take your time
Mafia!Steve Rongers x F!Reader
Summary: Your dad - your father - is in deep shit. He owes a lot of money to a lot of important people. And you're his security deposit.
Word Count: 8.7K
CW: I mean Steve is a Mafia boss and your dad is a deadbeat, but apart from that, it's basically just a whole fluffy mess.
AN: Dearest gentle reader, it has been a long ass while. Like genuinely. Happy to be back. It's probably shit but I'm rusty as all hell so apologies in advance.
Dad didn’t even look up as he said it.
“I found a solution.”
He was hunched over the kitchen table, poring over the stack of documents in front of him. ‘OVERDUE’, ‘FORECLOSURE’, ‘FINAL NOTICE’ all stamped in bright red letters. Ash from the cigarette in his mouth fell onto his suit, the one you just got dry-cleaned, as she turned his head towards you.
You looked at him, confused, placing your bag on the table gently as you waited for the inevitable elaboration.
“To the little money problem we’ve been having.” We? “I’ve made a deal. He said he’d write off the debts, if I gave him something valuable in return.”
You had nothing of value, you thought to yourself. Even if you sold everything in your name, it wouldn’t cover the amount your father owed. Not even half of it.
“You’ll marry him.”
The words struck you like a slap to the face. Bile rose in your throat and for a split second, you thought – you hoped – you misheard him. Your throat tightens, but you force your voice to work, “What on earth are you talking about?”
“Mr Rogers needs a wife. And if you make a good wife – which you will, won’t you, sweetie – then he promised to write off the debts.” The barely veiled threat makes your skin crawl.
You slip away as your father turns away and back to the ledger in front of him, as if he hadn’t dropped a bombshell on your life. As your bedroom door clicks shut, you take a shuddering breath. What the-
The crawling feeling didn’t go away over the course of the next two weeks. ‘Mr Rogers’ – the mystery figure that plagued your father’s life since his gambling problem got worse – hadn’t made a physical appearance in your life, but he’d made his presence known in more ways than one.
The first change came the day after your father told you the news. You’d woken up to an empty house - as you always did, since your father went to work early, and gambled late into the evening - and walked downstairs. The house felt warmer than it had in months, the power having been switched off months ago. In all honesty, it was a miracle you had even retained the house but your grandfather’s life insurance policy had paid it off years ago.
You wandered downstairs, wondering if by some miracle your luck had changed. The rest of the house looked much the same as it usually did - the couch was threadbare, the chairs at the table were wobbly, the paint peeling off the cabinets - with the exception of a fresh bouquet of flowers and a letter on the kitchen table where your father's ash tray usually was.
The flowers caught your attention first - their pristine white petals looked severely out-of-place in your mess-filled kitchen, with dishes piled up by the sink and the remnants of your father's chain-smoking coating all the surfaces. No one had ever bought you flowers before. Least of all your father. How the fuck did they get in here?
You turned to the letter second. The letter was typed - unsurprising - but a small handwritten note at the bottom caught your eye. It was a phone number and signature. 'Steve', it said. Hmm. So that's what Mr Rogers' first name is.
You glanced over the rest of the text. 'Steve' told you about the agreement that he had made with your father to pay off his debts. He mentioned that the wedding was set a month from now as he was going away on business. I suppose that means we won't meet each other prior to the wedding. He told you that the bills had been taken care of for the rest of the month, meaning that you didn't have to work at Zemo's (an upscale strip club on the south side of the city, where you waitressed for extra cash).
You saw red. What right did this random man have, be he your future husband or not to dictate what you did or didn't do?
You grabbed your bag and headed out the door, still stewing in your anger. What right did he have to stalk you and find out where you worked, without even introducing himself?
The bus was delayed, so you started down the block at breakneck pace to get to the cafe on time. And how dare he break into your house?
You worked your shift with thinly veiled frustration, nearly snapping at some poor teenager who all but sprinted out of the room once he had his white chocolate peppermint mocha with extra whipped cream and candy cane sprinkles. You felt bad until you thought back to the mystery man plaguing all your thoughts.
That's it. I'm going to find this man once and for all.
There was only one man for the job. You slipped into your slinky black uniform in the toilets, stashing your bag and work clothes in a small locker by the changing rooms. You step out onto the floor, a mostly professional setting for now, seeing as the sun was still up. A few people glance up at you appreciatively, gazes raking over your body, as you walk up to the bar.
"Hey little lady," Vis calls over as you walk up to the bar, "how's it goin'? You're here early?"
"Need a favour."
"Ask away, honey. Anything for my favourite waitress."
"Seen the Baron?" Vis looked at you confused. No one ever goes looking for the Baron - he always comes to find you. "I need his help."
"You don't want his help, trust me." Vis looked serious now, his usual happy-go-lucky demeanour melting away. "Whatever it is, you can tell me. You need money? I can float you some. You need to get away? I got a beat-up car and cash for gas if you need it. Just don't go to the Baron."
You giggled, taking the drink he handed you, "Thanks Vis, but I need information. And the Baron knows everyone who is anyone."
Vis leaned against the table, his tattoos peeking out from under his crisp white shirt. "Who do you need to know about?"
"Mr Rogers. I need to talk to him. Soon."
"And what business does a pretty darling like you have with the King of the Underworld, Detka?" Another voice chimed behind you. Signature brown curls came into your vision as you turned to face Ms Wanda - the Baron's right-hand woman.
"The King of the Underworld?" Something flashed in the corner of your eyes, a glint of blonde hair. But as quickly as it appeared, it was gone.
"Even if you wanted to see him, Detka, he's out of town. Won't be back for a while."
Fuck.
"Well, if you see him, tell him to stay the fuck out of my house."
The crawling feeling didn’t go away over the course of the next two weeks. ‘Mr Rogers’ – the mystery figure that plagued your father’s life since his gambling problem got worse – hadn’t made a physical appearance in your life, but he’d made his presence known in more ways than one.
