The phone buzzed again. Bzzzt. Bzzzt. It sounded like a countdown.

Calla lunged for it, desperate to silence the noise, to hide the evidence.

Christ's hand got there first. His long fingers slammed down on the phone, pinning it to the table.

"Answer it," he said. His voice was silky, terrifyingly calm. "Speakerphone."

Calla went pale. "Please. Christ. Don't let him know."

"Why?" Christ tilted his head. "Are you ashamed of your husband?"

"It's not that! He'll... he'll be so angry. Please."

Christ ignored her. He slid his finger across the screen and tapped the speaker icon.

"Calla?" Francis's voice filled the room. It was tight, laced with panic. "Where are you? Gemma said you left with some guy last night. Are you okay?"

Calla stared at the phone, her lungs paralyzed. Christ watched her, his finger tapping a rhythm on the glass table. Tap. Tap. Tap.

"I..." Calla swallowed dryly. "I'm okay, Francis. I'm at the hotel. I just... drank too much. I fell asleep."

"Which hotel? Are you alone? Who was the guy?" Francis fired the questions like bullets.

Calla looked at Christ. He was smirking. It was a cruel, cold expression. Slowly, deliberately, he reached out. His hand slid under the table.

His fingers brushed the bare skin of her inner thigh.

Calla jumped, clapping a hand over her mouth to stifle a gasp.

"Calla?" Francis's voice sharpened. "What was that noise?"

Christ's hand moved higher. His thumb traced the sensitive skin just above her knee. He was watching her struggle, enjoying the torture.

"Nothing!" Calla said, her voice an octave too high. "It's... room service. They just brought breakfast."

Christ's eyes darkened at the lie. He picked up a silver fork and dropped it onto a ceramic plate. Clatter.

"Room service?" Francis sounded suspicious. "Is there a man in there?"

Calla grabbed Christ's wrist under the table, digging her nails in, begging him to stop. He didn't budge. He was solid rock.

"It's the TV!" she lied frantically. "I'm watching the news! It's loud!"

Francis let out a breath, a static sigh over the line. "Okay. Okay. Just... don't scare me like that, Cal. Come home. The jet is waiting. Annamarie is asking for you."

Calla flinched at the name. "Okay. I'm coming."

"Safe travels, sweet pea."

The line went dead.

Calla slumped in her chair, sweat beading on her forehead. She felt like she had just run a marathon.

Christ snatched the phone from the table. With a sudden, violent motion, he threw it against the far wall. It shattered on impact.

Calla screamed, jumping out of her chair.

"Room service?" Christ stood up, stalking around the table. He crowded her against the edge, his body radiating heat and fury.

"You'd rather lie to him than admit you belong to me?"

"It's complicated!" Calla cried, backing away until her hips hit the console table. "You know how he is! He's possessive! If he knew..."

"If he knew what?" Christ grabbed her chin, forcing her to look up at him. "That he lost? That his little girl is a woman now? My woman?"

"That he would be heartbroken!" Calla blurted out.

The words hung in the air.

Christ's face went blank. The anger vanished, replaced by that terrifying, dead calm.

"Heartbroken," he repeated flatly.

He released her chin as if touching her disgusted him.

"Pack your things," he said, turning his back on her. "We're going back to New York."

Calla stood in the center of the living room, clutching the lapels of Christ's shirt. The fragments of her phone lay in the corner like a dead insect.

"I can't go," she whispered.

Christ didn't turn around. He was pouring himself a glass of water. "Why?"

"My dress. You ripped it. I can't walk out of here in your shirt. Francis will ask questions I can't answer."

Christ paused. He took a sip of water, then set the glass down. He picked up the hotel phone and punched a single button. He murmured something low and indistinct, then hung up.

"Wait," he said.

Ten minutes later, there was a knock at the door. Two women in black suits rolled in a rack of clothing. It was like a portable fashion week. Chanel, Dior, Saint Laurent. All in her size.

"Mr. Carlson," one of the women said, keeping her eyes respectfully lowered. "The selection you requested."

Calla stared at the rack. There was easily fifty thousand dollars' worth of fabric there.

"I can't accept this," Calla said, her voice shaking. She looked at Christ. "Francis checks my accounts. He'll know I didn't buy these."

Christ waved the women away. The door clicked shut.

"I am your husband," Christ said, walking over to the rack and running a finger along a silk sleeve. "According to the state of Nevada, my assets are your assets. It's a legal obligation."

