Chapter 3 This is my world now.

The plane landed with a smooth bump, and as I stepped up to the boarding door, the cool San Diego midnight breeze ruffled my hair. Dontrell's large hand was warm as he took mine, lifting it to place a peck on it.

"Let me guide you, my lady," he murmured, his voice low, close to my ear. "I don't want you tripping."

Without any more words, Dontrell led me down the plane's stairs, his hand still holding mine. His steps were sure and confident, and his presence was strong as I carefully followed behind. The bright glow of runway lights pierced the night and cast long shadows across the ground.

At the end of the step, I was met with the warm grins of a gathering of youthful ladies and men dressed in savvy, blue outfits that made it clear they were part of Dontrell's domestic staff.

I adjusted my Chanel bag, holding it tightly against my side. One of the young women stepped forward, attempting to take the bag from me. Her smile was polite, but her fingers twitched with the eagerness to assist. I gently pulled the strap back, my voice soft but firm.

"No, thank you; I can carry it myself."

Her smile faltered for a moment, a flicker of annoyance in her eyes, but when Dontrell turned to look at her, she quickly retracted the expression and replaced it with the same practiced grin.

We continued toward the waiting car, but something caught my eye. Off to the side, near the plane's hangar, a small, simple golf cart was parked. Its inviting presence made me briefly consider leaving the luxury vehicles behind. It felt more personal, more intimate. But I didn't say anything and simply kept walking, the urge fading as quickly as it came.

Dontrell must have noticed my pause because he stopped, gently turning me to face him before placing a soft kiss on my cheek, his lips lingering a moment longer than necessary.

"Is something wrong?" He asked, his tone even, but I could hear the faint edge of curiosity in his voice.

I glanced back at the golf cart, but only half of it was visible from the side of his body. He was too tall, and without the heels I had worn in the wedding hall, I couldn't see past his shoulder. My mind hungered for the simplicity of the cart. Yet I wondered if it would upset him if I insisted on taking something that small.

He turned his gaze, following mine. "You want to ride in that instead?" he asked, voice deep but teasing.

I nodded eagerly, not caring how ridiculous it sounded.

He wasted no time, barking orders to his men. They quickly brought the cart over, cutting the engine and stepping down with respectful gestures. Dontrell took a moment to remove his suit jacket, handing it to one of the staff before rolling up his sleeves. My eyes lingered for a moment on his bare arms-well-toned, veins visible beneath the skin, a tattoo on his upper arm that extended onto his shoulder. His body was strong, sculpted in a way that made it clear he was a man accustomed to both power and control.

He slid into the driver's seat of the cart, his body shifting effortlessly, and I joined him in the passenger seat. He turned the key, and the engine rumbled to life. The convoy of luxury cars trailed from behind; their bright front lights illuminated everything as we made our way to the front of the enormous compound.

When I saw the house, my breath caught in my throat. The penthouse towered ahead, gleaming in the nightlight. It wasn't just a house-it was a fortress. Everything about it screamed wealth, but as we got closer, the sheer size and opulence of the place became more apparent. The building loomed ahead-a towering structure made of glass and steel.

We reached the entrance-an imposing brick building. A servant greeted us as we stepped into the foyer, but I barely acknowledged her, just following closely beside Dontrell as he headed straight for the elevator. He swiped a gold card to unlock the elevator, and we stepped in, rising to the twenty-first floor.

The door opened to a sprawling, open-plan living area that stretched out before me. Glass windows framed breathtaking views of the city below, while the interior was a blend of sleek, modern design and raw, industrial elements. A home bar stood in one corner, chairs were scattered around, and a staircase led to the next floor above us, or was it the roof? I didn't know.

Come with me," Dontrell said, his tone shifting. It was commanding now, almost harsh.

I followed him to a door at the far end of the room, where he pressed his fingerprint to a sensor.

"Do I have to wait for you to be around before I can go into the room?" I asked, curious as to why he needed fingerprint access to such a personal space when the entire building was already locked down with tight security.

"No," he replied smoothly, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Your fingerprint is already locked in."

I wanted to ask when he'd done that, but the thought faded. Getting my fingerprint wouldn't be an issue for a man like him.

The door slid open, revealing a bedroom. We went into it, and its opulence was unmistakable-from the polished marble floors to the sleek furniture. It was breathtaking, yet cold, like a museum display, not a home. Dontrell walked further into the room and dropped his wallet and keys on a nearby shelf, indifferent to the grandeur surrounding us. I paused at the edge of the bed, unsure of what to do.

"Make yourself at home," he coaxed, taking off his belt, but I simply hissed in response.

"I'm trying hard to understand you, Allison, but you aren't making it easy for me. I'm not the type to want a woman around, so if I'm trying to keep you with me, the least you can do is comply," he snarled, staring straight into my eye.

"Try harder or file for a divorce," I shot back, turning away as I sat on the edge of the bed, feeling like a visitor in my new home.

"Whatever foolish mind games you're playing to end this marriage, it won't work, and you can't make me mad at you, at least not this way," he said, unbuttoning his shirt as he continued talking.

"In what way then?" I queried, but I could feel the fear knotted in my stomach. A series of questions raced through my mind: What if he hits me or beats me into submission, just like his brother did? But after a brief silence, he responds.

"The way you'll beg, cry, and plead, but I won't listen. You'll want me to stop, but I won't care. I'll keep going until you can't stand it anymore." He scoffed, taking off his trousers, and I looked away.

A wave of dread washed over me, not sure what to expect next. Fear rose in my chest as I curled my fingers into the bedspread.

By the time I looked back up, he was fully undressed, but he had his back facing me. I felt a drool escape my lip as my eyes traveled over his body-broad shoulders, his muscular back adorned with a large crest tattoo, identical to his brother's, except he was larger, taking up the entire top left side of his back. The tattoo depicted a shield with two swords crossed above it. Two lions stood on their hind legs, pulling the shield from both sides. Below the shield, a banner displays the name "Dontrell." The design is bold and powerful, evoking a medieval, regal feel.

He turned to face me stark naked, and I couldn't help but notice the sheer size of him. The V-shaped muscles of his torso tapered down, leading my eyes to his manhood and the enormity of it. He stood with an intimidating, almost unnatural presence. His dickey was enormous, leaving me breathless.

I swallowed hard, my throat tight, as he moved closer to me. "Does this scare you?" he asked, a taunting edge in his voice. I experienced the dread of sleeping with him just like I did on the plane, but I didn't yield to it.

He closed the distance between us, positioning my legs between his. His fingers slid into my mouth, curling around my tongue; they tasted salty from dirt. My body reacted to him, and my pussy got wet, but as my eyes fluttered shut to take in the moment, a memory hit me-Andrew. His cock in my mouth. The sight of him jerking his dick hard in my face and how he shot his cum on my tongue. My body shook involuntarily, the memory choking me and forcing my eyes open.

Dontrell's eyes darkened as he felt me tremble like I was disgusted by him. His erection was still there, hard and close, but then, without warning, he pulled his fingers out of my mouth and stepped away.

"I'm so sorry." I choked out, feeling ashamed at how I just recoiled at my husband's touch, but he didn't respond to me, leaving me confused if he didn't also want me.

I watched him leave for the shower, my mind racing. My life and my father's survival depended on this twisted marriage. But how could I make this work? I curled up on the bed, still dressed, lost in thought until sleep claimed me.