The first change came the day after your father told you the news. You’d woken up to an empty house - as you always did, since your father went to work early, and gambled late into the evening - and walked downstairs. The house felt warmer than it had in months, the power having been switched off months ago. In all honesty, it was a miracle you had even retained the house but your grandfather’s life insurance policy had paid it off years ago.
You wandered downstairs, wondering if by some miracle your luck had changed. The rest of the house looked much the same as it usually did - the couch was threadbare, the chairs at the table were wobbly, the paint peeling off the cabinets - with the exception of a fresh bouquet of flowers and a letter on the kitchen table where your father's ash tray usually was.
The flowers caught your attention first - their pristine white petals looked severely out-of-place in your mess-filled kitchen, with dishes piled up by the sink and the remnants of your father's chain-smoking coating all the surfaces. No one had ever bought you flowers before. Least of all your father. How the fuck did they get in here?
You turned to the letter second. The letter was typed - unsurprising - but a small handwritten note at the bottom caught your eye. It was a phone number and signature. 'Steve', it said. Hmm. So that's what Mr Rogers' first name is.
You glanced over the rest of the text. 'Steve' told you about the agreement that he had made with your father to pay off his debts. He mentioned that the wedding was set a month from now as he was going away on business. I suppose that means we won't meet each other prior to the wedding. He told you that the bills had been taken care of for the rest of the month, meaning that you didn't have to work at Zemo's (an upscale strip club on the south side of the city, where you waitressed for extra cash).
You saw red. What right did this random man have, be he your future husband or not to dictate what you did or didn't do?
You grabbed your bag and headed out the door, still stewing in your anger. What right did he have to stalk you and find out where you worked, without even introducing himself?
The bus was delayed, so you started down the block at breakneck pace to get to the cafe on time. And how dare he break into your house?
You worked your shift with thinly veiled frustration, nearly snapping at some poor teenager who all but sprinted out of the room once he had his white chocolate peppermint mocha with extra whipped cream and candy cane sprinkles. You felt bad until you thought back to the mystery man plaguing all your thoughts.
That's it. I'm going to find this man once and for all.
There was only one man for the job. You slipped into your slinky black uniform in the toilets, stashing your bag and work clothes in a small locker by the changing rooms. You step out onto the floor, a mostly professional setting for now, seeing as the sun was still up. A few people glance up at you appreciatively, gazes raking over your body, as you walk up to the bar.
"Hey little lady," Vis calls over as you walk up to the bar, "how's it goin'? You're here early?"
"Need a favour."
"Ask away, honey. Anything for my favourite waitress."
"Seen the Baron?" Vis looked at you confused. No one ever goes looking for the Baron - he always comes to find you. "I need his help."
"You don't want his help, trust me." Vis looked serious now, his usual happy-go-lucky demeanour melting away. "Whatever it is, you can tell me. You need money? I can float you some. You need to get away? I got a beat-up car and cash for gas if you need it. Just don't go to the Baron."
You giggled, taking the drink he handed you, "Thanks Vis, but I need information. And the Baron knows everyone who is anyone."
Vis leaned against the table, his tattoos peeking out from under his crisp white shirt. "Who do you need to know about?"
"Mr Rogers. I need to talk to him. Soon."
"And what business does a pretty darling like you have with the King of the Underworld, Detka?" Another voice chimed behind you. Signature brown curls came into your vision as you turned to face Ms Wanda - the Baron's right-hand woman.
"The King of the Underworld?" Something flashed in the corner of your eyes, a glint of blonde hair. But as quickly as it appeared, it was gone.
"Even if you wanted to see him, Detka, he's out of town. Won't be back for a while."
Fuck.
"Well, if you see him, tell him to stay the fuck out of my house."
The crawling feeling didn’t go away over the course of the next two weeks. ‘Mr Rogers’ – the mystery figure that plagued your father’s life since his gambling problem got worse – hadn’t made a physical appearance in your life, but he’d made his presence known in more ways than one.
The first change came the day after your father told you the news. You’d woken up to an empty house - as you always did, since your father went to work early, and gambled late into the evening - and walked downstairs. The house felt warmer than it had in months, the power having been switched off months ago. In all honesty, it was a miracle you had even retained the house but your grandfather’s life insurance policy had paid it off years ago.
You wandered downstairs, wondering if by some miracle your luck had changed. The rest of the house looked much the same as it usually did - the couch was threadbare, the chairs at the table were wobbly, the paint peeling off the cabinets - with the exception of a fresh bouquet of flowers and a letter on the kitchen table where your father's ash tray usually was.
The flowers caught your attention first - their pristine white petals looked severely out-of-place in your mess-filled kitchen, with dishes piled up by the sink and the remnants of your father's chain-smoking coating all the surfaces. No one had ever bought you flowers before. Least of all your father. How the fuck did they get in here?
You turned to the letter second. The letter was typed - unsurprising - but a small handwritten note at the bottom caught your eye. It was a phone number and signature. 'Steve', it said. Hmm. So that's what Mr Rogers' first name is.
You glanced over the rest of the text. 'Steve' told you about the agreement that he had made with your father to pay off his debts. He mentioned that the wedding was set a month from now as he was going away on business. I suppose that means we won't meet each other prior to the wedding. He told you that the bills had been taken care of for the rest of the month, meaning that you didn't have to work at Zemo's (an upscale strip club on the south side of the city, where you waitressed for extra cash).
You saw red. What right did this random man have, be he your future husband or not to dictate what you did or didn't do?
You grabbed your bag and headed out the door, still stewing in your anger. What right did he have to stalk you and find out where you worked, without even introducing himself?
The bus was delayed, so you started down the block at breakneck pace to get to the cafe on time. And how dare he break into your house?
You worked your shift with thinly veiled frustration, nearly snapping at some poor teenager who all but sprinted out of the room once he had his white chocolate peppermint mocha with extra whipped cream and candy cane sprinkles. You felt bad until you thought back to the mystery man plaguing all your thoughts.
That's it. I'm going to find this man once and for all.
