"Stop kidding. Three million dollars for this trash? Are you fucking high?”

The shout ricocheted through the cavernous meeting hall, slicing the silence into jagged pieces. The man stood with his fists planted on the polished mahogany table, his face red with fury, his veins bulging as if ready to burst.

His voice grated against the calm like a blunt blade.

But the man he was shouting at didn't so much as blink.

Gabriel Marquez sat in his high-backed chair as though the throne had been carved for him and him alone. His posture was immaculate, every line of his body etched with discipline. He didn't lean forward or flinch back — he sat perfectly still, legs crossed at the knee, shoulders broad beneath the crisp lines of his tailored suit.

He radiated wealth, power, and control — not the noisy, desperate kind men liked to flaunt, but the quiet, suffocating kind that bent the air itself. Even silence became his weapon.

And right now, silence was all he gave.

The furious client, flushed and sweating, took Gabriel's composure as arrogance. But the men in black standing behind their master knew better. They'd been at his side long enough to feel the storm that churned beneath his stillness. Their shoulders stiffened, jaws clenched. A few even stepped forward, their eyes narrowing, their hands twitching at the thought of tearing the disrespectful bastard apart where he stood.

But Gabriel didn't allow chaos unless he willed it.

Without breaking eye contact, he lifted one hand — a single, effortless motion — and his men froze mid-step. He hadn't raised his voice, hadn't spoken a word, but the gesture carried more weight than any command could.

Obedience was immediate. They returned to their positions, silent statues again, though fury burned in their eyes.

The client, oblivious to how close death had brushed his skin, smirked at the gesture, mistaking it for leniency. Mistaking Gabriel's mercy for weakness.

“1.5," the man snapped, leaning forward with a smug tilt of his chin. "And we are done."

The silence stretched thin, taut like a wire.

And then came the sound.

A low, dark chuckle slipped from Gabriel's throat, deep and unamused. The kind of laugh that didn't lighten a room — it darkened it. His lips curved slightly, but there was no humor in his eyes, only ice.

“I don't do charity," Gabriel said, his voice smooth as velvet, sharp as steel. "Three point five. Non-negotiable."

The words landed with finality. His tone carried no room for argument.

But the client was a fool.

He blinked, his smirk faltering, his pride wounded. "You—are you fucking kidding me?" His voice cracked, pitched too high in disbelief. "I'm offering you a deal, and you—"

Gabriel didn't respond. He didn't need to. His silence was a cage, forcing the other man to rattle against its bars until he strangled himself with his own noise.

That was Gabriel Marquez's gift — the art of restraint. He'd learned long ago that words were cheap, that loudness was for the weak. True power didn't scream. It whispered. It waited. And when it struck, it struck like lightning, too fast for the eye to follow.

The client didn't know he was already dying.

Gabriel leaned back slightly, adjusting the cuff of his suit, the glint of his watch catching the dim light. He looked as though he were bored, as though the entire exchange was beneath him.

And perhaps it was.

For Gabriel Marquez wasn't just another cartel lord clawing for power. He was the power. His empire stretched across Europe like veins of steel, pumping life into governments, law enforcement, and corporations alike.

Others trafficked in shadows; Gabriel turned shadows into empires. His weapons weren't just contraband — they were coveted brands, each crafted with precision, each stamped with the Marquez seal. His merchandise carried weight, not because it was illegal, but because it was his.

And what bore his name could never be touched.

The law didn't dare touch him. The government didn't dare cross him. Because Gabriel didn't work against them — he worked with them, fed them, owned them. Politicians, judges, border patrols — all bought, all loyal, all his.

Gabriel Marquez wasn't above the system. He was the system.

And still, this man thought he could shout. Bargain. Challenge.

Desperation made men reckless. Recklessness made them stupid.

The client's eyes darted, his temper rising with every second of Gabriel's unshakable calm. "Four million!" he barked suddenly, a manic grin spreading across his face. "And your wife for a night!"

The words hung in the air like poison.

And for the first time, Gabriel moved.

Slowly, deliberately, he lifted his head. His eyes locked on the man with a gaze that burned hotter than fire, colder than ice. Ocean blue turned storm-black, rage hardening them into steel.

The client froze, but only for a heartbeat. Then, emboldened by the reaction, he pressed further, chuckling darkly, too proud of his provocation to stop.

