Craving for My Tyrant Husband

Everleigh Roman woke up with a splitting headache from the sunlight.

She groaned, rolling over.

Her cheek rubbed against something impossibly smooth. Cool, slippery, expensive satin. Not the cotton blend she had on her bed in the tiny studio apartment she was currently being evicted from.

She reached out blindly for the glass of water that should have been on her nightstand. Her fingers brushed against mahogany, then paper. Thick, textured paper.

Evie cracked one eye open. The room spun, a kaleidoscope of beige and gold. She forced her vision to focus on the document under her hand.

Certificate of Marriage.

Her heart slammed against her ribs, a physical blow that knocked the breath out of her.

She sat up, the sheet pooling at her waist.

She wasn't wearing her dress.

She was wearing a white dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up, the fabric smelling of cedarwood and something darker, like rain on asphalt.

"No," Evie whispered. "No, no, no."

Flashes of memory assaulted her. The charity gala. Darrin's sneer as he told her she was worthless without him. The open bar. So much vodka. And then... a man. A tie. She remembered gripping a silk tie, pulling a face down to hers. She remembered demanding someone save her.

She looked around. This wasn't a room; it was a kingdom. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park, furniture that probably cost more than her college tuition.

On the nightstand, next to a platinum cufflink that glinted maliciously in the sun, was a note.

Evie picked it up, her hand trembling so hard the paper rattled. The handwriting was sharp, aggressive.

Gone on business. Last night was... memorable. - G.

G.

She had married a man whose name began with G.

She pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes, trying to summon a face.

Nothing.

Just a blur of a sharp jawline, a sensation of large, warm hands on her waist, and eyes that looked like the deep end of the ocean.

Her phone vibrated against the wood, a violent buzz that made her jump.

She fished it out from under a pillow that smelled like him.

Eighteen missed calls. All from Illa.

She swiped the screen, bringing the phone to her ear. "Illa?"

"Evie! Oh my god, are you alive?" Illa's voice was a shriek that pierced her headache. "You disappeared! One minute you were crying about Darrin near the ice sculpture, and the next you were gone. Did you get kidnapped? Are you in a ditch?"

"I'm in... a hotel," Evie croaked. "Illa, I think I did something stupid."

"How stupid? Did you kill Darrin? Because if you did, I know a guy who can dissolve a body."

Evie looked at the certificate again. The seal was embossed. It looked terrifyingly official. "Worse. I got married."

Silence. Then, the sound of something shattering on the other end.

"Get. Here. Now," Illa ordered, her voice drop-dead serious. "Bring the paper. Do not talk to anyone."

Evie hung up and scrambled out of bed. Her legs felt like jelly, muscles aching in places that made her face heat up. She caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror above the dresser. Her hair was a bird's nest, and there, right on the curve of her neck, was a bruise. A hickey. A dark, possessive mark.

She scrubbed her face in the bathroom, trying to wash away the shame. She found her dress from last night draped over a chair, but the zipper was torn from the fabric.

"Great," she muttered. "Just great."

She had no choice. She pulled the man's shirt tighter and grabbed the trench coat hanging by the door. It swallowed her whole, wrapping her in that same cedarwood scent. It felt like being hugged by a ghost.

Her purse was on the console table. Inside, stuffed next to her lipstick, was a black credit card. Heavy metal. No name, just numbers. And a sticky note with a pin code.

She stared at it. Was this payment? Was she...

She shoved the card back into the bag,She wasn't taking his money.

She was going to fix this. Annulment.

Divorce. Whatever it took to erase this man from her life before noon.

She opened the door and stepped into the hallway. It was empty.

The elevator ride down was an eternity.

She watched the numbers drop, her stomach dropping with them. "You are Everleigh Roman," she told her reflection. "You survived your parents' death. You survived the foster system. You survived Darrin. You can survive a drunken mistake."

The lobby was a cathedral of marble. She kept her head down, clutching the coat around her.

"Mrs... Ma'am?"

Evie froze.

The doorman was holding out a key fob. "The gentleman left this for you. The black sedan out front."

She looked at the car. It was sleek, predatory, and probably worth more than her entire existence.

"No," she said, her voice shaking. "I'll take a taxi."

She pushed past him, out into the humid New York air. She hailed a cab, practically diving into the backseat.

"Where to?" the driver asked.

"15 Central Park South," she said. Illa's fortress.

As the taxi merged into traffic, Evie gripped the marriage certificate in her lap, her knuckles turning white.

She didn't know who this man was. She didn't know why he agreed to marry a drunk, crying girl. But she was going to find out, and then she was going to run as far away as possible.

he doorman's eyes lingered on the hickey on her neck.

