Chapter 3 : The Devil's Passenger

Valentina’s eyes widened, the world narrowing to the single name that had just left his lips.

Zavian Moretti.

Her fingers tightened around the grip of the gun until her knuckles bleached white, but the barrel still trembled. A violent shiver raced down her spine, cold and unforgiving, like ice water poured straight into her veins.

No. No, no, no—NO.

He couldn’t be. He shouldn’t be.

She had not just pointed a loaded gun at the villain of this damned novel. She had not just kidnapped the man destined to destroy her in the most brutal, possessive, and merciless way possible.

Internally, she was screaming—raw, hysterical, broken. A frantic, wordless wail echoed through the shattered corridors of her mind. This isn’t happening. This cannot be happening.

Outwardly, she forced a nervous, pained smile that felt like it would crack her face in half. Her voice came out thin and shaky.

“You… you’re kidding, right?”

Zavian said nothing.

He simply stared at her. Dead. Unblinking. Those amber eyes—slow-burning smoke flecked with dangerous gold—held her captive with terrifying ease. The silence stretched, thick and suffocating, pressing against her chest until every breath felt like a battle.

She swallowed hard, the taste of panic bitter on her tongue. “You can’t be the Zavian Moretti. Are you really the Zavian Moretti—CEO of Valian Empires?”

And the Mafia king, she added silently, the words too lethal to speak aloud. No one was supposed to know that part of him yet. Not until it was far too late.

She had already dug herself into a grave by pointing his own gun at his head and forcing him to become an unwilling accomplice in her escape. She didn’t want to dig any deeper.

“So, you do know me,” he said, his voice carrying an obvious, mocking amusement that slowly darkened into something far more dangerous. “Then why the hell did you pretend not to know my name?”

Of course she knew him.

He was her killer. The man who would one day press a blade to her flesh with cold, calculated devotion and watch the light leave her eyes while whispering that she had always belonged to him.

A broken, nervous laugh escaped her lips—ha.ha.ha—fragile and unconvincing. “I… You—me—”

He cut her off, tone sharp and irritated. “What are you going to say next? He, she, it? I know pronouns, sweetheart. I asked why you pretended not to know my name—not for a goddamn grammar lesson.”

Rude. So freaking rude.

She huffed, irritation flaring hot beneath the crushing panic. I already hate him. Why did I ever like his character in the first place? That cold, possessive bastard…

“Will you let me answer,” she snapped, voice rising with frustration, “or are you going to keep interrupting me?”

He raised a single dark eyebrow at her tone, but said nothing, the weight of his gaze pressing down on her like a physical threat.

She exhaled shakily. “I know your name. Everyone in the business world does. But I didn’t know your face. Your name is famous. Your face… apparently isn’t.”

But the real question clawed at the back of her mind, sharp and insistent:

Wasn’t he supposed to meet Alessia at my wedding? Wasn’t he supposed to become obsessed with her the moment he saw her?

If she had stolen him away tonight… had she just shattered the original plot?

A dark, selfish thrill twisted in her chest. Good. Let the plot burn. Every single change only bought her more time. More time to plan. More time to survive. More time to rewrite her own bloody ending.

Before she could spiral deeper into her thoughts, Zavian moved.

Smooth. Lethal. Inevitable.

He captured the wrist of the hand holding the gun in one fluid motion. In the next breath, he pinned her down against the cool leather of the back seat with the solid weight of his body. His chest pressed against hers, heat seeping through the thin layers of her ruined wedding gown and his tailored black shirt. He leaned in until his face was mere inches from hers, amber eyes burning into her own.

Her breath hitched violently. Too close. Why was he suddenly so close? Her heart hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird. She fought the ridiculous fangirl urge rising inside her—the one that wanted to trace the sharp line of his jaw, the curve of his lips—and forced her gaze to stay locked on his eyes alone.

“Wh-what are you doing, Sir?” she stuttered, voice barely more than a whisper.

