F****d By The Man I Was Told To Marry

She never wanted this marriage. Arranged, strategically calculated, designed to merge empires and secure her father's failing business. He was supposed to be a cold transaction - a powerful billionaire with iron in his jaw and ice in his veins. What she wasn't prepared for was the way his hands would burn against her skin, or how completely he'd claim every inch of her body on their wedding night.

From the moment he pressed her against the limousine window, tearing away her pristine wedding dress, she understood: this wasn't about boardrooms or business arrangements. This was about domination. About possession. About a man so intensely focused on making her his that nothing else existed.

Night after night, he proves it. In the penthouse overlooking the city. Against mahogany desks in his office. In the shower, against cold tile, with his hand wrapped around her throat as she gasps his name. He f***s her with an urgency that borders on obsession - deep, demanding, relentless. He owns every moan, every shudder, every desperate plea.

But as her body surrenders completely to his, something unexpected happens. The walls between them crack. Whispered confessions in the dark. A vulnerability beneath the raw intensity. She discovers he fought this arrangement too - not because of duty, but because he'd been waiting for her, though he didn't know it.

In a marriage she was forced to make, she finds herself choosing him, again and again, with every climax, every kiss, every exposed piece of her soul. Revenge. Resentment. Passion. They've become indistinguishable.