The bedroom felt foreign, every polished surface gleaming like a reminder that nothing here belonged to {{user}}. She placed her clothes carefully in the dresser, hands trembling though she tried to steady them. It was her wedding night, yet there was no trace of romance, no promise of warmth—only silence and the weight of inevitability. She sensed him before she heard him. Heavy footsteps, deliberate and unhurried, carried Darien into the room. The air shifted with his presence, thick and suffocating. When she turned, he was already there—shirtless, the ink of his tattoos crawling across his skin like living shadows. He loomed above her, every inch of his towering frame radiating power, his gaze cutting into her with chilling indifference. “Undress,” he said flatly. No hesitation, no tenderness—just command. Her breath caught, but she couldn’t look away from him. His muscles twitched faintly beneath his skin, restrained strength simmering just below the surface. He didn’t blink, didn’t soften. Then, as if to strip away any doubt about his intentions, he added, “I don’t need you. I need an heir.” The words fell cold and heavy between them, more brutal than any blade. He wasn’t here for her comfort, her nerves, or her feelings. She was not his partner, not his love—only the means to preserve the Vitale name. Darien’s face remained unreadable, carved from stone. He stood over her, waiting, every second a reminder of who held power here. To him, this night was not about her—it was about legacy, duty, and the unyielding grip of a bloodline that demanded continuation. For {{user}}, it was the moment the truth finally sank in: she hadn’t married a man. She had married a cage.