Craving for My Tyrant Husband

Everleigh Roman woke up with a splitting headache from the sunlight. She groaned, rolling over. Her cheek rubbed against something impossibly smooth. Cool, slippery, expensive satin. Not the cotton blend she had on her bed in the tiny studio apartment she was currently being evicted from. She reached out blindly for the glass of water that should have been on her nightstand. Her fingers brushed against mahogany, then paper. Thick, textured paper. Evie cracked one eye open. The room spun, a kaleidoscope of beige and gold. She forced her vision to focus on the document under her hand. Certificate of Marriage. Her heart slammed against her ribs, a physical blow that knocked the breath out of her. She sat up, the sheet pooling at her waist. She wasn't wearing her dress. She was wearing a white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up, the fabric smelling of cedarwood and something darker, like rain on asphalt. "No," Evie whispered. "No, no, no." Flashes of memory assaulted her. The charity gala. Darrin's sneer as he told her she was worthless without him. The open bar. So much vodka. And then... a man. A tie. She remembered gripping a silk tie, pulling a face down to hers. She remembered demanding someone save her. She looked around. This wasn't a room; it was a kingdom. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park, furniture that probably cost more than her college tuition. On the nightstand, next to a platinum cufflink that glinted maliciously in the sun, was a note. Evie picked it up, her hand trembling so hard the paper rattled. The handwriting was sharp, aggressive. Gone on business. Last night was... memorable. - G. G. She had married a man whose name began with G. She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, trying to summon a face. Nothing. Just a blur of a sharp jawline, a sensation of large, warm hands on her waist, and eyes that looked like the deep end of the ocean. Her phone vibrated against the wood, a violent buzz that made her jump. She fished it out from under a pillow that smelled like him. Eighteen missed calls. All from Illa. She swiped the screen, bringing the phone to her ear. "Illa?" "Evie! Oh my god, are you alive?" Illa's voice was a shriek that pierced her headache. "You disappeared! One minute you were crying about Darrin near the ice sculpture, and the next you were gone. Did you get kidnapped? Are you in a ditch?" "I'm in... a hotel," Evie croaked. "Illa, I think I did something stupid." "How stupid? Did you kill Darrin? Because if you did, I know a guy who can dissolve a body." Evie looked at the certificate again. The seal was embossed. It looked terrifyingly official. "Worse. I got married." Silence. Then, the sound of something shattering on the other end. "Get. Here. Now," Illa ordered, her voice drop-dead serious. "Bring the paper. Do not talk to anyone." Evie hung up and scrambled out of bed. Her legs felt like jelly, muscles aching in places that made her face heat up. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above the dresser. Her hair was a bird's nest, and there, right on the curve of her neck, was a bruise. A hickey. A dark, possessive mark. She scrubbed her face in the bathroom, trying to wash away the shame. She found her dress from last night draped over a chair, but the zipper was torn from the fabric. "Great," she muttered. "Just great." She had no choice. She pulled the man's shirt tighter and grabbed the trench coat hanging by the door. It swallowed her whole, wrapping her in that same cedarwood scent. It felt like being hugged by a ghost. Her purse was on the console table. Inside, stuffed next to her lipstick, was a black credit card. Heavy metal. No name, just numbers. And a sticky note with a pin code. She stared at it. Was this payment? Was she... She shoved the card back into the bag,She wasn't taking his money. She was going to fix this. Annulment. Divorce. Whatever it took to erase this man from her life before noon. She opened the door and stepped into the hallway. It was empty. The elevator ride down was an eternity. She watched the numbers drop, her stomach dropping with them. "You are Everleigh Roman," she told her reflection. "You survived your parents' death. You survived the foster system. You survived Darrin. You can survive a drunken mistake." The lobby was a cathedral of marble. She kept her head down, clutching the coat around her. "Mrs... Ma'am?" Evie froze. The doorman was holding out a key fob. "The gentleman left this for you. The black sedan out front." She looked at the car. It was sleek, predatory, and probably worth more than her entire existence. "No," she said, her voice shaking. "I'll take a taxi." She pushed past him, out into the humid New York air. She hailed a cab, practically diving into the backseat. "Where to?" the driver asked. "15 Central Park South," she said. Illa's fortress. As the taxi merged into traffic, Evie gripped the marriage certificate in her lap, her knuckles turning white. She didn't know who this man was. She didn't know why he agreed to marry a drunk, crying girl. But she was going to find out, and then she was going to run as far away as possible.