"Well, I heard you married Silva's second daughter. Elena, wasn't it? She was famous for her beauty. Perhaps we could—"

BANG.

The sound was deafening in the silence.

The man's head snapped back, a perfect hole splitting his forehead. Blood spurted in a crimson arc, staining the polished table before his body slumped lifelessly to the floor.

For a moment, there was nothing but the echo of the gunshot, vibrating through marble and bone alike.

Gabriel lowered his weapon with the same calm he had raised it. No hesitation. No regret. Only the stillness of a man who had done what needed to be done.

The air was heavy, thick with death. His chest rose and fell once, twice, the faintest tremor of fury lingering in the steady rhythm of his breathing.

He stared at the corpse, at the blood pooling beneath it, at the pathetic shell of a man who had dared to speak her name.

Elena.

The only crown he had ever chosen. The only weakness he had ever allowed himself.

The man had wanted to provoke him. He had succeeded. But he hadn't understood the cost.

Gabriel's voice, when it came, was low and deadly. "Feed him to the dogs."

The guards behind him smirked, pleased. They moved forward at once, dragging the carcass away, their boots thudding against the marble floor.

Gabriel rose from his seat, every inch of him a towering storm. His aura crackled with danger, with dominance, with fury still simmering beneath the surface.

He was feared by all. Obeyed by all. Untouchable by all.

And yet — one woman's name had undone him. One woman had the power to turn his silence into fire, his calm into murder.

Elena Silva. His wife. His possession. His obsession.

The world could mock him, betray him, even challenge him — and Gabriel Marquez would laugh. But let another man breathe her name, and he would burn the earth down to ash.

For she was the only thing he could not share.

The only thing he could not bargain.

The only thing that was truly his.

And God help the man who forgot it.

The rhythm of her heels echoed in sharp, confident clicks across the marble-tiled hallway, steady against the muffled chaos that filled the school.

The breeze drifting through the tall windows carried a bite of cold, brushing across her cheeks as she moved with elegance through the crowd. Students around her were a blur of laughter, gossip, and youthful noise. Hands waved, sneakers scuffed against the floor, clusters of teenagers leaned against lockers or sprawled in corners. It was a universe of fleeting joys, small dramas, silly crushes — the kind of world most seventeen-year-olds lived in with careless hearts.

But not Elena Silva.

Her lips remained in their usual straight line, painted with restraint. She carried herself with poise, her head high, her chocolate-brown eyes steady. She never let herself forget who she was, not even for a heartbeat.

The daughter of the Silvas.

The most beautiful face of the Silva territory.

Her presence commanded attention even when she didn't want it. The crisp white of her school blouse tucked neatly into her pleated skirt, the subtle sway of her long hair as it fell down her back, the quiet steel in her gaze — it all drew eyes whether she willed it or not. Whispers followed her. Some admiring, some envious.

But Elena didn't stop. She never lingered, never joined the circles of giggling girls or rowdy boys shouting about weekend plans. She slipped past them all, heels cutting a path down the hallway, a solitary figure of discipline and quiet pride.

She wasn't like them. Couldn't be like them.

Her backpack hung loosely off one shoulder, her slender hand gripping the strap tightly as if to anchor herself to reality. At the end of the hallway, she halted in front of a heavy wooden door with a polished nameplate:

Mrs. Claire Johnson, Headmistress.

Elena inhaled once, steadying herself, then lifted her hand to knock. Her knuckles made three soft taps against the door.

"Come in," came the reply, firm yet distracted.

Elena pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The headmistress — a dignified woman in her early fifties with short silver-streaked hair — glanced up from a stack of papers. Surprise flickered across her features.

"Oh. Elena?" Mrs. Claire's voice held curiosity.

Elena closed the door behind her, the faint scent of lavender from a vase on the desk filling her senses. With graceful composure, she stepped forward and placed a crisp sheet of paper onto the desk.

"I wanted to talk about my scholarship, Mrs. Claire," Elena said evenly.

The headmistress's brows softened, her stern face warming with approval as she took the form. "Ah, yes. Of course. Sit down, dear."

Elena lowered herself into the chair opposite the desk, her posture perfect, hands folded in her lap. Her expression remained blank, unreadable.

Mrs. Claire adjusted her glasses and glanced down at the form — then frowned.

It was blank.

Her eyes flicked back up. "Elena, dear... you didn't fill this out."

"I won't be accepting the scholarship," Elena replied simply.

