Page 5

KLEAH

MARRIAGE. TO A STRANGER . Because of blood I never knew ran in my veins.

The thought circles in my mind as I stand in a small, private room within the courthouse, dressed in clothes I didn't even own twenty-four hours ago. A simple cream-colored dress—elegant but understated—that appeared this morning alongside a note from Gabriele: For today, if you wish. Your choice .

I chose to wear it, though I'm not entirely sure why. Perhaps because in a life suddenly spiraling beyond my control, the dress is one small choice I can make. Perhaps because some part of me wants to honor the magnitude of this moment, strange as it may be.

Or perhaps simply because it's beautiful, and beauty has always been my weakness.

I study my reflection in the narrow mirror. The dress fits perfectly—of course it does—falling just below my knees in a clean, classic line that makes me look more sophisticated than I feel. My hair is loose around my shoulders, my makeup minimal. I look like a bride, I suppose, though not the kind who dreamed of this day her whole life.

A soft knock at the door signals that it's time. I take a deep breath, hands smoothing the fabric of the dress in a nervous gesture I can't quite suppress.

"Come in," I call.

Gabriele enters, and my breath catches. He's wearing a perfectly tailored dark suit that emphasizes the breadth of his shoulders, the leonine grace of his movements. His eyes, those dark eyes that see too much, widen slightly at the sight of me.

"You wore it."

"It seemed appropriate."

Something flickers across his face—surprise, perhaps, or approval. "It suits you."

"Thank you." I fidget with the small clutch in my hands. "So... how does this work?"

"Simply. We go in, the judge performs the ceremony, we sign the papers, it's done."

"That's it? No witnesses?"

"Two from my security team. Discreet, professional. They won't speak of it." A ghost of a smile touches his lips. "Ready?"

No. Not remotely. But what choice do I have?

"As I'll ever be."

He holds out his arm, and after a moment's hesitation, I place my hand on it. The solid warmth of him is oddly reassuring as he leads me down the corridor to a small, wood-paneled chamber where an elderly judge awaits behind a polished desk. Two men in dark suits stand against the far wall—the promised witnesses, I assume.

The room is cool and quiet, sunlight slanting through venetian blinds to cast striped patterns across the floor. It feels oddly peaceful, despite the surreal circumstances.

The ceremony itself is brief, perfunctory. The judge speaks of commitment and partnership in formal terms that seem divorced from the reality of what Gabriele and I are doing. We're not uniting our lives out of love or shared dreams, but out of necessity—my need for protection, his obligation to my brother.

When it comes time for rings, Gabriele produces a simple platinum band. Nothing ostentatious, but the quality is unmistakable. He slides it onto my finger with surprising gentleness, his hand warm against mine.

I have no ring for him. This thought bothers me more than it should.

"By the power vested in me," the judge intones, his voice echoing slightly in the small chamber, "I now pronounce you husband and wife."

Just like that, it's done. I am Kleah Bronzetti now, legally bound to the dangerous stranger beside me. A stranger who holds my life in his hands.

We sign the papers in silence, my signature looking small and uncertain next to Gabriele's bold strokes. The witnesses add their names, and then we're walking back down the corridor, my hand still resting on Gabriele's arm.

I wait until we're in the car to speak. "So what now... husband?" The word feels foreign on my tongue, but when I see how it has Gabriele disconcerted?

I like it.

My husband clears his throat. "Now we go home." He starts the engine, pulling smoothly away from the courthouse. "

We're both silent during the drive, but the silence feels different now—charged with unspoken questions, with possibilities I'm not ready to examine. Outside, the first drops of rain begin to hit the windshield, fat and heavy against the glass.

By the time we reach the safe house, the rain has become a steady downpour. Gabriele pulls into the garage, the automatic door closing smoothly behind us.

"Go on in," he says. "I need to check the security system."

Inside, the house feels different somehow. Maybe because I'm entering it this time not as a guest, but as...what? A resident? A wife? The thought is too strange to fully grasp.

