Unwilling Bride (Married to the Underworld CEO)

Author: [writers hub]

The clock on the bedside table, a sleek minimalist design that spoke of obscene wealth, ticked with agonizing slowness. Every minute felt like an hour. Zara stood before the full-length mirror, a stranger staring back at her. The dress, a simple yet exquisitely tailored silk sheath in a deep sapphire blue, hugged her curves in a way her usual comfortable wear never did. Her hair, usually tied back in a practical knot, had been styled by one of Madam Cho's assistants into soft, elegant waves that cascaded over her shoulders. Even her face, subtly made up, looked different, sharper, more refined. She looked like the perfect trophy wife, exactly what Ragnar Botermet wanted.

The thought sent a shiver of defiance through her. She might be dressed like a puppet, but her spirit remained her own. She squared her shoulders, a silent promise to herself. She wouldn't break. Not for him. Not for anyone.

A gentle knock interrupted her resolve. Madam Cho, her expression as prim and unreadable as ever, stood in the doorway. "Madam, Chairman Botermet awaits you in the dining hall." Her voice held no room for argument.

Zara followed her, down hallways that seemed to stretch endlessly, adorned with abstract art and silent, watchful security cameras. The air was heavy with the scent of expensive polish and a subtle, unfamiliar floral fragrance. This wasn't a home; it was a fortress, a gilded cage designed to impress and intimidate.

The dining hall was as grand as the rest of the estate. A massive ebony table dominated the room, set for two, gleaming under the soft glow of a crystal chandelier. Ragnar was already seated at the head, a dark, imposing figure. He wore a perfectly tailored black suit, its sharp lines emphasizing his broad shoulders and formidable presence. His gaze, cold and assessing, met hers the moment she entered.

"You're punctual, Miss Jones," he stated, his voice flat, a hint of something unreadable in his eyes.

"Zara," she corrected, stepping forward. "Since I am to be your 'wife,' I believe we can dispense with formalities, Mr. Botermet."

A muscle in his jaw clenched, a subtle sign of irritation she almost missed. "As you wish, Zara," he conceded, the emphasis on her name making it sound like a reluctant acceptance. "Sit." He gestured to the chair opposite him, the distance between them feeling like a chasm.

The meal was a silent ordeal. Exquisite Korean dishes were served by unobtrusive staff, but Zara found herself unable to taste anything beyond the bitter tang of her own resentment. Ragnar ate with a quiet efficiency, his movements precise, almost predatory. He offered no conversation, no explanation, simply existed across the table from her, a constant, chilling reminder of her predicament.

She decided to break the silence. "So, 'Chairman Botermet'," she began, her voice steady despite her racing heart. "What exactly did I destroy? That prototype that cost you a 'trillion Won'?" A hint of sarcasm laced her tone. She needed answers. She needed to understand the exact nature of the trap she was in.

He paused, a piece of perfectly grilled meat suspended on his chopsticks. His dark eyes lifted, fixing on her. "It was the core component of Project Ares. A quantum encryption device. Its destruction set us back months and incurred significant penalties from our key investors." His voice was calm, but the undercurrent was ice. "It jeopardized a multi-national defence contract worth far more than the prototype itself. A contract vital to the future of Botermet Industries."

A quantum encryption device. Defence contract. The words were foreign, far removed from her world of fabric and design. Her mistake seemed even more monumental now, tangled in a web of global power and untold sums of money. But a part of her still refused to believe it was purely an accident. The flash of the camera crew that morning, the speed at which the "scandal" had erupted... it was too perfect.

"And you truly believe it was just... my clumsiness?" she challenged, her gaze unwavering. "Or was I merely a convenient scapegoat for a larger problem?"

Ragnar's fork clattered softly onto his plate. His eyes narrowed, a dangerous intensity radiating from him. The air in the opulent dining room thickened, growing heavy with unspoken threats. This was a line she might not be safe crossing. The bodyguards, who had been almost invisible in the corners of the room, shifted subtly, their gazes sharpening.

"Are you accusing me, Zara?" His voice dropped, becoming a low, gravelly rumble that sent a shiver down her spine. It wasn't loud, but it held the weight of absolute authority, the unspoken power of a man who could make accusations disappear, along with the accuser.

The raw power emanating from him was palpable, a dark aura that threatened to consume her. She had pushed too far, too fast. She could feel the implicit warning in his gaze, a cold promise of retribution. Her heart pounded a frantic rhythm against her ribs. She was just a pawn, caught in a game she barely understood, with a player who held all the cards.

A sudden, sharp ring shattered the tense silence. It was Ragnar's phone, glowing brightly on the table beside him. He glanced at the caller ID, and for the first time since she met him, a flicker of something almost like annoyance, perhaps even disgust, crossed his otherwise impenetrable face. It was a brief, telling crack in his perfectly controlled facade.

He picked up the call, his voice curt. "Yes?" He listened for a moment, his eyes still on Zara, a strange, calculating intensity in their depths. Then, his jaw tightened. "Tell her I'll be there. Give me twenty minutes." He disconnected, his gaze hardening back into its usual impenetrable mask.

"It seems our dinner is cut short, wife," he stated, rising from the table, his chair scraping softly against the floor. "My fiancée requires my presence."

Zara's breath hitched. Fiancée? The word hit her like a physical blow, colder than Ragnar's gaze, more shattering than any prototype. A rival. An official rival. She was not just a contract wife; she was a convenient shield, a temporary distraction for a man who already belonged to someone else. The gilded cage had just shrunk, and the bars felt impossibly tighter.