For a moment, silence stretched between them.

The headmistress blinked. "You... won't accept it?" Her voice faltered in disbelief. "But Elena, this is an honor. You've worked so hard, and your grades—"

"I am quitting my studies."

The words were spoken with calm finality, but beneath them, Elena's heart twisted.

Mrs. Claire set her glasses down on the desk. Her face, usually composed and stern, now looked startled. "Quitting?"

Elena nodded once.

"Why on earth would you do such a thing? You're our top student, Elena. The scholarship was offered because of your brilliance, your dedication. You have such a promising future—"

Elena cut in gently, but firmly. "I don't have a choice."

The headmistress's lips parted, then closed again. She studied Elena carefully, the way a mother might study a child hiding bruises. "Is this about your family?" she asked softly.

"No."

The lie slipped out easily. Too easily.

But Mrs. Claire wasn't convinced. She leaned forward slightly, concern etching lines into her face. "Then why? Elena, I've known you for years. You've never been the type to give up. Not on anything. What has changed?"

For the briefest moment, Elena's gaze faltered. She looked down at her hands, at the faint impression of her nails against her palm from where she'd been holding too tightly to her bag earlier. A sharp breath filled her chest, her ribs straining around the weight she'd been carrying.

Finally, she lifted her eyes again.

"I'm getting married," she said softly.

The room stilled.

Mrs. Claire's eyes widened. She leaned back in her chair as though the words had struck her physically. "Married?"

Elena nodded, her face smooth, her voice steady.

"At your age?" The disbelief was thick in her voice. "Elena, you're seventeen. You have your entire life ahead of you, and you're talking about marriage? That's... that's not right."

Elena's lips twitched into the faintest smile — polite, formal, empty. "I don't get to decide what's right, Mrs. Claire."

The headmistress's throat worked, searching for words. "Does your family—" She stopped herself. "Of course they do. Elena, listen to me. You're bright. Brilliant. You could go anywhere, be anything. Don't let them throw your future away like this."

Elena's heart ached at the sincerity in the woman's voice. For a moment, she wanted to believe. To imagine a life where her choices mattered, where her future wasn't signed away like a contract.

But she knew better.

This was her fate. The Silva family did not raise daughters to chase dreams. They raised them to protect legacies.

"I've made up my mind," Elena said, rising gracefully from her chair.

Mrs. Claire's voice sharpened. "Elena—"

"I won't regret it," Elena interrupted, though her chest tightened as she spoke.

The lie burned her tongue.

She turned, her heels clicking softly against the floor as she headed for the door. Her hand paused on the knob for just a moment. She forced her lips into a polite smile — the kind she'd perfected over the years to mask everything she truly felt.

"Thank you, Mrs. Claire," she said softly.

And then she stepped out, leaving the scent of lavender and the headmistress's heavy sigh behind her.

The hallway outside was still alive with laughter, with teenagers shouting about weekend parties and dances and football games. Elena walked past them like a ghost drifting through another world.

She was not one of them. She had never been.

Her mind replayed the words she hadn't spoken:

My marriage isn't my choice. It was decided years ago. To a man I barely know. A man the world calls ruthless. Gabriel Marquez.

The name carried weight. Power. Fear.

He was whispered about even in the hallways of her school, though most students didn't realize those whispers touched her life directly.

Gabriel Marquez. The throne holder. The man who owned half of Europe in shadows and silence. The man who, in a matter of weeks, would own her.

Her future had never been hers.

And as Elena walked, her chest ached with the quiet grief of a girl forced to grow into a woman too soon.

She had no choice.

Only the path carved out for her.

The world was indeed cruel to real talents, but Elena Silva had learned to live quietly under its weight.

From the earliest days of her childhood, she had been taught one rule above all others: never let your emotions control you. It was her family's creed, repeated so often that it lived inside her bones.

Her words were few, her expressions fewer. She spoke when necessary, smiled when required, and walked always with her chin high and her silence polished into perfection. The Silva bloodline was not one that produced complainers.

From birth, Elena had been surrounded by attendants who existed only to serve her. Dresses would arrive in her wardrobe before she asked. Food appeared on silver trays without her lifting a hand. A single look was enough to summon someone at her side.

To many, her life would have been the embodiment of luxury. But for Elena, it was a cage. Every golden bar of privilege closed tighter around her spirit.

And though she felt that suffocation every day, she never voiced it.

Acceptance was her rebellion.