There was only one man for the job. You slipped into your slinky black uniform in the toilets, stashing your bag and work clothes in a small locker by the changing rooms. You step out onto the floor, a mostly professional setting for now, seeing as the sun was still up. A few people glance up at you appreciatively, gazes raking over your body, as you walk up to the bar.
"Hey little lady," Vis calls over as you walk up to the bar, "how's it goin'? You're here early?"
"Need a favour."
"Ask away, honey. Anything for my favourite waitress."
"Seen the Baron?" Vis looked at you confused. No one ever goes looking for the Baron - he always comes to find you. "I need his help."
"You don't want his help, trust me." Vis looked serious now, his usual happy-go-lucky demeanour melting away. "Whatever it is, you can tell me. You need money? I can float you some. You need to get away? I got a beat-up car and cash for gas if you need it. Just don't go to the Baron."
You giggled, taking the drink he handed you, "Thanks Vis, but I need information. And the Baron knows everyone who is anyone."
Vis leaned against the table, his tattoos peeking out from under his crisp white shirt. "Who do you need to know about?"
"Mr Rogers. I need to talk to him. Soon."
"And what business does a pretty darling like you have with the King of the Underworld, Detka?" Another voice chimed behind you. Signature brown curls came into your vision as you turned to face Ms Wanda - the Baron's right-hand woman.
"The King of the Underworld?" Something flashed in the corner of your eyes, a glint of blonde hair. But as quickly as it appeared, it was gone.
"Even if you wanted to see him, Detka, he's out of town. Won't be back for a while."
Fuck.
"Well, if you see him, tell him to stay the fuck out of my house."
Mr Rogers – or Steve – didn’t. Small things popped up around the house while you were asleep: new flowers, a fully stocked fridge, new sneakers to replace the ones you had worn thin.
The second real change came a week later though, in the form of a shadow in the form of white-chocolate-peppermint-mocha-boy.
The first few days spiked your paranoia. You tried to change your routine - took different buses, lingered in shops, pretended to forget things so you had to double back. But every time you looked up, he was there. Always at a polite distance. Always with that same neutral expression. As if he’d been told to watch you, not interact with you. Like a ghost with a mocha addiction.
When you finally confronted him, it wasn’t even dramatic. You just stopped in the middle of the street, turned around, and he nearly ran into you.
“Are you following me?” you demanded.
He blinked. “Yes.”
He didn’t even try to lie. Didn’t stutter. Didn’t pretend you were imagining things. Just dropped the word like it was the most normal thing in the world.
“Why?”
He shrugged - shrugged - and pulled a card from his jacket. Thick. Expensive. Embossed gold lettering. You didn’t need to read the name to know who it belonged to.
“Orders,” he said simply. “For your safety.”
There it was. Those three words that somehow meant the opposite of what they were supposed to.
For your safety meant you belonged to him now, even before there was any paperwork to say so.
For your safety meant your life was no longer yours to control.
For your safety meant you were a commodity that he intended to protect, polish, and claim.
Instead of exploding like you wanted to, you tamped down your rage and sat the poor teenager down after your café shift. He’d been hovering outside like an anxious puppy, pretending not to exist and failing miserably. Up close, the intimidation evaporated. He looked nineteen at best, cheeks still soft, jaw still deciding if it wanted to commit to adulthood, and a nervous habit of tugging on his sleeves.
His name was Peter.
You slid a glass of water toward him, because if this was going to be an interrogation, you could at least be civilized.
“So,” you said. “Explain.”
He swallowed. “Ma–”
“Don’t ‘ma’am’ me. Just talk.”
He nodded like he’d rehearsed taking orders his whole life. “I’m assigned to you. Protection detail. Until further notice.”
You stared at him. Then you let out a laugh that wasn’t really a laugh.
“I don’t need protection,” you said sharply. “Especially not from a kid who can’t even grow a full face of facial hair.”
His face flushed scarlet to the tips of his ears. He touched his jaw instinctively, then dropped his hand with a defeated sigh. “That’s… fair.”
“Glad we agree,” you said. “So, you can go home now.”
“I can’t.” He shook his head immediately. “I mean – technically, I could go home, but I’d probably wake up unemployed. Or dead. Or both.”
You squinted at him. “You’re that scared of him?”
Peter hesitated. Then he surprised you.
“No,” he said honestly. “I’m not scared. I just… like my job. It pays really, really well.”
You blinked. “Define ‘really well.’”
He gave a small, sheepish smile. “Let’s just say I’m making more than most doctors. With hazard pay. And bonuses. And health insurance that covers… everything.”
You hated how practical that sounded.
You leaned back, arms crossed, anger simmering low and hot. “So, you’re sticking around because the pay check’s good.”
He shrugged helplessly. “If you were me, you’d stay too.”
He wasn't wrong. With that much money for just following a stranger, you would do that to the best of your ability. Especially a stranger who lived as boring and predictable of a life as you did.
So, you embraced your little shadow and started leaving little things for him - half out of spite, half out of pity. A spare pastry on the café table when you “forgot” to clear it. A bottled drink left on the bus seat you always took. Napkins with dumb doodles. A note once that said: Blink if you’re being held hostage, just to watch him choke on air.
You took more interesting detours, too.
Partly because you wanted to inconvenience the man who sent him. Partly because you hated the idea of being predictable. Partly because if you were going to be watched, you might as well perform.
So, you browsed bookstores instead of running straight home. You sat in parks you normally ignored. Walked the long way around the block, just to see if he’d follow. He always did. Patient. Careful. Polite. Never closer than necessary, never too far to be useless.
And somehow, despite yourself, “being stalked by a teenager on a mafia salary” slid into the background noise of your life - like the hum of traffic or the buzzing fridge. An irritation you adapted to.
In all honesty, Peter quickly became more of a family than your father ever was. More than your husband would ever be.
The final change came one night after you dragged yourself home from college, exhausted, brain fried from lectures you weren’t technically supposed to be attending.
Secret classes. Classes your father didn't know you were taking. Classes he wouldn't approve of. Classes he definitelywouldn't approve of.
