The ink wasn't even dry on the marriage certificate when Adrian's driver dumped me at his penthouse.

No honeymoon. No wedding. Just a cold "Mrs Adrian" title from the lawyer and a car ride in silence.

The apartment smelled like old money- leather, citrus, something expensive I couldn't name. It didn't smell like home. It smelled like prison.

"Set her things in the master closet" Adrian said to the housekeeper without looking at me. His voice was bored. Like I was a package he'd ordered online.

I clutched the handle of my suitcase tighter. It was the only thing I'd packed myself. The only thing I'd packed myself. The only thing my aunt and uncle hadn't touched.

"Yes, Mr. Adrian" said the housekeeper Maria, her name tag said.

"Don't." The word came out sharper than I meant. Both of them turned.

Adrian's eyebrow lifted a fraction. It was the first time he'd really looked at me since the register office. His eyes were cold. No warmth. No welcome.

"I can do it myself" I said.

"You won't." He nodded to Maria." Open it."

Maria unzipped the suitcase on the marble floor of the closet. Adrian finally walked over hands in his pockets, like he was inspecting inventory.

Then he saw them. Old jeans with frayed hems. A sweater with a hole in the sleeve that I'd sewn shut three times. An oversized

t-shirt, faded so much the letters were ghosts. Nothing worth anything. Everything is worth everything.

His jaw ticked. Once. Twice.

"Is this a joke?" His voice was quiet. That made it worse.

"What?" I asked him.

"Those" He pointed towards my clothes as though they were a piece of trash. Maybe it was for him.

"They're mine and very comfortable," I said cold. Unbothered. Confident.

Adrian crouched. He didn't touch anything. Just stared at the hole in my favorite sweater like it had personally offended him. "You're Mrs Adrian now."

"So? I didn't ask to be"

That earned me a look. Sharp enough to cut. "No. You were sold."

Maria flinched. I didn't. I was too busy being furious.

"Get rid of it," Adrian said, standing. "All of it. Burn it if you have to."

"Wait-" I lunged for the suitcase.

He was faster.

His hand closed around my wrist , not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough that I couldn't move. His skin was hot. Mine went cold.

"Don't  touch me," I hissed.

His thumb brushed over my pulse point. Once. Like he was checking I was real. Like he was memorizing it. Then he let go like I'd burned him."

"Rule #1" he said to Maria, not to me. "Nothing old comes into this house. Nothing broken. Nothing that smells like before."

Maria nodded, already scooping up my sweater. My most favorite one.

"Adrian -" I hated how his name scraped my throat.

He turned his back on me. "You'll have new clothes by morning. Silk. Cashmere. Things befitting my wife."

"I hate silk" I spat at his back.

He paused in the doorway. Didn't turn around. "You'll learn to like it"

The door clicked shut behind him.

Maria wouldn't meet my eyes as she zipped my empty suitcase closed. "i'm sorry, Mrs. Adrian. He's.......particular."

"Yeah particular." I rolled my eyes.

I stared at the empty space where my clothes had been. At the rows of empty hangers waiting for things I didn't want.

He thought he could erase me. Throw out the holes and the frayed edges and replace me with something smooth and new.

He had no idea how hard I was to get rid.of.

And he had no idea I saw it - that split second when he'd looked at my old sweater.

It wasn't disgust.

It was rage.

Like the holes hurt him.

POV: Adrian

The door shut. Finally.

Rule 1. Nothing old comes into this house

I said it for Maria. I meant it for Lucy. But the words cut my throat on the way out.

Three steps. Hand on the wall. The marble is ice. Not as cold as her voice: I didn't ask to be.

No. She didn't ask. I bought.

The first time I met her was when she was 16. Her aunt dragged her to some gala in a dress that swallowed her. She looked like she'd rather burn the place down than curtsy. Then she saw me staring.

And smiled. At me. A stranger.

What the hell was that smirk? Do something? I dare you? Or just I caught you?

I've spent five years trying to decode it.

The second time I met her was two years later. She was 18. NYU coffee shop. Black coffee, no sugar. She laughed at the barista's stupid joke and she walked out. Even though she looked at me once. No recognition.

