Agatha snapped back to reality, her pulse hammering against her ribs. For a moment, she swore she had stopped breathing.
"Christian," she whispered, caught in the intensity of his gaze.
His hands remained firm on her waist, his touch burning through the fabric of her dress.
"I am not a pony," she muttered, trying to summon some defiance. "And let me go before I do something drastic."
Christian smirked, tilting his head as if amused by her resistance. His fingers flexed against her skin. "What would you do, Pony?" he murmured, voice teasing yet laced with something darker. "You're the one who came into my room."
Frustration simmered inside her. She rolled her eyes without thinking.
His grip tightened.
Agatha barely had time to react before Christian shut his eyes briefly, his jaw clenching as if he were battling something within himself. When he looked at her again, the heat in his stare made her stomach flip.
"Don't do that again, Pony," he warned, his voice lower, rougher. "Or you'll have to pay for it."
"Pay?" she echoed, arching a brow. "For what, exactly? You've already been holding me here like some kind of prisoner. Just let me go."
His lips curved into something almost cruel. "Beg me."
Her breath hitched.
"Beg?" she scoffed, though her voice wavered slightly. "I don't beg for anything."
Christian leaned in, his breath ghosting over her cheek. "Then we might as well consummate our marriage."
Agatha's body stiffened, an unexpected shiver rippling through her. Every nerve in her body screamed at her to move, to fight, to do something—but she just stood there, trapped between the fire in his eyes and the unspoken words tightening in her throat.
She met his gaze, and suddenly, her carefully built walls didn't feel so solid anymore.
"Please, Christian." The words slipped out before she could stop them.
A slow, knowing smile spread across his lips. "Good girl."
And then—just as easily as he had seized her—he let her go.
Agatha stumbled back, sucking in a sharp breath as the space between them grew. Without another word, she turned and fled from his room, the heat of his touch still lingering on her skin.
By the time she collapsed onto her bed, her thoughts were a mess.
What the hell had just happened?
One thing was clear—Christian Stone wasn't far from the rumors about him. He was ruthless. A beast. A man who played by his own rules.
A knock at the door pulled her from her spiraling thoughts.
"Good evening, ma'am," a maid's voice called from the other side. "Dinner is served."
Agatha sat up, running a hand through her hair. "I'll have it in my room."
"Yes, ma'am." The maid bowed slightly before leaving.
Agatha blinked. Did she just bow?
Back at home, the staff never bowed. The whole thing felt oddly… archaic. This house, this marriage—everything about it felt wrong.
A few minutes later, dinner was brought in. Lentils, vegetable soup, and whole-grain bread.
She frowned. "What?"
The maid hesitated. "Is something wrong, ma'am?"
Agatha wrinkled her nose. "I can't eat this. Please, bring me something else—chicken and chips?"
The maid stiffened. "I'm sorry, ma'am, but we are only allowed to serve what's on the structured meal plan. It's a house rule."
Agatha scoffed. "A rule? Seriously?"
The maid lowered her gaze, not responding.
"Fine," Agatha muttered, waving her off. "I'll just order something else."
She barely noticed the maid hesitate before leaving. Instead, she grabbed her phone and ordered creamy seafood pasta with chicken.
Thirty minutes later, her phone rang.
"Good evening, ma'am," the delivery guy said. "I'm at the gate, but security won't let me through. Just to confirm—this is Reel Till Avenue, The Stone's Villa?"
"Yes, that's the address. Who's stopping you?"
"Security, ma'am. They say it's against the house rules."
Agatha rolled her eyes. Of course. More rules.
"Fine. Leave it at the gate. I'll come pick it up myself."
After changing into something more comfortable, she stepped into the hallway—only to run straight into Mr. Coy.
"Excuse me," she said, keeping her voice even. "I ordered food, and it's at the gate. Can you send someone to pick it up?"
"I'm sorry, ma'am, but outside food is not allowed. You must eat what has been prepared in the kitchen."
Agatha's jaw tightened. "You're joking, right?"
"I'm afraid not. Your order has likely been rejected or confiscated."
She sucked in a sharp breath, trying to tamp down her anger. "Where is Christian?"
"He is in the dining hall."
"Take me to him."
She followed Mr. Coy through the grand hallways, her heels clicking against the marble floor. The dining room was just as opulent as the rest of the house, but she barely noticed.
Christian sat at the table, eating leisurely, his movements slow and deliberate.
Taking a deep breath, Agatha approached.
"Christian, I ordered food, but your security stopped it because of some ridiculous rule. Can you tell them to give it back?"
He didn't even look up. "What happened to the dinner that was served?"
"I didn't like it," she replied flatly.
Christian took a sip of his wine before finally meeting her gaze. "I'm sorry, Pony, but we don't do that here. We have a structured meal plan that must be followed. Either you eat what's served, or you starve."
Agatha clenched her fists. "What? Who makes such ridiculous rules? And stop calling me Pony!"
Christian's lips curved into something smug. "This is my house, and I make the rules."
She let out an exasperated hiss, rolled her eyes dramatically, and stormed out.
Back in her room, she paced, her mind racing.
Men and their obsession with rules.
This was exactly how her father had treated her mother—controlling, domineering, suffocating. I will never let that happen to me.
Her stomach groaned, twisting painfully. Hunger gnawed at her, threatening to trigger her ulcer. I shouldn't be the one suffering—my father should.
Then, a thought struck her.
I could sue my father and everyone who contributed to this sham of a marriage.
But first, she needed to eat.
She stepped out into the dimly lit hallway, her bare feet silent against the floor as she tried to navigate toward the kitchen. The house was eerily quiet, the faint glow of wall sconces casting dramatic shadows along the corridors.
Then—before she could react—strong hands gripped her waist, yanking her back.
Her back hit the wall, and she barely had time to breathe before a familiar warmth pressed against her.
She knew exactly who it was.
"Christian," she gasped.
His eyes glinted in the low light. "Hey, Pony," he murmured.
"Please," she breathed, her voice softer than she intended. "Let me go."
"Let you go?" His lips brushed dangerously close to her ear. "Do you know what I do to women like you—women who are disrespectful and arrogant?"
Agatha swallowed, her pulse hammering.
"No, and I don't care." She tried to sound firm, but her voice wavered.
Christian smirked. "I punish them."
His grip tightened. He was so close she could feel his breath against her skin.
"Christian—"
I love it when you say my name," he murmured, his lips hovering near the shell of her ear. "Say it again."
Agatha pressed her lips together, refusing to play into his little game. But then, his fingers grazed the small of her back—a featherlight touch that sent an involuntary shiver down her spine.
"Say it," he coaxed, his voice a dangerous whisper.
"Christian," she whispered.