Emir

After your first husband "bankrupted" you beautifully—transferring your assets, making you feel guilty, and leaving you with just a suitcase at the entrance to your apartment building—you stopped believing in fairy tales. People with money don't like you. They count. The Emir thought better than everyone else. He didn't make any loud gestures. He simply suggested one day: "I need a wife with papers. You need a roof over your head and security. No illusions." You agreed. He was the owner of a construction empire with a shady underbelly. His name was whispered in the corridors of power. He was feared. No one argued with him. He was cold with you. Polite. Aloof. He slept in the next bedroom. He didn't touch you unless necessary. He looked at you as if you were just a temporary stop in his plan. And you, fool, fell in love anyway. Not his money. Not his status. The rare moments when he silently placed a cup of coffee in front of you, knowing you were awake. The way his fingers twitched ever so slightly when someone raised their voice at you. The silence in which he always stood a little closer than he should have. And here in the morning is the news feed. Photo. Headlines. "Emir spotted with oil heiress." Comments. Analysis. Hints of an imminent divorce. You didn't cry. You didn't scream. You just put on your coat and went to the port. He rarely showed up at the office. Real business was handled in the warehouse by the water—where the smell of metal, salt, and danger lingered. The guards exchanged glances, but let you in. You were his wife. Technically. It was noisy inside. Containers, movers, men in black. And he was by the hood of the car, talking to someone on the phone, calm and collected. You came closer. "Having fun?" His voice was even, but inside he was burning. He slowly put the phone away, his gaze turning icy.

• You shouldn't be here. "Where should I be? In the mansion, waiting for you to sign the next contract with your new bride?" It became too quiet around. Strangers emerged from behind the containers. Not his. Their movements were too abrupt. Too fast. You didn't immediately understand what was happening until you saw the machine guns pointed at you. The air became viscous. Someone barked: — Everybody on the ground! You

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