Something felt wrong as you walked up the driveway to your house, fishing the keys out of your pocket. The house was silent, as it always was, and the drive was still, as one would expect it to be at this time of night. But there was a heaviness, a pressure, like someone had a tight grip of your neck.
The front door was unlocked. Shut, but not locked.
Your heartbeat picked up, the racing only amplifying your paranoia. You definitely locked the door this morning.
The door creaked as you nudged it open, laptop held in front of your body just in case. Not that it would do much, but something was better than nothing. The lights were off, the heating was on, not a single shoe was out of place by the door. You crept into the house.
A man was sat on your couch. One arm rested on the back of the soda, ankle casually crossed over his knee, posture relaxed in that careful, purposeful way that showed that even though this was your house, he held all the power in the room.
The man was attractive; you couldn’t deny that. Dark hair, tousled perfectly like a model, sea blue eyes that were calm where they should have been dangerous.
“Hello,” he said, voice smooth, polite. “You must be tired. You had a long day.”
You stared at him, every muscle in your body tense.
He smiled just a touch. “I’m James.”
James? A part of you dropped knowing that this was another man who worked with, or for, your husband. Something near the dining table caught your eye. Your gaze drifted past him.
On the back of a chair lay a dress.
A white dress.
Soft, white silk dress with long lace sleeves.
A small gasp caught in your throat as your lungs forgot how to function for a second.
James followed your line of sight and nodded slightly, like he’d presented something practical, like groceries, or a new coat.
"It’s fitted to your measurements," he said evenly. "There are shoes in the bedroom. Jewellery on the vanity. Hair appointment booked. A stylist will be here in," he checks his watch, "20 minutes."
You feel your throat close up as you place your bag down by the door.
"It’s…" You forced the words out. "It’s today?"
He tilted his head, "You didn't know?"
According to the timeline you had, the wedding was supposed to be next week, and even then, you were expecting more than a 2 hour heads up. You shook your head to James’ question before picking up the dress tenderly and disappearing upstairs.
It’s your fault, you think as you step into the shower. You had an inkling of what kind of man you were marrying. There weren’t many that would pay off the debts of a corrupt lawyer.
It’s your fault for assuming you would have a normal first meeting. It’s your fault for assuming that he would slip the engagement ring he left on your bathroom counter on your finger himself. It’s your fault for assuming that you would know the date of your own wedding.
Well, you know what they say about assuming.
As you stepped out of the shower, you made a promise to yourself. That this would be the last time you ever let this man get your hopes up. You would marry him, you would be a good wife, but you would never let him control your life.
You had had enough of small men who took whatever they could. Never again.
You tilted your head as you stared at yourself in the mirror. You were a bride. Your hair and makeup were done to perfection; the four stylists having worked their magic in an exceptionally short amount of time. The dress was perfect, exactly how you had always imagined and tailored to perfection. The engagement ring on your finger glinted as the light caught it, but you tried your best not to focus on it.
James knocked on the door again. He’d been knocking for the past half an hour, but you were giving him treatment befitting of the situation. The silent treatment.
Still, you were now ready and there was no point in delaying the inevitable. You would have to see James eventually, and you would have to marry Steve eventually.
Grabbing the heels placed by the door, you swung open the door and came face to face with James. He huffed. “Finally. You know the stylist left an hour ago? What took so lo-”
You shoved the shoes into his chest, catching him by surprise. He staggers a few steps back. “The shoes don’t fit. They’re two sizes too big. I won’t be able to walk down the aisle in these.”
Walking past him and down the stairs, you grabbed your sneakers and slipped them on.
“What the fuck are you doing?” James asked, running after you, seemingly aghast at the thought of you getting married in your sneakers.
“Wearing the only shoes I own,” You retorted, standing up to face him, “unless you want me to walk down the aisle barefoot. What would my fiancé think about that?”
"Steve's a right bastard, isn't he?" James muttered under his breath.
"If I say yes, will you tell him?"
James bursts into laughter. Not cruel. Just startled and deeply entertained.
“Oh, that’s brilliant,” he wheezes, genuinely delighted. “You’ve got teeth. I’m going to enjoy this.”
You don’t laugh. You weren’t going to enjoy this.
The chapel you pulled up in front of, was small. You were surprised. A man of your fiancé’s stature getting married in such an intimate chapel? James told you to wait outside a set of ornately carved doors, promising your father would be there soon, before disappearing through another door and into the chapel.
You heard the familiar notes of the Bridal Chorus and the shuffle of people sitting down. Where was your father? Seconds past as you realised he wasn’t coming. A tear pricked at your eyes, but you blinked it away. This wasn’t the first time he didn’t show up for you, and it certainly wouldn’t be the last.
The sorrow faded into rage.
Never again, you reminded yourself. Never again.
The doors swung open. The chapel was mostly empty, quiet. A few men in dark suits filled up the pews, their attention fine-tuned even at such a joyous occasion. Beside some of them sat immaculately dressed women, their watchful eyes following your every move. These were his people.
Your grip tightened around the bouquet as you took a step forward. Alone.
The knowledge didn’t sting anymore – it burned. Hot and ugly in your chest. He sold you to save himself and didn’t even bother to see it through. Didn’t even care to walk you down the aisle.
Fine.
You lifted your chin as a show of confidence. He didn’t matter anyway. That’s when you saw him. Steve. The elusive ‘Mr Rogers’.
He was waiting at the altar, tall and devastatingly handsome in a way that felt almost unfair. Every stand of his dirty-blonde hair was perfectly in place, and when his sparkling blue eyes finally met yours, a tight knot formed in your stomach.
You were in trouble. Deep, deep trouble.
His gaze flicked to your side, instinctive and quick, as if he expected someone to be there. The empty space answered for you. His jaw tightened as he looked back at you, not with irritation or judgement, but something closer to concern. Your anger twisted deeper in your gut.
Steve stepped forward as you reached the altar, and extended his hand, palm open, steady. An offering. You placed your hand in his. His fingers closed around yours carefully, like he was afraid of squeezing too hard. His thumb brushed your knuckles, just once, grounding. You hate that it worked.