He stared at her for a long, agonizing moment, letting the silence stretch until her brain short-circuited under the intensity of it.

“I was just thinking…” he murmured, the words low and velvet-rough. He didn’t finish the sentence. He simply let the tension coil tighter, thicker, until the air between them felt electric and suffocating.

She tried to lean farther back into the seat, desperate for even an inch of distance. The more she retreated, the more he closed the gap, crowding her with deliberate, predatory patience.

“I was wondering,” he continued finally, voice dropping even lower, “if I did you a favor by helping you escape your wedding… shouldn’t you return the favor?”

“P-please discuss returning favors while maintaining some distance,” she stammered, her left hand coming up to poke weakly at his chest, trying to push him away.

“Relax, Miss,” he said, the corner of his mouth curving into a dark, dangerous smirk. “I’m simply retrieving what you stole from me earlier.”

In one effortless, fluid motion, he plucked the gun from her fingers and leaned back into his own seat, as though he hadn’t just pinned her beneath him like a predator toying with its prey. As though nothing had happened.

Nothing at all.

Especially not the way her body still burned where he had pressed against her.

Valentina glared at him, fury and lingering heat warring in her chest. But in the privacy of her mind, she had already emptied every bullet in that gun straight into his infuriatingly perfect head.

Zavian cleared his throat and casually unbuttoned his blazer at the waist, revealing the crisp lines of his shirt beneath. “Looking at the way you ran from your wedding, it’s safe to assume you don’t want to marry your groom.”

“No,” she replied, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she flashed a wide, toothy smile that didn’t reach her eyes. “I suddenly felt the overwhelming urge for a vacation to Bali—just a few minutes before my wedding vows. Last-minute impulse, really.”

From the front seat, the driver let out a small, involuntary chuckle.

Zavian’s glare sliced through the rearview mirror like a blade. The driver immediately coughed and straightened, silence returning.

Zavian turned that same lethal glare toward her. “What I’m saying is, Miss—as repayment for the favor I did you—I want you to marry me.”

“Why would I?” she shot back immediately, heart pounding. “I just ran away from one wedding. Why the hell would I walk straight into another—with you?”

Not to mention you’re supposed to be my future killer, she added silently, the thought sending fresh ice through her veins.

He didn’t seem fazed in the slightest. His expression remained calm, almost bored. “I helped you. Now you help me. It will be a contract marriage. Two years. No feelings attached. I’ll pay you generously.”

He needs a wife? But why?

Her mind raced, flipping desperately through every recalled detail of the original novel. He hadn’t been married in the book… had he? Or had the author simply never mentioned it? What if he had secretly married Alessia after meeting her at the very wedding Valentina had just escaped?

The possibilities twisted like knives in her stomach.

She cleared her throat, forcing her voice to remain steady. “Why do you need a wife?”

He answered with nonchalant arrogance. “My grandfather put a condition in his will. He will name the company after me only if I get married within the next twenty-four hours.”

Valentina’s thoughts churned violently. If I marry him… will he still kill me once he falls for Alessia?

He was bound to fall for the heroine eventually. But if she set ironclad terms now, she could divorce him the moment that happened and walk away with her life—and a small fortune. Survival first. Always survival.

“Fine,” she said, voice steadier than she felt. “But I have some conditions.”

“I agree to all of them,” he replied instantly, the words too quick, too dangerous. “What are they?”

“I’ll tell you during the signing of the contract,” she said.

He gave a single, curt nod.The sleek black Bentley glided through the rain-slicked streets like a predator stalking its prey. Inside the dimly lit cabin, Zavian pulled out his phone with deliberate calm. His long fingers danced across the screen as he dialled his lawyer’s number. Vincenzo Cassano.

Valentina’s eyes flicked to the glowing contact name, and her breath caught sharply in her throat. Song Jong-ki? The Italian mafia lawyer from the K-drama Vincenzo? The absurd thought slammed into her mind, equal parts ridiculous and terrifying. For one fleeting second, the surreal parallel between fiction and the dangerous reality she was trapped in made her stomach twist.

