Bound By Revenge: His Unwilling Wife

The helicopter blades sliced through the air, drowning out any possibility of conversation. Not that Kingsley was trying to talk. He had his noise-canceling headphones on, typing furiously on his tablet, ignoring the woman he had legally married two hours ago.

Cassidy looked out the window as the Manhattan skyline faded, replaced by the dark, churning Atlantic and the manicured estates of the Hamptons.

They landed on a private pad. The wind whipped Cassidy's hair across her face as she stepped out, dragging her small suitcase. Kingsley didn't offer to help. He strode across the lawn toward the massive house, his coat flapping behind him like a cape.

The house wasn't a home. It was a fortress of concrete and glass, stark against the dunes.

A line of staff waited at the entrance.

"Welcome home, sir," an older man said. The butler. He looked at Cassidy with polite confusion.

"This is Mrs. Steele," Kingsley said, not stopping. "Show her to her room."

Mrs. Steele. Not my wife. Not Cassidy. A label. A distinct separation.

Cassidy followed them inside. The interior was breathtakingly cold. White walls, grey furniture, abstract art that looked like violent slashes of paint. It felt like a museum where touching was forbidden.

"Your quarters are in the East Wing, madam," the butler said. "Mr. Osborn is in the West."

Relief washed over her. Separation. She could do separation.

"No," Kingsley's voice cut through the hall from the staircase. He turned, looking down at them. "Move her things to the master suite."

The butler blinked. "Sir?"

"We are newlyweds," Kingsley said, his voice void of warmth. "Separate rooms would invite gossip. The staff talks. I can't have Elmore hearing we sleep apart."

Cassidy gripped the handle of her suitcase. "Kingsley, I can't-"

"You signed the contract," he interrupted. "Bring her bag."

Dinner was a silent war.

The dining table was long enough to seat twenty. Kingsley sat at the head; Cassidy sat at the foot, miles away. The only sound was the clinking of silver against china.

"How is the appeal going?" Kingsley asked suddenly, not looking up from his steak.

Cassidy started. "My father's? The lawyers are hopeful."

"Your father is a greedy fool," Kingsley said casually. "He stole from pensioners. He deserves to rot."

Cassidy dropped her fork. It clattered loudly against the plate. "He made mistakes. But he never utilized someone's desperation to trap them in a legal bind."

Kingsley stopped chewing. He dabbed his mouth with a linen napkin and stood up.

He walked the length of the table, his footsteps heavy and deliberate. He stopped behind her chair. He placed his hands on the arms of her chair, boxing her in, leaning down until his lips were by her ear.

"Desperation?" he whispered. "You think this is about desperation? You shattered my trust six years ago. You sold me out. This isn't a trap, Cassidy. It's penance."

Cassidy pressed herself against the back of the chair, trying to put inches between them. "I didn't sell you out."

"Save the lies for the press."

He pushed off the chair. "I have a video conference. Don't disturb me."

He walked out, leaving her alone in the cavernous room with a half-eaten meal and a heart that felt like it was being squeezed by a cold hand.

Later, she walked into the master bedroom. It smelled like him-sandalwood and starch. The bed was enormous, a vast expanse of white sheets.

She walked to the balcony door and looked out at the black ocean. A flash of light from the dunes caught her eye.

A camera.

Even here, in this prison, the world was watching.