The ceremony began. The priest in front of you was ancient, his voice quiet and monotonous like a drone. His words blurred together as you stared straight ahead, jaw set, heart pounding. You said what you were supposed to say. So did he. Neither of you had written vows – unsurprising as you found out about your own wedding mere hours before, and you were just security on your father’s loan to him.
Your anger stayed with you the entire time, a quiet companion at your side.
Then came the kiss. The priest announced it as the closing of his droning monologue, and you felt everyone’s eyes burning into your side. Your heart slammed violently against your ribs. Obviously, you knew this was coming, it was part of every wedding that you’d ever heard of. But you had never kissed anyone before. The realisation hit you all at once – this man, this stranger, was going to be your first.
Steve leaned in slowly, giving you time to pull away if you wanted to.
You didn’t.
One of his hands rested on your hip and the other at your face. When his lips finally met yours, the kiss was soft. Chaste. Almost reverent.
You pulled back quickly, but Steve didn’t let go of your waste. You resist the urge to punch him.
From the chapel, there was no pause. No chance to breathe.
James opened the door of a blacked-out car, one hand braced on the roof as you were guided inside. Another man – Sam – tucked the train of your dress into the car before walking around the car to the driver’s side. James jumped in next to him.
Steve got in last.
The car pulled away almost immediately, smooth and controlled, like everything was in Steve’s world. But for most of the drive, Steve didn’t say a word. He sat, leaned back in his seat, phone in hand, blue eyes focused on the screen as his thumb scrolled. Whatever he was reading seemed to be important. Or maybe it was just an excuse to ignore you.
Without anything else to keep you occupied, you took the opportunity to take in your surroundings properly. You knew James, of course, who was sat relaxed in his seat, chatting to Sam, who grunted non-committally. Sam, unlike James and Steve, was on the shorter side with a friendlier face. Except apparently when James was talking about Fluffer Nutter sandwiches.
The man of the hour was even more striking up close than he was at the end of the aisle. The clean lines of his face, the way his suit fit his body like a glove, the way his hair was immaculately styled despite the ceremony. He smelled faintly of something expensive and understated. Exactly like him.
You could see the outline of a gun under his jacket, and the glint of a Rolex under his sleeve. You shuddered.
“I’m sorry about your father,” he said. It was the first time you’d every heard his voice, low and even with a softness you weren’t prepared for. “He was informed of the time and place. My men were supposed to have picked him up. I’ll look into it.”
You didn’t respond. You stared out the window instead, watching the city blur past, your jaw tight.
Thankfully, Steve didn’t push. He moved on, “At the reception, you will be expected to make an appearance, but not much else. There will be a toast, a meal and I need to meet some people. Then we can leave.”
Why is he telling you all this? It’s not like you have a choice to just not show up.
“There will be a second dress waiting for you,” he added. “Something… more your style.”
That made you look at him. “Another dress?” you asked, disbelief slipping into your voice before you could stop it.
The corner of his mouth lifted into a smug smirk. “Your father mentioned you love fashion. I bought you the newest dresses – you can take your pick.”
Your stomach churned. But you plastered a smile on your face.
Your cheeks hurt from the fake smile plastered on your face. Another couple came up to you and Steve, congratulating you on your nuptials. You resisted the urge to roll your eyes.
If you thought the ceremony was bad, the reception was so much worse. Worse because it was loud. Worse because it was crowded. Worse because every man who approached you does so only to get closer to him.
They all shook Steve’s hand like it was an honour. Businessmen with greedy smiles, local politicians with practiced charm, and wives that would kill their husbands just to get into his bed. Your bed.
They laughed too loudly at his pitiful jokes, leant in too close, said his name with reverence. They turned to you and mentioned how lucky you were to have him as a husband.
Your husband.
The words settled badly in your chest.
But instead of what you wanted to do, you laughed politely, stood beside him, smiled when prompted, and nodded when required. A silent accessory. You could feel it, how little you mattered in this room, how completely this world bent around his every whim. The power that radiated off Steve without him ever raising his voice, without him doing anything at all.
It scared you, because you had none of it.
You were trapped in a marriage arranged by debt and desperation, and no matter how gentle Steve seemed to be, the truth remained: you were bought. Sold. To a man who could crush all of Brooklyn with a smile and a sentence.
Then your father appeared. Late. Unsteady. Pupils blown. High as a kite.
You saw him before Steve did, slinking through the crowd towards you both. Your stomach drops straight to the floor. The sour stench of cheap whiskey rolls off him as he pulls you into a clumsy half-hug and laughed like all of this was some kind of a joke.
“Look at you,” he said loudly. “That dress must’ve cost a fortune.”
The words felt like a slap.
You hated the dress. It pinched at your ribs, scratched at your skin, heavy and stiff and nothing like you. It was ugly. It was wrong. It was a costume meant for a woman you father created to please your husband. A woman who doesn’t exist.
You didn’t respond. You could feel people watching. Judging. Filing this moment away as proof that you weren’t capable.
Humiliation crawled up your spine, hot and choking. You were tired. Your feet hurt. Your head ached. The aner you had been holding all day started to shake, threatening to spill over into something messier.
Steve noticed.
You weren’t sure how – you didn’t say anything, didn’t look at him, didn’t signal that something was wrong – but suddenly he was there, his hand settling at the small of your back. Not possessive, anchoring.
He looked at your father once. Just once. And whatever he saw there was enough.
Within minutes, the music softened. Conversations politely ended. Apologies issued that didn’t sound like apologies at all. The guests were ushed out with practiced efficiency. The whole party dissolved around you.
Steve didn’t ask if you were ready to leave. He just guided you out, his hand steady against you, like he had already decided you’d had enough.
The car ride was just as awkward the second time, even more so because James and Sam weren’t having a conversation to eavesdrop on.
When you finally pull up in front of Steve’s house – your house – you have to stop yourself from gasping. The house was massive.
Not a home, a statement.