She belonged to the world of elites, to a family whose name opened doors and commanded respect. To fight against it would be useless. Escape was impossible.

So, Elena Silva wore her fate like an unchanging mask.

⸻

That afternoon, the sun spilled across the front steps of her private high school, gilding the Rolls Royce parked at the entrance. And beside that polished beast of a car leaned a man in all black, his posture taut with impatience.

Josh.

His hands were shoved into the pockets of his leather jacket, his head bent as his foot tapped restlessly against the pavement. He looked like he could not stand waiting another minute.

Elena's sharp eyes found him instantly as she descended the steps. She did not slow her stride, nor soften her gaze. Her head stayed high, her movements precise, her silence unbroken.

When she reached him, her voice—smooth and cool—cut the air.

"Let's go."

Josh's head snapped up, his dark eyes widening for a heartbeat before he nodded once. Without hesitation, he slipped her schoolbag from her hand and swung it onto his own shoulder. Then, with quiet efficiency, he opened the rear door for her.

Elena slid into the back seat of the Royce without another word.

Josh closed the door gently, then circled around to the driver's side. His lips pressed together as though holding back words. He buckled his seatbelt with a sharp click, stole a brief glance at her face in the mirror, and started the engine.

The powerful car rumbled to life, pulling them away from the school gates.

Inside, silence reigned. Elena sat upright, her expression blank as her eyes watched the world blur past the window. The weight of her stillness pressed heavily in the confined space.

Josh could read her silence better than anyone else. He had been by her side too long, through too many of these quiet storms. He knew she would not tell him what had happened at school today. She never did.

And yet, he also knew.

He always knew.

But he was only her bodyguard, bound by rules and limitations. He had no right to pry. Still, for the sake of the bond that had grown silently between them, he could not hold back entirely.

"You did great," he said at last, breaking the silence with a gentleness that only he reserved for her.

Elena's eyes did not move from the window. Her voice was calm, almost tired.

"That is something you always say, Josh."

It was true. After every sacrifice, every forced performance for her family's honor, he would always find those words for her.

Josh smiled faintly, his grip steady on the wheel. "Well, I can't help it. You are always so cool."

A flicker of amusement touched her lips. She let out the smallest breath of laughter, then turned her eyes to him in the mirror.

"Am I?"

Her tone was light, teasing in the only way Elena Silva could be.

Josh's hooded eyes softened as he nodded, his smile widening just enough to be called charming.

For the first time that day, the heaviness inside her chest lightened.

"Want me to take you somewhere to clear your head?" he asked, his voice lower now, more careful. He had no need to explain. He always sensed when her silence was heavier than usual.

Her gaze returned to the window, but her lips curved with restrained sass.

"You will only have thirty minutes of mine, Josh."

His laugh filled the car, warm and alive, slicing through the tension.

"That will be enough, Miss."

⸻

Meanwhile, across the city, the atmosphere was far darker.

"The fuck do you mean by marriage? Are you serious, Dante?"

Andre Marquez's voice thundered across the private lounge, sharp with disbelief. His tall frame was rigid, his jaw set like stone as he faced his brother.

Across from him, Dante Marquez lounged with irritating calmness, a crystal glass of whiskey twirling in his hand. His blond hair caught the golden light of the chandelier, his expression one of long-suffering patience.

"It's not me making announcements, Andre. Don't bark at me like I wrote the damn decree myself." He took a slow sip of his drink, his voice dripping frustration. "Grandfather made the decision. I'm simply the one who had to deliver it."

Andre's fists clenched at his sides. "You expect me to just accept this? To stand aside while Gabriel is thrown into a marriage he never asked for?"

At the far end of the room, another man sat silently, his presence commanding even without words.

Gabriel Marquez.

The infamous throne holder of the Marquez empire, he carried himself with effortless authority. His black suit was cut perfectly to his frame, his dark hair falling slightly across his forehead. Unlike his brothers, his expression betrayed nothing. He swirled the liquor in his glass, as though the matter of his own marriage were no more pressing than the weather.

Dante sighed, watching his older brother's face crease with anger. Then his gaze slid back to Gabriel.

"The one who is supposed to marry isn't even protesting," Dante said dryly, lifting his glass in a mocking toast. "So why should we?"

Andre snapped his head toward Gabriel, frustration sparking.