"It's a trap," Calla countered. "If I wear this, I owe you."

"You already owe me." He turned to her, his eyes scanning her bare legs beneath his shirt. His gaze flickered to the untouched pill on the table. "Take it, Calla."

The phone call had completely derailed her. She had been so terrified of Francis finding out that the small, silver packet had been forgotten. Now, under Christ's unwavering stare, she felt her face heat up. She walked over, ripped the foil, and dry-swallowed the pill. It tasted bitter. Like regret.

"About us..." she started, turning back to him. "I need... I need time. Francis is getting engaged to Annamarie. The family image is fragile right now. If we announce this..."

"You want an NDA," Christ interrupted. His lip curled in a sneer.

"I want a truce," Calla pleaded. "Just until things settle down. Please. Don't tell him yet."

Christ walked over to the sofa and sat down, crossing one leg over the other. He looked like a king on a throne, deciding the fate of a peasant.

"A secret marriage," he mused. "Scandalous."

"Please, Uncle."

His eyes flashed at the word. "Don't call me that."

He was silent for a long moment. The hum of the refrigerator was the only sound.

"Fine," he said finally. "I will keep our marriage a secret from Francis. For now."

Calla let out a breath she didn't know she was holding. Her shoulders slumped in relief.

"But," Christ stood up. He walked over to her, stopping inches away. He reached out and buttoned the top button of the shirt, his knuckles grazing her throat.

"Everything has a price, Calla. You know that."

"What's the price?" she whispered.

"Access," he said softly. "You are available to me. Whenever I want. Wherever I want. You answer my calls. You come when I summon you."

Calla felt a chill run down her spine. It was a deal with the devil.

"And if I'm with Francis?"

"Especially then," Christ's eyes glittered.

Calla looked at the clothes, then at the man who held the deed to her life. She had no choice.

"Deal," she said.

Christ patted her cheek. It was patronizing. Possessive.

"Good girl. Get dressed. The car is downstairs."

The flight was suffocating. Christ sat in a leather armchair, reading a stack of documents, seemingly oblivious to her presence. Calla sat three rows back, staring out the window at the gray blanket of clouds covering the east coast.

When the wheels touched down at Teterboro, the reality of what awaited them settled in Calla's stomach like lead.

Two cars were waiting on the tarmac. A sleek Maybach for Christ, and the family's armored SUV for her. The separation had begun.

Calla stood at the bottom of the airstairs, clutching her purse. She felt she should say something. They were married, after all. Even if it was a nightmare.

She turned back. Christ was gathering his files.

"Thank you," she said, her voice small in the windy expanse of the airfield. "For the clothes. And for... agreeing to wait."

Christ didn't look up. "Hm."

He was back to being the machine. The cold, unfeeling patriarch.

Calla hesitated. She walked back up the stairs, entering the cabin. She approached him slowly.

She leaned down and pecked his cheek. It was quick, dry, dutiful. Like a niece saying goodbye to an uncle.

"I'll see you at the estate... Uncle."

She turned to leave.

Snap.

The sound of a file folder shutting echoed like a gunshot.

"Is that how you say goodbye to your husband?"

Calla froze. She turned around. Christ had taken off his gold-rimmed glasses. Without them, his face looked sharper, younger, more dangerous.

He stood up. The cabin aisle was narrow. He took a step toward her. Calla took a step back.

"The driver is right outside," she whispered, backing until her shoulder blades hit the bulkhead door.

Christ reached past her and yanked the window shade down. The cabin plunged into semi-darkness.

He loomed over her, bracing one hand on the wall beside her head.

"I told you," he murmured, his voice vibrating in her chest. "I hate that word."

"Which one?" Calla breathed.

"Uncle." He leaned in, his nose brushing hers. "Say it again, and I will take you right here. I don't care who is watching."

Calla clamped her hands over her mouth, her eyes wide with terror.

Christ stared at her for a moment, drinking in her fear. Then, a ghost of a smile touched his lips.

He reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. His fingers lingered on her neck, right over her pulse point.

"Go," he said softly. "Don't keep Francis waiting."

Calla turned and fled. She practically fell down the stairs and scrambled into the SUV.

"Go!" she told the driver. "Just go!"

Inside the jet, Christ watched through the gap in the shade as the SUV sped away.

"Sir?" Zhang, his assistant, stepped into the cabin. "To the office?"

Christ put his glasses back on, masking the fire in his eyes.

"No," he said, buttoning his jacket. "Take me to the estate. I want to see my nephew."