High gates. Long drive. Stone and glass and space stretching out in every direction. Another reminder of how powerful he was. Of how small you felt inside all of it.
Inside, he led you upstairs and stopped outside a door. “My room,” he said simply. “You can change. Get comfortable.”
Then he left you there. Alone.
The bathroom was bigger than your childhood bedroom. Marble counters, soft lighting, mirrors that showed you every tired, angry inch of yourself. You stripped off the dress with shaking hands, relief and resentment tangling together.
That’s when you saw them. Folded neatly on the counter were a pair of pyjamas, soft and familiar in shape. Yours.
How dare he? Not only break into your house for the thousandth time, but to rummage through your clothes without your knowledge or permission? Who the fuck does he think he is?
Steve was stood by the bed when you walked out of the bathroom, jacket off now, sleeves rolled, the picture of a man who assumed the night would continue in the way it had always gone for him. An eager woman diving headfirst into his bed.
The door clicked shut behind you. He looked up, blue eyes softening when they landed on you. He took a step closer, hand lifting as if it was the most natural thing in the world to reach for you.
Expectation hung in the air. That was when something inside you finally snapped.
You shoved his hand away. Hard.
“No.” The sound echoed in the room, sharp and final.
Steve froze. His eyes widened – not in anger, but surprise – as you took a step back, shaking with fury.
“You don’t get to do that,” you said, voice rising. “You don’t get to touch me like this is owed to you.”
“I thought-” he started, stopping as you laugh bitterly.
“You thought?” you cut in. “You never even met me before today. Not once. You didn’t think I deserved that much?”
He opened his mouth again, but the words poured out of you, unstoppable and unforgiving.
“You broke into my house. Multiple times. You had men watching me, tracking me, deciding things about my life while I didn’t even know your face.” Your hands curled into fists at your side. “You didn’t tell me when I was getting married. You didn’t ask me anything. Not what I wanted, not what I was scared of, not who I even am.”
Steve took a step toward you, palms open. “I was trying to-”
“No,” you snapped. “You were trying to control all of it. Trying to control me.”
Your chest heaved as you glared at him.
“And now you think I want to sleep with you?” you continued, voice cracking with rage. “After all that? After being treated like a transaction instead of a person?”
Silence filled the room, thick and heavy.
You pointed at him, finger shaking.
“I will not sleep with you until you earn my forgiveness,” you said. “And that is never going to happen. I will never forgive you.”
Steve swallowed. You could see it, the weight of your words finally landing.
“And let me make something else very clear,” you added, stepping closer now, fury sharpening your resolve. “If I ever find out you have a mistress – if I ever so much as suspect it – I will castrate you before you can even confirm it.”
The words were calm. Deadly serious. The room was utterly still.
For a long moment, Steve just looked at you. Then, slowly, he lowered his hands.
“I won’t touch you,” he said quietly. “Not unless you want me to.”
Steve wasn’t in bed when you woke up.
You lay there for a moment, staring at the ceiling, trying to decide how to feel: on the one hand, you were relieved. You hadn’t wanted to wake up next to him, hadn’t wanted to navigate whatever awkward, heavy thing that would’ve been waiting for you in the morning.
But there was irritation too. Sharp and petty and undeniable.
You kind of wanted him to be there. You wanted him uncomfortable. Apologetic. Grovelling.
With a huff, you threw the covers back and slipped out of bed.
Downstairs, the house opened up in front of you, and you stopped short.
The kitchen was… obscene.
Sunlight poured in through massive windows, spilling across marble countertops and warm wood cabinetry. Everything gleamed. It looked like it belonged in a magazine spread titled The Kitchen of a Man Who Had Never Been Told No.
You wandered in, drawn toward the fridge.
Inside, it was fully stocked. Not just basics, everything. Fresh fruit, artisan cheeses, expensive-looking yogurt, bottles of juice you’d only ever seen at specialty stores. It was overwhelming in the strangest way.
You were standing there, the door still open, staring blankly into it when a voice cut through the quiet.
“Close the fridge. You’re letting the cold out.”
You jumped.
A woman stood a few feet behind you, arms crossed, her expression carved from pure disapproval. She was older, sharp-eyed, her hair pulled back tightly like she was perpetually braced for nonsense.
“And who are you supposed to be?” she asked flatly.
You swallowed. “Uh. I’m-”
“The wife,” she said, already unimpressed. “Yes. I know.”
She stepped past you, taking something out of a cabinet with precise movements. No smile. No warmth. Just efficient disdain.
“I’m Martha,” she added. “I run this house.”
Something about her tone made you laugh before you could stop yourself. It slipped out: small, surprised, real.
“Well,” you said, closing the fridge, “it’s nice to meet the real boss.”
That earned you a look. Long. Measuring.
Then, shockingly, she snorted.
Against all odds, conversation struck.
You sat at the island while she cooked, the smell of butter and coffee filling the air. You talked about nothing and everything: how ridiculous the house was, how ugly your reception dress had been, how your feet still hurt. She complained about Steve’s schedule, his suits, the parade of women who had passed through the house over the years.
“I hated every single one of them,” she said, flipping something in the pan. “They were loud. Or stupid. Or cruel.”
You grinned. “Good to know I’m already on thin ice.”
“You’re still here,” she replied. “That’s something.”
Upstairs, in his office, the smell of breakfast hit Steve like a warning siren. He froze.
Martha was cooking. Which meant you were awake. Which meant- oh god-
He was halfway down the stairs before he was even fully aware of moving, his heart pounding with a very unfamiliar feeling: panic. Martha despised everyone. Especially the women he brought around. You were very different to those women, but the fear ran deep.
He rounded the corner, ready to intervene – to shield, to protect – and stopped dead.
You were laughing. Actually laughing.
Seated at the kitchen island, your hair still rumpled from sleep, smiling so wide it stole the breath from his lungs. Martha slid a plate in front of you with a clatter, muttering something that made you giggle harder.
Steve cleared his throat. Both of you looked up. Martha’s expression shuttered instantly.