She leaned her ear ever so slightly toward him, heart hammering against her ribs, desperate to catch even a fragment of the conversation. But Zavian ended the call almost immediately, his voice low and commanding as he muttered, “I have found a woman willing to marry me. Get the papers ready.”

A chill slithered down her spine. The words sounded so clinical, so final — like sealing a business deal rather than binding two lives together in a web of lies and power.

Zavian’s sharp gaze shifted to the rearview mirror, locking onto his driver. “Leo, drive to the courthouse.”

The car accelerated smoothly, the engine’s low growl mirroring the growing tension coiling in Valentina’s chest. She could feel Zavian’s eyes on her again — this time through the corner of his own. When he caught her leaning closer, his voice cut through the silence like a blade.

“What are you doing?”

She jerked back instantly, cheeks burning with a mix of embarrassment and fear. “Nothing,” she blurted, forcing her voice to stay steady. “I’m just killing the mosquito that got into your car!”

To prove her innocence — and to hide the frantic pounding of her pulse — she clapped her palms together loudly, right in front of his nose. The sharp smack echoed in the confined space. She clapped twice more in quick succession, waving her hands dramatically around her face. “See? I’m just killing mosquitoes.”

Zavian let out a heavy sigh, leaning back against the leather seat. He dragged his fingers through his dark hair, shaking his head slowly. The muttered words that escaped his lips carried a dark edge of regret and disbelief: “Where am I getting myself stuck in?”

The question hung in the air like smoke, thick with unspoken menace. Valentina’s heart clenched. She wondered the exact same thing — only her version was laced with raw terror. What kind of nightmare have I walked into?

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Forty-five minutes later, the black Bentley purred to a stop in front of the grand stone stairs of the courthouse. Rain continued to fall in a soft, relentless drizzle, turning the world into shades of grey and shadow.

Zavian stepped out first, his tall frame cutting an imposing figure against the gloomy afternoon. He rounded the car with predatory grace and opened her door, extending his hand. For a moment, Valentina hesitated, staring at those strong, dangerous fingers. Then, swallowing her pride and fear, she placed her smaller hand in his. His grip was firm, warm, and unyielding — a silent reminder of who held all the power here. She stepped out, the cool mist kissing her skin.

Without a word, he led her up the wide stairs and into the courthouse. Their footsteps echoed through long, dimly lit corridors lined with heavy wooden doors and the faint scent of old paper and authority. They passed countless offices before Zavian stopped in front of one that screamed wealth and influence — dark, polished wood, brass fittings that gleamed even in the muted light.

He knocked once. Three seconds of heavy silence passed before the door swung open, revealing first a broad, well-maintained chest clad in an impeccable suit. Valentina’s gaze slowly traveled upward until she met the face of the man she had half-expected to resemble Song Jong-ki.

He was strikingly attractive — sharp jawline, piercing eyes, and an aura of quiet danger — but he was not the actor. Disappointment and unease twisted in her gut. This was real. This was deadly.

The lawyer greeted Zavian with professional respect and ushered them inside. The heavy door clicked shut behind them with a sound that felt far too final.

Valentina moved immediately to one of the leather chairs in front of the massive mahogany desk, her legs unsteady. Zavian settled into the seat beside her, close enough that she could feel the heat radiating from his body. His lawyer took his place behind the desk and smoothly pulled out a thick stack of marriage contract papers, the pages whispering ominously as they spread across the polished surface.

Zavian motioned toward her with a slight tilt of his head, his voice cool and commanding. “She has a few conditions to put on the paper. Let her say them first, then tell her the conditions on the paper.”

Valentina’s spine stiffened. “No,” she replied firmly, staring straight at the lawyer to avoid Zavian’s intense gaze. “I want to know the conditions on it first.”

The lawyer glanced at Zavian. After receiving a slight, almost imperceptible nod, he began reading the terms in a measured, emotionless tone.