I wander to the great room, drawn to the wall of windows despite the gray gloom outside. The rain lashes against the glass, the ocean beyond a churning mass of slate and foam. It matches my mood—turbulent, uncertain, beautiful in its wild way.

"Do you like storms?" Gabriele's voice comes from behind me.

I turn to find him standing in the doorway, jacket removed, collar unbuttoned. More casual than I've seen him before, yet no less imposing.

"I do, actually," I admit. "There's something cleansing about them."

He nods, as if my answer confirms something for him. "Are you hungry?"

"Not really."

"You should eat something. It's been a long day."

The concern in his voice catches me off guard. It's practical, yes—he needs to keep me alive, after all—but there's something else there too. Something almost... gentle.

"I could make us something," I offer.

His eyebrows lift slightly. "You cook?"

"I'm not a chef, but I can manage the basics." I smile at him ruefully. "I just want to do something...normal?"

"Understandable. The kitchen is yours, then."

I find the kitchen well-stocked with high-quality ingredients—another sign of Gabriele's meticulous planning. I decide on a simple pasta dish, something comforting for a rainy evening. The familiar routine of chopping, stirring, tasting grounds me, anchors me in the present moment rather than the unknowable future.

Gabriele gives me space, disappearing into what I assume is his office, but returns as I'm plating the food. He's rolled up his sleeves, exposing strong forearms marked with a few faint scars. The sight of them reminds me of who he is, what he's done.

My husband.

The word still doesn't feel real.

We eat at the kitchen island, the rain creating a soothing background rhythm. The pasta is good—not exceptional, but satisfying. Gabriele eats with the focus he seems to bring to everything, present in the moment in a way few people manage.

"This is good," he says. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

After dinner, he insists on cleaning up, waving away my offer to help. I take the opportunity to explore the house more thoroughly, wandering through rooms that balance luxury with practicality. The east wing that he'd assigned to me contains not just a bedroom and bath, but a sitting room and even a small library.

It's in this library that I finally settle, curled in a window seat with a book I can't focus on, listening to the steady beat of rain against glass. The storm outside matches the one in my mind—thoughts swirling, questions mounting, future uncertain.

Night has fully fallen when Gabriele finds me there. He pauses in the doorway, as if uncertain of his welcome.

"May I join you?"

I nod, closing the book I wasn't really reading. He moves to sit in an armchair near the fireplace, not crowding me but close enough for conversation.

"Would you like a fire?" he asks. "The nights get cool here, especially during storms."

"Yes, please."

He builds it efficiently, with the practiced movements of someone who's done it many times before. Soon, flames are dancing behind the grate, painting the room in warm golden light.

"How long do you plan staying up?"

"I'm not sure I can sleep," I admit. Too much has happened, too much has changed. My mind keeps circling back to the reality that I'm now legally bound to this man—this stranger who knows more about me than I know about him.

"Would you like something? Tea, perhaps? Or something stronger?"

The offer surprises me. It's so... normal. Domestic, even. "Tea would be nice."

He nods and rises. "I'll be right back."

Left alone with the fire, I find myself staring into the flames, mesmerized by their dance. Fire transforms, consumes, reduces to essence. It takes what was and creates what will be. So much like this situation I find myself in—my life before reduced to ash, something new and unknown rising from the remains.

Gabriele returns with two steaming mugs, offering one to me. The tea is fragrant, soothing—chamomile with honey and a hint of something else I can't identify.

"What is this?" I ask after taking a sip. "It's lovely."

"An old family recipe. My grandmother's. For sleep and peace of mind."

Another small personal detail offered freely. I find myself collecting them like precious stones, these rare glimpses into who Gabriele Bronzetti is beyond the dangerous protector.

"Tell me about her," I say. "Your grandmother."

He looks surprised by the request, but after a moment, he settles back in his chair. "She was... formidable. Tiny woman, barely five feet tall, but she ruled our household with absolute authority. My grandfather might have been the priest, but she was the true moral compass."

