Unwilling Bride (Married to the Underworld CEO)

Author: [writers hub]

The rest of the day was a blur of forced politeness and stifling grandeur. Zara endured a fitting for more new clothes, a mandatory consultation with Ragnar's personal nutritionist, and a seemingly endless tour of the estate, each room more opulent and less welcoming than the last. Every interaction, every perfectly arranged flower, every silent bodyguard, was a chilling reminder of her new reality. Ragnar was nowhere to be seen; he hadn't returned after the press conference, presumably with his fiancée. The thought was a bitter twist in her stomach.

That night, alone in her vast, impersonal suite, Zara lay in the king-sized bed, staring at the ornate ceiling. Sleep was an impossible luxury. Her mind replayed the day: the flashing cameras, Ragnar's cold eyes, Mina Song's venomous warning. She was a pawn, a prop, and now, a target.

Her phone, the one Ragnar's staff had provided, vibrated on the bedside table. It was an unfamiliar number. Hesitantly, she answered.

"Zara Jones, isn't it?" A voice, low and distorted, whispered from the other end. "Or should I say, Mrs. Botermet?"

Zara's breath hitched. Her blood ran cold. This wasn't a wrong number. This was a threat. "Who is this?" she demanded, trying to keep her voice steady, but a tremor betrayed her.

"Just a friend," the voice chuckled, a dry, unsettling sound. "A friend who knows your little secret. The realreason you're shackled to the Underworld King."

Panic flared in Zara's chest. They knew. Bondi and Kim weren't just watching; they knew about the prototype, about the frame-up. They knew she was caught in a trap, and they were using it.

"What do you want?" she forced out, her heart hammering against her ribs.

"Oh, nothing much. Just for you to remember your place," the voice purred, dripping with menace. "You're fragile, little designer. You break easily. And the Botermet name won't save your loved ones when we decide to apply a little… pressure."

A distinct, chilling sound came through the phone – a familiar melody, played on a tinny, cheap music box. It was the lullaby her mother used to sing to her sister Hana. Hana's favorite. Hana's only connection to their grandmother.

Terror, cold and absolute, seized Zara. "What have you done?!" she screamed into the phone, her voice cracking.

The distorted voice laughed again. "Just a reminder, Mrs. Botermet. A little peek into your family's private life. We know where they live. We know where your dear sister studies. A small incident, a public humiliation, a quiet accident… so many ways for a family to suffer. Wouldn't want Ragnar's new bride to look too stressed, now, would we?"

The call disconnected, leaving Zara gasping for air, clutching the phone like a lifeline, her body trembling uncontrollably. They had touched her family. They had threatened Hana. This wasn't just about her reputation or her studio anymore. This was a direct assault on the people she loved most.

Hours later, Zara lay awake, her eyes wide, staring into the oppressive darkness. Every shadow seemed to hold a lurking threat. She knew she had to tell Ragnar. She despised him, but he was her only shield against these unseen enemies. He was dangerous, but they were far more insidious. He might be her captor, but he was also the one man powerful enough to protect her family from the true monsters. The thought filled her with a profound, terrifying helplessness.

The first rays of dawn were just painting the Seoul skyline in hues of pale pink and gold when Zara finally pushed herself out of bed. She had to find Ragnar. She had to warn him. This was no longer just her problem; it was a direct threat to his carefully controlled empire.

She dressed quickly, her mind racing, plotting how to bypass the silent, watchful staff and approach the unapproachable CEO. As she reached for the door, she noticed a small, innocuous-looking package left outside her suite. It wasn't there before. Curiosity, battling with a fresh surge of dread, compelled her to open it.

Inside, nestled on a bed of black velvet, was a single, tiny, exquisitely crafted jade carving. A miniature coiled dragon. The exact replica of the one she had seen on Ragnar's console in his study. But this one had a single, delicate crack running through its head, a hairline fracture, almost invisible, but undeniably there.

A cold, hard realization settled in Zara's gut, colder than any fear she'd felt before. This wasn't just a threat to her family. This was a message directly to Ragnar, sent through her. The dragon, his symbol of power, was already damaged. And she was the conduit.

She wasn't just a pawn in this game. She was the weapon they were aiming at the king.