"Silent again? Is this your answer?" He pointed at him, his voice rising. "He says nothing because he hasn't processed it yet! How can you marry a woman you've never even seen? A childish betrothal suddenly pulled from the shadows—this is madness!"

Dante rolled his eyes, leaning back lazily. "Don't act as though this is the first insane tradition our family has forced on us. If Gabriel isn't screaming, maybe he doesn't care."

Andre's teeth ground together. "Or maybe he's suffocating under the weight of this, and too damn proud to show it."

For the first time, Gabriel's eyes lifted from his glass. Dark, steady, unbothered.

"Are you finished?" His voice was smooth, low, dangerous in its calmness.

The silence that followed was heavier than all the shouting.

—

The car hummed softly beneath them as the city rolled past. Elena rested her cheek lightly against the cool glass, watching buildings blur into streaks of gray and gold.

Josh drove with practiced ease, weaving them away from the heavy traffic of the central districts. He knew without asking where she would want to go—because there were few places she could go at all.

Within fifteen minutes, the sprawling estates and crowded boulevards gave way to quieter streets lined with trees. At the end of a narrow road sat a hidden overlook, a place they had discovered years ago. From here, the whole city stretched beneath them: a patchwork of rooftops, distant towers, and restless roads.

Josh parked the Royce, cutting the engine. For a moment, neither moved. Then he turned to face her, his expression softer than she had ever allowed herself to wear.

"You look tired," he said simply.

Her lips twitched upward, though her eyes stayed on the skyline. "I always look tired to you."

"Because you never stop carrying everything," Josh countered. His tone wasn't accusing, only gentle, a reminder that he saw her weight even when she tried to hide it.

Elena inhaled deeply, letting the silence settle around them. The world below looked endless, yet it all belonged to cages like hers.

"Josh," she said quietly, "have you ever thought of what freedom really means?"

He blinked, taken aback by the rare openness in her voice. "All the time."

"And?"

"It means making choices for yourself," he replied. "Even if they're small ones. Even if you have to fight for them."

Her eyes slid to him then, sharp but softened by something like longing. "I don't have that luxury."

"You think you don't." He leaned slightly closer, his voice dropping. "But you make choices every day. Choosing not to break, not to show them what they've done to you—that's freedom, too. It's your way."

Elena studied him, her unreadable mask cracking for the briefest moment. His words seeped into places she never let anyone touch.

"Thirty minutes," she reminded him, though her tone had lost its earlier edge.

Josh chuckled. "Then let me waste them all trying to make you smile."

And to his quiet triumph, she did.

⸻

Far from the overlook, the air in the Marquez estate remained tense enough to choke.

Andre paced like a caged predator, his anger rolling off him in waves. Dante reclined lazily, though his narrowed eyes betrayed irritation. And Gabriel, as always, seemed untouched by the storm around him.

"I don't understand how you can sit there as if this doesn't matter," Andre snapped, running a hand through his hair. "Marriage isn't a business contract you can sign without thought. It's your life."

Gabriel set his glass down with deliberate calmness, the faint clink echoing.

"You mistake silence for surrender," he said at last, his voice carrying the weight of finality.

Andre froze, his chest heaving. Dante raised a brow, intrigued.

Gabriel leaned back, his gaze cool and steady. "I have known of Grandfather's schemes longer than either of you. The betrothal was no surprise to me."

Dante straightened. "So you're telling us you've been aware of this farce all along and said nothing?"

"There was nothing to say." Gabriel's tone was sharp, dismissing the accusation. "A Marquez does not run from duty. If the old man believes this marriage strengthens the family, then I will weigh it as such."

Andre slammed his fist onto the table. "You're not a pawn, Gabriel! You just inherited the throne of the Marquez empire, and now they want to chain you to some girl you've never even met? This isn't strength—it's a leash."

Gabriel's jaw flexed, but his voice remained calm. "And you think I don't see that? You think I don't know what they're doing?"

His eyes darkened, piercing through both his brothers.

"The question is not whether I want this marriage," he continued, "but how I can turn it into a weapon instead of a shackle."

Silence stretched, heavy with meaning.

Dante exhaled slowly, studying him. "Always calculating. Always five steps ahead."

Andre, however, still looked unconvinced. "And what if the woman on the other end of this leash has her own mind? What if she isn't a pawn you can simply move across your board?"

Gabriel's lips curved faintly, though it was not quite a smile. "Then she and I will see which of us holds the stronger hand."