"You loved her." It's not a question.

"Very much." His voice softens. "She took me in after my parents died. Raised me until I was fourteen."

"And then?"

"And then life took a different turn." His expression closes slightly. "That's a story for another time, perhaps."

I don't push. We each have our boundaries, our private spaces. Perhaps in time, those boundaries will shift. For now, I'm grateful for even this small insight.

We finish our tea in companionable silence, the fire crackling softly, rain still pattering against the windows. Despite the strangeness of my situation, despite the fact that I married a stranger today, I feel a curious sense of calm.

When I finally rise to go to bed, Gabriele stands as well.

"Thank you," I say, though I'm not entirely sure what I'm thanking him for. The tea? The fire? The brief glimpse into his past?

"Sleep well, Kleah." His voice is gentle in a way I haven't heard before.

In my room, I change into the soft nightclothes provided, sliding between sheets that feel impossibly luxurious against my skin. Despite my earlier certainty that sleep would elude me, I find my eyelids growing heavy, my thoughts slowing.

My last conscious thought is of Gabriele sitting by the fire, firelight casting shadows across his face, his voice soft as he spoke of his grandmother.

My husband.

Perhaps not such a stranger after all.

GAbrIELE

She sleeps now, in the east wing of the house.

My wife.

The title sits strangely in my mind, foreign and familiar at once. I've never imagined myself married, never saw it as part of my possible future. Yet here I am, bound by law and word to a woman I barely know.

Outside, the storm continues, wind driving rain against glass in steady percussion. It suits my mood—this restless, elemental force contained behind civilized barriers.

I move to the windows, watching lightning illuminate the churning sea beyond. Kleah Martell—Kleah Bronzetti now—is unlike anyone I expected to find. I imagined someone... fragile. Someone who would crumble under the weight of revelation, who would need to be managed rather than partnered.

Instead, I found a woman of quiet strength and surprising resilience. A woman who absorbs impossible truths and adapts to them, who faces fear without being consumed by it.

A woman who made pasta tonight, as if the simple act of cooking might restore normalcy to a world turned upside down.

There's something disarming about her directness, her emotional honesty. In my world, such transparency is dangerous—a weakness to be exploited. Yet she wields it almost like a shield, her genuineness creating a space around her that seems to demand authenticity in return.

I find myself telling her things I hadn't planned to share—small truths, but truths nonetheless. It's unexpected and unsettling, this pull toward openness with her.

I turn away from the window, moving through the darkened house to my office. Work is the answer—it always has been. Plans to make, security to reinforce, intelligence to analyze. Valentina's next move to anticipate.

But as I pass the east wing, I find myself pausing, listening. The house is quiet save for the storm outside. Is she truly sleeping? Or lying awake like me, mind racing with too many questions?

Our strange union is barely hours old. A marriage of necessity, of protection rather than passion. Yet already I feel a responsibility toward her that goes beyond my promise to Viktor. Something more personal, more... human.

In my office, I rebuild the fire mechanically, muscle memory guiding my hands in the dark. When it's burning steadily again, I take the letter from my pocket and read it one final time. Then, with deliberate care, I hold it to the flames.

The heavy paper resists at first, then catches, curling as fire consumes it. I watch until nothing remains but ash, the final words of a dead man transformed into heat and light.

A new beginning. A clean slate. Whatever happens now will be between Kleah and me, unburdened by Viktor's shadow.

I sit in the armchair, watching the fire grow stronger, listening to the storm begin to fade. Dawn will come soon, and with it, the first day of our strange new reality.

Upstairs, Kleah sleeps in the east wing, my protection and my responsibility.

My wife.

She'll never be afraid in my hands, I promise silently. Not of me, not of anyone. Never again.

I don't know how long I sit there, thoughts drifting between strategy and unexpected sentiment. Eventually, I must doze, because I wake with a start as the first light of dawn creeps through the windows.

The storm has passed. The fire has died. And somewhere in this house, Kleah Bronzetti is beginning to stir.