were now attempting to breach her entrance.

She didn't dare lie to him. This wasn't something she could hide, and she doubted that Jacob didn't already know.

He showed zero surprise.

Jacob's only sexual experience had been unpleasant—he'd been drunk, remembered nothing, and even suspected he'd been drugged.

But from that night on, he'd retained a hazy memory of that intense pleasure. Yet in subsequent encounters with strippers, prostitutes, even virgins, he'd discovered he had absolutely no interest in them.

That was the polite version. The truth Jacob acknowledged coldly: his cock wouldn't get hard. For a man, that was the ultimate humiliation, so he hid behind the excuse that he simply didn't like women.

But he couldn't fool his father. Poor Gray Smith had expressed his hope that Jacob would marry this Elizabeth Windsor woman. Jacob had refused outright, of course. But last week, Gray had died.

The marriage had become Gray's dying wish.

Jacob decided to honor it.

He'd marry her. Nothing more. She shouldn't expect anything else.