She pulled the collar up and practically ran to the elevator.

Illa was waiting in her doorway before the elevator doors even opened.

She was wearing a silk kimono that cost more than Evie's rent, her face a mask of tragic anticipation.

"Inside," Illa commanded, grabbing Evie's arm and hauling her into the foyer. "Shoes off. Spill."

She snatched the envelope from Evie's hand before she could even speak. Illa ripped it open, pulling out the certificate with the precision of a forensic scientist.

Her eyes scanned the paper. Then they widened. They kept widening until Evie thought they might pop out of Illa's skull.

"Everleigh Roman and... Williams?" Illa whispered, her finger tracing the last name.

The first name was a dark, ugly blotch. "What is this, a wine stain? I can't read his first name. But Williams?"

Evie collapsed onto Illa's plush white sofa. "I know. He signed the note 'G.' I've been calling him Gus in my head. It sounds like a grandfather's name. Or an antique dealer."

Illa looked up at Evie, her face pale. "Evie. Do you know who Williams is?"

"There are a thousand Williamses in New York," Evie said, rubbing her temples. "He's probably a hedge fund manager or something. He had a nice room."

Illa let out a breath that sounded like a deflating tire. "Right. Right. Of course." She laughed, a nervous, high-pitched sound. "For a second, I thought... but no. That's impossible."

"Thought what?"

"My tyrannical older brother," Illa said, shuddering. "His name starts with an A, not a G. And besides, we don't call him by his first name. We call him 'Sir' or 'Please Don't Kill Me'. He's a shark. If he got married, it would be on the front page of the Wall Street Journal, and the bride would have been vetted by a committee of lawyers."

"See?" Evie said, feeling a wave of relief. "Not him. My Gus left me a note. It was polite."

"My brother doesn't know the meaning of the word polite," Illa confirmed. She walked over to the massive floor-to-ceiling window that looked out over the park. "He lives right there. Next building."

She pointed to the penthouse terrace adjacent to hers. It was separated by a gap of maybe twenty feet, close enough to throw a rock, far enough to require a bridge.

"That's his lair," Illa said. "Don't look at it too long. You might turn to stone."

Evie shivered, pulling the trench coat tighter. "Well, I'm glad I didn't marry him."

"You can stay here," Illa said, turning back to Evie. "Your ex-boyfriend Darrin is probably camping out at your apartment. You're homeless and married. You need a base of operations."

"But... your brother is right there."

"He's busy," Illa dismissed. "He's in the middle of a hostile takeover of some tech firm. He hasn't stepped on that terrace in months. You'll be safe."

She led Evie to the guest room. It was beautiful, airy, and unfortunately, the room closest to the neighboring terrace.

"Get settled," Illa said. "I'll get you some honey water for that hangover."

As she left, Evie's phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number.

Awake? Headache?

Her heart skipped a beat. It was him. Gus.

Evie typed back furiously. Who are you? We need to talk. I want a divorce.

The reply came instantly. Three dots dancing on the screen.

Divorce isn't on the schedule today. Drink some water. I'm out of town. We'll talk when I'm back.

Evie stared at the screen. The audacity.

I am not waiting, she typed. This is a mistake.

You didn't think it was a mistake last night, he replied.

Evie's face burned. She threw the phone onto the bed just as Illa walked in with a steaming mug.

"Who are you fighting with?" Illa asked, eyeing the phone.

"No one," Evie said quickly. "Just... Gus."

Illa rolled her eyes. "Gus. Sounds like a plumber. Or a golden retriever."

Night fell quickly in the city. After a dinner of takeout sushi that Evie could barely keep down, she retreated to the guest room. She needed air.

She slid open the glass door to the balcony. The city hummed below, a river of light and noise. The air was cool, biting at her bare legs beneath the oversized shirt she was still wearing.

Evie looked to the left. The neighboring terrace was dark, a slab of concrete and shadow. Illa said he was a tyrant. A monster.

Then, a spark.

A tiny, orange glow flared in the darkness of the other balcony.

Evie froze.

A figure detached itself from the shadows.

He was tall. Broad-shouldered. He was leaning against the railing, facing out toward the park, a cigarette in his hand.

The smoke drifted toward her, carrying that scent. Cedarwood. Rain.

Her breath hitched. The silhouette... the way he stood, weight on one leg, shoulders tense... it felt familiar. Viscerally familiar.

He turned his head.

Evie couldn't see his face, just the sharp angle of a jaw and the glint of eyes reflecting the city lights. He was looking right at her.