Condition 1:

The marriage will be a secret, and neither Party A nor Party B is allowed to disclose it to anyone except after mutual discussion or to the person this contract is made for — Mr. Silvano Moretti.

Condition 2:

Party B will have no say in the personal life of Party A. That includes business, love life, clothes, etc.

As if I would want anything to do with him, Valentina thought bitterly, a spark of defiant anger flaring inside her.

Condition 3:

Party B is not allowed to force any physical touch with Party A. If broken, the divorce will be immediate, except when pretending in front of Mr. Silvano Moretti. In such cases, limited physical touch — kissing on the cheeks, holding hands, resting a hand on the waist — is permitted.

She nearly scoffed aloud. As if I’m dying to touch him. The very idea sent a dark wave of revulsion through her. Even if he were the last man alive, I would rather undergo ligation than let him lay a finger on me.

Condition 4:

Party B will be paid over five hundred million dollars at the end of the contract. However, Party B will not be entitled to any property settlement or alimony.

Who even wants his property? Valentina thought, fury rising hot in her throat. I’m not that greedy. She wanted to scream, to flip the desk, to run — but she swallowed it all down, forcing her face into calm neutrality.

She nodded once, her voice steadier than she felt. “The conditions are fine, but I want to tweak one or two of them. For example, Conditions Two and Three should apply to both parties instead of only to me. Now that it is clear, let me state my conditions.”

She laid out her demands with quiet determination, each word laced with the raw need for survival:

Condition 1:

Party B wants protection from Party A — including from Zavian himself — until the end of the contract.

Survival must be my first priority. Life is everything.

Condition 2:

Party B is allowed to ask for or take help from Party A whenever she is in a dilemma, and Party A must respond. I’m still a student, not a master of business. I need his help whether I like it or not.

Condition 3:

Party A must inform Party B in advance about any meeting with Mr. Silvano Moretti so that Party B can prepare. I refuse to walk into another situation unprepared and risk a mini heart attack.

Condition 4:

Party A will never question Party B about anything she does — similar to his own second condition.

A heavy silence blanketed the room once she finished. The lawyer’s mouth hung slightly agape. He swallowed hard, his eyes darting nervously to Zavian.

“Add those conditions,” Zavian said coldly, his voice like ice sliding over steel. Then he turned, locking his dark gaze onto hers. “So we can get this over with.”

The tension in the air was suffocating. Ten minutes later, the revised documents were ready. The lawyer slid them toward Valentina first. She read every line carefully, her hands trembling slightly despite her efforts to appear composed, before signing with a steady pen. Zavian followed, his signature bold and final.

The lawyer then instructed them to stand together for photographs. When he asked Zavian to move closer, the man didn’t hesitate. His arm snaked around her waist, pulling her firmly against his side. The touch was possessive, unyielding, sending a dangerous spark of electricity mixed with fear racing through her body. The camera clicked repeatedly, capturing the illusion of a united couple while the reality felt like a cage closing around her throat.

Moments later, they stood on the wide stone stairs outside the courthouse, the rain still falling softly. Valentina reached out without warning and pulled Zavian’s gun from his holster once again. She raised it slowly to her face, the cold metal gleaming under the grey sky.

“I’m taking your gun as the wedding gift,” she declared, her voice surprisingly calm.

Zavian stared at her, a mix of disbelief and dark amusement flickering in his eyes. “You are a strange woman, you know that?” He shook his head slowly. “You could have asked for diamonds, expensive jewellery, dresses, bags, heels — anything as a wedding gift. But you chose my gun.”

Unfortunately, none of those things would help me survive, she thought, the weight of the weapon strangely comforting in her hands.

She shrugged her shoulders nonchalantly.

He exhaled sharply. “Do you even know how to shoot?”

She answered with the same casual tone, though her pulse raced. “Ugh… that I… no, I don’t know how to shoot.”

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To Be Continued

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