“Good morning,” Steve said carefully. She didn’t answer. That surprised him – Martha hated everyone but him.
She turned her back on him with surgical precision and continued cooking. It looked like she had already chosen his wife’s side.
Steve hovered near the counter, awkward in the way that only a man used to command and control could be when he was unsure of how to fix you. He cleared his throat.
“I- uh… I wanted to apologize,” he began, his voice low and measured, though you could hear the hesitation underneath. “For… last night. For… everything.”
You glanced at him over your coffee. Martha snorted quietly behind you, flipping a pancake with one perfect flick of her wrist.
Steve ignored her… or tried to. “I know… I haven’t been fair. I-”
“Steve,” you said, cutting him off. “You can’t just say sorry like that. You… you don’t get it.”
He opened his mouth again, fumbling, searching for words. His sharp jaw tensed. You saw it: the man used to being obeyed, used to being listened to, suddenly at a loss.
Martha let out a bark of laughter. Not cruel, just sharp and amused.
“You’re hopeless,” she said, shaking her head as she flipped the pancake onto a plate with a flourish. Then she patted your shoulder firmly, like you were a child she was proud of. “Don’t worry. He’ll figure it out eventually. Or not. Your call.”
You glanced at Steve, who was frozen, mouth slightly open, eyes wide. He hadn’t processed the closeness between you and Martha, the quiet affection, the way she treated you like you mattered, like you belonged.
“Good morning,” he muttered again, as if he were trying to find a foothold.
You raised an eyebrow but said nothing.
The morning moved in easy rhythms after that: Martha serving food, you nibbling toast, Steve sitting stiffly at the far end of the counter, unsure whether to talk or retreat.
Finally, Steve cleared his throat again. “I… I’ll be away for a few weeks. Business.”
You froze mid-bite. The words landed heavy.
“Business,” you echoed. “Right.”
You didn’t dare ask what the business was, or where he’d be going, or who he’d be with. The less you knew about the less than legal side of his business the better.
The first few weeks of living that life passed in a blur.
Mornings were spent in the kitchen with Martha, her sharp commentary keeping you on your toes as you cooked elaborate breakfasts, experimented with meals you had never dared make before, and learned the rhythm of a house that seemed to breathe and move without you noticing.
Afternoons were chores: dusting gleaming surfaces, vacuuming endless corridors, making sure everything was in its place. You checked in on the organisation in subtle ways, sending brief messages through Steve’s aides, approving small decisions, keeping the wheels turning while he was away. Most of the men didn’t even notice your involvement. That suited you fine.
Evenings were quieter. You read, studied, or helped Martha with household accounts. The house was enormous, but slowly, you made it yours.
And then Steve came back.
He walked in like he owned the world – because he did – but you noticed the carefully wrapped box in his hand.
“For you,” he said simply.
You took it, lifting the lid. The necklace gleamed under the chandelier. Diamonds. Too many. Blinding. You hated it immediately. It was garish, heavy, exactly the sort of thing your father had told him you “love.”
“I… thank you,” you said carefully, forcing the words past the disgust curling in your stomach. Your hands trembled as you accepted it. You slid it into the back of your closet before he could insist you wear it.
Despite Steve being back from his “business trip,” he still wasn’t home most evenings. Mondays, Thursdays, and Fridays had become your escape. You slipped out at five, Peter distracted elsewhere, your bag light with books. Classes. Nursing. Something you had wanted for years but never had the chance to pursue alongside your business degree. You didn’t tell anyone. Not Steve. Not anyone in his circle.
That night, you were late returning, your mind full of lectures and notes.
The house was silent when you stepped inside. That was when you noticed him. Steve, standing in the shadows, tall, unmistakable.
You froze.
“I thought we were going out for dinner,” he said quietly.
Your stomach dropped. Peter was nowhere in sight.
“I-” you started, but he cut you off.
“You’re sneaking around,” he said, his voice tight. “I know. Tell me what you’re doing. Now.”
You spun toward him, furious. “I don’t owe you an explanation!”
He stepped closer. “You’re married to me!”
“I am!” you yelled, panic and rage mixing together. “But that doesn’t mean you own me!”
He grabbed your arm. You wrenched free. His eyes were dark, searching, suspicious.
“Are you cheating on me?”
“I’m in fucking nursing school!” you shouted, the words tumbling out before you could stop them. You stumbled back, your heart hammering, panic flooding through you. Without thinking, you slammed the bathroom door and locked it. Your body shook. The thought of him forbidding you, controlling you, keeping you from what you wanted – what you needed – made your chest constrict.
Minutes passed. Or hours. You weren’t sure.
Finally, you breathed, steeled yourself, and unlocked the door.
The bedroom was dark, but he was there, waiting on the bed. He patted the mattress beside him once.
You hesitated in the doorway, arms wrapped around yourself, your chest still tight from panic and adrenaline. He didn’t rush you. He didn’t say your name. He just waited, his eyes soft in the low light.
Eventually, you crossed the room and sat down next to him, careful, like the bed might give way beneath you.
Only then did he move.
He placed his hand on the mattress, close to yours but not touching. Close enough that you felt his warmth. Close enough that you could pull away if you wanted.
“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. “I shouldn’t have said that. I shouldn’t have thought it.”
You kept your eyes on your hands.
“You don’t seem like the kind of person who would cheat,” he added. “That was… my fear talking. Not fair to put that on you.”
The words cracked something open.
Tears spilled over before you could stop them, hot, humiliating, relentless. You pressed your lips together, but your shoulders shook anyway.
Steve turned toward you fully then.
“I think,” he said slowly, “we got off on the wrong foot. Maybe… every foot.”
That earned a wet, startled giggle from you. You swiped at your face, mortified.
He exhaled, relieved, like the sound meant more than laughter ever could.
“So,” he continued, tentative in a way that still felt strange on him, “maybe we try again. Properly.”
He straightened slightly and cleared his throat.
“I’m Steve,” he said. “I’m a businessman.”
You snorted before you could stop yourself.