Panic, cold and sharp, spiked in her chest. Was that Illa's brother? Or was it...

No. It couldn't be.

Evie stepped back, stumbling over the doorframe, and yanked the curtains shut. Her heart was hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird.

"It's just the brother," she told herself. "Just the scary neighbor."

Her phone buzzed on the bed.

Sleep well, Evie. The neighbors can be loud.

She stared at the text, the blood draining from her face.

He knew. He knew where she was.

The next morning, Everleigh was sitting at Illa's kitchen island, nursing a coffee, when her phone vibrated again.

It wasn't a text this time. It was a notification.

Invitation to download: Enigma.

"What is that?" Illa asked, leaning over Evie's shoulder, a piece of toast hanging from her mouth.

"I don't know. An app invite."

Illa squinted,"Enigma? That's military-grade encryption. The server is in a bunker in Switzerland or something. My brother uses it. All the paranoid Wall Street guys do."

A text from Gus popped up on Evie's regular message app.

Standard texts aren't safe. Download this.

Evie frowned. "He's paranoid."

"He's rich," Illa corrected. "Download it."

Evie did. The interface was stark black and white.

No profile pictures. Just one contact listed: Gus.

I had your number changed, the first message read. To stop your ex from calling. The new SIM card is with the doorman.

Evie bristled. "He changed my number? Without asking?"

"Control freak," Illa muttered, chewing her toast. "Definitely rich."

Evie typed back. You have no right to control my life.

I have every right, came the reply. I'm your husband. And I hold grudges against men who make my wife cry.

Evie stared at the word wife. It looked alien on the screen.

Ten minutes later, the doorman delivered a small package. Inside was a brand new, top-of-the-line smartphone and a SIM card.

Evie swapped the cards. The silence was immediate. No more barrage of hate-texts from Darrin. It felt... lighter.

The Enigma app pinged.

To apologize for the unilateral decision, and to show sincerity, you need a ring.

Evie rolled her eyes. We are getting divorced. I don't need a ring.

As long as we are legally married, you wear my ring, he wrote. It's a matter of principle for me.

"A matter of principle?" Illa scoffed, reading over Evie's shoulder. "Okay, that's weirdly formal. Maybe he's a distant cousin? Like, a third cousin twice removed who owns a car dealership in Jersey?"

You're bossy, Evie typed.

A moment later, an audio file appeared in the chat.

She pressed play.

"Be good, Evie."

The voice was low, rough,It was the voice from the hotel room.

Evie's face went nuclear red.

Illa grabbed the phone. "Play it again."

She listened, her eyes widening. "Okay. That voice? That is the voice of a man who has never flown economy. That is a private jet voice."

She handed the phone back, a mischievous glint in her eye. "Let's test him."

"Test him?"

"If he wants to buy you a ring, let him. We'll see if he's a Jersey car dealer or... something else." Illa grabbed Evie's phone and typed. Fine. But I want to pick it out.

Go ahead, Gus replied instantly. Send me the link.

Illa opened the browser on her iPad and went straight to Harry Winston.

"Illa, no!" Evie tried to grab the tablet. "That's insane."

"Hush," Illa swatted her hand away. "If he's a fake, he'll ghost you the second he sees the price. If he's real... well, you get a ring."

She didn't go to the engagement ring section. She went to High Jewelry. The stuff that didn't have prices listed, just "Price upon request."

"This is too much," Evie said, feeling dizzy as Illa scrolled past diamonds the size of grapes.

"It's a stress test," Illa insisted.

Next door, in a soundproofed study, Agustus Williams sat at the head of a mahogany table. Twelve men in suits were arguing about a merger.

His phone buzzed. He glanced at it, and the corner of his mouth twitched. He held up a hand. The room went instantly silent.

"Five minute recess," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument.

He opened the app. He looked at the link Illa had sent. It was a generic page. He knew exactly what she was doing. Illa. His annoying, meddling little sister.

He opened his gallery and selected a photo he'd taken at a private viewing in Sotheby's last week.

Back in Illa's apartment, Evie's phone pinged.

An image loaded. It wasn't a link. It was a photo of a rough, uncut stone. It glowed with an inner, vibrant pink fire.

Do you like this one? the caption read. Or do you prefer it cut?

Illa gasped. It was a sound of pure, unadulterated shock. She dropped the toast.

"That..." She pointed a trembling finger at the screen. "That is a raw pink diamond. Evie, that's not from a website. That's from an auction catalog. A private one."

"Is it expensive?" Evie asked, feeling like a child.

Illa looked at her, her face deadly serious. "That stone? It could buy this entire building. Twice."