On Our Wedding Night, My Husband Thought I Was Hiding Something Beneath My Dress.

The drive back to Cross House was bathed in the blood-orange light of a Lowcountry sunset. Neither of us spoke until the heavy iron gates of the estate closed behind us, sealing out the rest of the world.

When the Maybach came to a stop beneath the portico, Adrian didn't get out immediately. He turned to me, his arm resting across the leather seatback behind my head.

"You knew the circuit breaker code," he said.

"I spent six months hiding in my father's library when I was twenty-one," I answered, staring out at the Spanish moss glowing in the twilight. "I learned to listen through the heating vents. When you are small and weak, your only survival strategy is to know more than the men who think you're invisible."

Adrian’s fingers reached out, his knuckles brushing gently along the high curve of my jawline. The touch was so light it made me shudder, but this time I didn't pull away.

"You are not small," he murmured. "And you are definitely not weak."

"Blake will not let this stand, Adrian. You just seized forty million dollars worth of his hardware and destroyed his federal trap. He will retaliate."

"Let him try," Adrian said, opening his door. "Come inside. It's getting cold."

That evening, dinner was served not in the cavernous state dining room, but in the smaller, more intimate library on the ground floor. A fire crackled merrily in the brick hearth, casting a warm, amber glow over thousands of leather-bound volumes and dark wood paneling.

Adrian had changed into a dark cashmere sweater and slacks, looking less like a warlord and more like the master of a historic estate. I wore a long-sleeved forest green velvet gown that covered me completely from throat to ankle, yet hugged the lines of my waist.

Martha set down a bowl of she-crab soup and freshly baked cornbread before curtsying and retreating, leaving us entirely alone.

"You handled yourself well today," Adrian said, breaking a piece of bread. "Most women raised in your circle would have collapsed under the gunfire."

"Most women in my circle have never had a loaded revolver pressed against their temple because the dinner soup was cold," I said bluntly, taking a spoonful of the rich, creamy broth. "You keep assuming I have something left to lose, Adrian. That is your blind spot."

"And what is your blind spot, Sloane?"

"Believing that you are different from them."

Adrian set his spoon down. He leaned his forearms against the table, his piercing green eyes pinning me in place.

"Tell me what you think I want."

"The same thing every man in Charleston wants," I said, meeting his gaze unflinchingly. "Dominance. The Mercer shipping lines. Control of the harbor. And the satisfaction of having broken the Mercer princess to your bridle."

Adrian stared at me for a long, heavy moment. Then, slowly, he shook his head.

"My uncle built the Cross organization from three rotting tugboats and a warehouse full of scrap iron," he said, his voice dropping into that deep, rhythmic Lowcountry cadence. "When Conrad Mercer had him executed behind a bait shop on James Island, I swore I would dismantle your father’s house stone by stone. I wanted his money. I wanted his docks. I wanted him to die knowing his bloodline was finished."

He paused, his eyes traveling over my face, resting on my lips before rising back to my eyes.

"But when I saw you standing at that altar yesterday, Sloane... when I saw the way you held your chin up while your brother traded you away like livestock... I realized Conrad had already destroyed his own bloodline. He had raised a monster in Blake, and he had tried to break the only person in his house who had any real iron in her spine."

"Iron rusts," I whispered.

"Not when it's forged in fire," Adrian countered. He reached across the small table, picking up my left hand. His thumb traced the smooth band of the platinum wedding ring he had placed there yesterday. "Tomorrow night is the Charleston Historical Society’s annual preservation gala at the Mills House. The entire city will be there. Conrad will be watching from his hospital suite via the society livestream. And Blake will be there in person, trying to save face after today's disaster."

My pulse jumped. "You want me to go?"

"I want you to walk into that ballroom wearing diamonds, with your head high and your hand on my arm," Adrian said, his voice dropping to a low, seductive promise. "I want every judge, every councilman, and every criminal in this state to see that you do not belong to the Mercers anymore. You belong to no one but yourself—and by extension, to Cross."

"And if Blake approaches me?"

Adrian's eyes darkened, a flash of pure, predatory lethality surfacing beneath his civilized veneer.