Maybe I'm one more guy she ruined without noticing. One more trophy she didn't bother to display.

The third time: That same night. Her scholarship dinner. She walked on stage in that same damn sweater - faded blue, hole in the sleeve - and took money from a foundation with my name scrubbed off it. She smiled like her parents were in the front row.

I started stalking her before the applause died. 3 years, 2 months, and 11 days ago.

Every photo. Every scholarship check. Every swipe of her student ID. Dorm cameras. Library cameras. I knew her GPA. I knew when she ran out of dining dollars. I knew the exact Tuesday she sat on the floor and cried because it was the day her parents died. I knew when she bought thread and fixed that hole in her favourite sweater for the third time.

I closed deals worth billions faster than I closed the distance between us. But I couldn't buy back a single night she spent cold.

3 years, 2 months, and 11 days later, she's 21. Ink's dry on the contract. She's in my house. Mine.

And I am the one throwing things away.

The phone buzzed. Incinerator 2200: Confirm disposal of Mrs. Adrian's textile items?

Textile items. Like her favourite sweater is a textile, like those three jagged stitches aren't a goddamn indictment.

Someone let her waltz around in broken things. For years. While I watched. While I lived in silk.

Security feed. Master closet, cam 4.

She hasn't moved. Maria's gone. Lucy's just standing there, arms around herself like she's holding her organs in.

Then she drops. Palm flat to the marble where her sweater was. Like she's checking for a ghost.

My thumb hits my pulse. Same place I touched on her wrist. It's still rioting.

Confirm disposal?

Delay. 0600.

Basement*.* Incinerator room. Smells like scorched metal. The bag's already tagged: MRS. ADRIAN- DISCARD.

I rip it open.

Faded blue. The hole's obscene up close. Her stitches are uneven, and angry. Hers.

I press it to my face.

Smells like a mix of dust and her.

My chest caves in.

Nothing that smells like before, I said.

Liar.

I fold it like it's a wounded bird. Jeans. T-shirt with ghost letters. All of it.

Office. Safe behind the Rothko. Not the one with cash. Not the one with guns. The empty one.

I lay her favourite sweater down. Smooth the sleeve.

Security pings: Master bedroom: motion.

Feed.

She's on the bed. Not sleep. She hurled the silk robe to the floor, and she's curled on the bare mattress, clutching a pillow like it'll keep her from drowning.

Like she won't let anything I own touch her.

You'll learn to like it, I told her.

I hope she never forgives me for that.

Safe shuts.

I'm building a shrine.

3 years, 2 months, 11 days of knowing her blood type and not knowing if she's ever dreamed of me.

POV: Adrian

6:00

The safe clicked shut. Her sweater was inside. Safe. Mine.

My phone lit up. Master bedroom: Motion

She was awake.

I took the stairs two at a time. Not the elevator. I needed the burn in my legs. Needed something that wasn't her.

Stopped outside her door. 6:01

You'll learn to like it.

God, I am such a jerk for saying that.

I opened the door.

And forgot how to breathe.

She was sitting on the bed. Bare feet. Hair wild from not sleeping. And wearing-

Grey. Crew neck. Hanes. Size S.

The t-shirt.

My t-shirt. The one I'd left at 6:00 exactly, folded dead center on her pillow like a peace offering from a war criminal.

It fell to mid-thigh on her. Swallowed her. Not my kind of swallow. Hers. The kind that says I dress for comfort, not for you.

Her eyes snapped to mine. Defiant. Terrified. Alive.

Something in my jaw cracked.

"You didn't sleep," I said. Not a question. I'd watched cam 1 all night. She stared at the ceiling for 5 hours, 47 minutes.

She didn't answer. Just clutched the hem of that goddamn t-shirt like it was the only thing between her and me.

 It was.

I stepped inside. Slow. Hands where she could see them. Like she was a feral thing I'd caged.

I had.

"It fits," I said. My voice was gravel. I hadn't slept either. I'd spent the night memorizing the way her stitches looked under the safe light.

"How" she said. Broken glass in her throat. "How do you know my size? How do you know the brand?"

I could've lied. I wanted to, so she won't feel uncomfortable. Said Maria guessed. Said I had her measurements from the contract. But the selfish part of me wanted her to know I am very obsessed with her.

"Because I know you. Luch."

"You don't," she shot back. "You bought me. That's not knowing."

It hit lower than her fist would've. Because she was right. And she was wrong.

I looked at her - really looded. In that too-big t-shirt, bare feet, eyes like she'd been awake since the gala five years ago.

Since she was 16 and I was 20.

Since she smirked at me.

"I knew you before you were mine."

Her blood left her face.

"At the gala" she whispered. "You were there."

Relief punched through my ribs. She remembered.

"You remember."

"I smirked at you." Her words tasted like poison in her mouth. "I was 16. You were-"

"20" I finished. "And you looked at me like you'd burn me alive if I got too close."

"Like I dared you to get too close," she corrected. Her voice shook. "That smirk wasn't for the room. It wasn't for everyone. I do admire everyone, Adrian. I find the good in everyone. Except you. You, I didn't admire. You, I wanted. That smirk was only for you."

The world stopped.

*Only for you. *She said, My heart would've jumped out.

Five years. 3 years, 2 months, and 11 days of surveillance. Of knowing her coffee order and her GPA and the day her parents died.

And she'd wanted me first. At 16.

When I was 20 and should've walked away.

"Say that again." My voice wasn't mine.

She stood up. The t-shirt brushed her thighs. My t-shirt. On her skin. Because she chose it over silk.

"You’ve been watching me. Since then."

“Since that night at your scholarship dinner,” I said, hoarse. “When you walked on stage in that sweater. I was 22.”

Her favourite sweater. Three stitches. Currently in my safe.

“3 years, 2 months, 11 days,” she said.

“You were listening.”

“I always listen,” she said. “It’s how I survived.

”Of course she did. My girl. My girl.

“Why the t-shirt?”

I didn’t move closer. I didn’t trust myself.

“Because I watched you for 3 years, 2 months, and 11 days. I know you hate silk. I know you cry on October 12th. I know you take your coffee black because cream costs extra.”

I swallowed. My throat was sandpaper.

“And I’m a jerk, Lucy. But I’m not a monster. Not with you.”

Her eyes burned. She wouldn’t cry. Not for me.

“Don’t,” she said. “Don’t pretend this is kindness. You tore up my life.”

“I saved your life,” I said. “Your aunt was two weeks from selling your trust to pay her gambling debts. You would’ve had nothing.”

“I chose you,” I said. “Every day. For 3 years, 2 months, and 11 days. Since a 16-year-old girl dared me with her eyes and ruined me at 20.”

She went white.

"I was 22 when I decided I couldn’t live without you. And I’ve been yours since."

She wrapped her arms around herself. The cotton pulled tight. My cotton. On her body.

“Get out,” she said.

I nodded. Once. Because what else could I do? She’d just gutted me with the truth.

At the door, I stopped. Didn’t turn around. Couldn’t. If I looked at her again, I’d drop to my knees.

“The incinerator runs at 07:00,” I said. “Your things are gone. But that one’s yours. I won’t take it.” I lied.

Then I left.

Office. Feed up before the door even shut.

Cam 1.

She sank to the floor. Forehead to her knees. Still in the t-shirt.

Still wearing me.

My hands shook.

That smirk was only for you.

She fell first. At 16.

I was 20. A kid with too much money and no impulse control. And she’d looked at me like I was a god worth sinning for.

I should’ve walked away. Should’ve left her alone.

Instead I built an empire so I could buy her.

And now she knows.

Feed zooms. Her fingers twist in the hem. She’s not taking it off.

She’s cold. She’s angry. She’s mine.

And she wanted me first.

I admire everyone—but him, I wanted.

Christ.

I’m 25. She’s 21. The gap doesn’t matter anymore.

I hit record on the feed.

Lucy Adrian, in my t-shirt, keeping the one thing I gave her.

She thinks I’m building a cage.

She’s wrong.

I’m building a fortress.

Only for her.