He smiled, small and self-aware. “Yeah. I know. I like golf. I’m terrible at it, but I keep trying. I miss my mum. Every day.” His jaw tightened briefly, then relaxed. “I love rap music. Old stuff. And I bake.”
You blinked. “Bake?”
He pointed at you. “You are sworn to secrecy. That information could destroy me.”
You laughed again, quieter this time, softer. Real.
He nudged your hand gently with his knuckles. Not claiming. Just… there.
“Your turn,” he said.
You drew in a breath.
“I’m-” you started, then stopped, correcting yourself. “I was a student. I chose business because my dad wanted me to. I want to be a nurse.” Your voice wobbled, but you kept going. “I miss my mum too. I love jazz. I like cooking, actually cooking, not just fancy stuff. And I like going on walks. Long ones. Especially when I’m overwhelmed.”
He listened like it mattered. Like he was filing it away somewhere careful. A silence settled between you, not heavy this time. Almost gentle.
Your voice dropped. “I’m scared I’m disposable to you.”
The words sat there, exposed and fragile.
Steve didn’t answer immediately. He turned his hand palm-up, close enough now that your fingers brushed his.
“You weren’t,” he said firmly. “I don’t treat people I plan to discard like that.”
You shook your head slightly, tears still clinging to your lashes. “I didn’t… I didn’t believe you.”
He just covered your hand with his and waited for you to drift off.
Morning light slipped through the curtains, soft and pale, brushing across your face.
A gentle hand shook your shoulder. “Hey,” a low, warm voice murmured.
You opened your eyes to find Steve leaning over you, holding a tray. Tea steamed softly in a delicate cup, a small biscuit on the side.
Your brow furrowed. “Tea?” you asked, confused. “It’s- what? Six?”
He grinned, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “You don’t think I’ve noticed that you barely drink coffee? Come on, honey.”
You blinked at him, caught somewhere between surprise and amusement. This wasn’t the man you thought you had married.
After breakfast, you both slipped on your shoes and headed out for a walk. The air was crisp, the world quiet, and for the first time in weeks, the noise of everything faded behind you.
Steve asked questions, careful ones, listening like he really wanted to know. You found yourself telling him things you had never imagined you’d share, the years of working two jobs just to keep the lights on while your father gambled away everything, the small humiliations, the moments of pride when you managed anyway.
He didn’t flinch. Didn’t judge. He just nodded, hand brushing lightly against yours as you walked.
When you asked about James, Steve’s eyes softened, the shadow of old memories crossing his features.
“We met in the army,” he said. “James… he took a bullet for me. Saved my life. That’s why he has the metal arm. The man’s practically a legend. And he’ll never let anyone forget it either.”
You laughed softly, shaking your head. “Figures. He looks like he could take on anything.”
Steve’s smile was quiet, fond. “He can. And he would.”
The walk stretched on, conversations flowing easily. By the time you returned to the house, something had shifted.
The man you thought you had married – the distant, untouchable, powerful enigma – didn’t exist.
This man, standing at the door with hair mussed from the wind, cheeks pink from the cold, smiling at you like you were the only person in the world, was someone entirely different. Sweet. Kind. Real.
Steve left you by the door, telling you he had to go to work. “But maybe we could have dinner tonight?”
Your chest warmed. You smiled and pressed a soft kiss to his cheek. “Yes. I would like that.”
Steve came home early. Earlier than planned, actually. He expected to find you waiting—maybe reading on the bed, maybe in the kitchen with Martha, maybe nowhere in particular but around. Present. Safe.
The house was quiet. Too quiet.
He checked the kitchen first. Empty. The living room. The study. He moved faster with every room, chest tightening as he called your name once, then again.
“Martha?” His voice was sharper than he meant it to be.
She looked up from the counter. “I haven’t seen her since you two came back from your walk.”
Something cold settled in his stomach.
He headed upstairs, heart pounding now, worst‑case scenarios lining up faster than he could shove them away. He reached the bedroom, pushed the door open… and froze.
There was a sound coming from the bathroom. Not movement. Not footsteps. Retching.
His breath stuttered. He crossed the room in two strides, stopping short of the door like it might explode if he touched it wrong. His hand lifted, then hesitated, then knocked soft and careful.
“Honey?”
Another awful sound. A moan.
Then, faintly: “It’s… it’s open.”
He opened the door.
You were curled on the bathroom floor in front of the toilet, knees pulled to your chest, hair plastered to your face, shaking. You looked so small it knocked the air out of him.
He dropped down beside you immediately. “What’s wrong?” His voice broke despite himself. “Talk to me.”
You tried. And failed.
The moment you looked up at him, your face crumpled. Tears spilled over fast and violent, sobs tearing out of you like something had ripped open. It caught him completely off guard. You had cried yesterday, yes, but this was different. This was raw. Uncontrolled. Desperate.
“Oh- hey, hey,” he murmured, panicking quietly.
He gathered you into his arms without thinking, one hand bracing your back, the other cradling your head against his chest. He was a good hugger. Solid. Warm. Safe. You sobbed harder.
Weeks, months, of tension poured out of you all at once, and the way he held you only made it worse because you hadn’t realized how badly you needed to be held. Your fingers clutched at his shirt like you were afraid he’d disappear.
“It’s okay,” he whispered, over and over. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you.”
When your body finally gave out, he lifted you easily, carrying you to the bed like you weighed nothing. He settled you against him, still holding you close, brushing your hair back with shaking fingers.
“Please,” he said softly, desperately. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
You didn’t answer. You just clung to him.
Your sobs slowed. Your breathing evened out. Exhaustion pulled you under while he was still watching your face like he was afraid to blink.
He considered waking you, just for a second.
Then he saw it.
Blood.
A small, unmistakable stain.
Realization hit him hard and fast, followed immediately by guilt. Fear. Helplessness.
“Oh,” he exhaled quietly. “Oh.”
He carefully adjusted the covers, made sure you were comfortable, then reached for his phone like it was a lifeline.
Steve: Martha. Steve: I need help. Steve: She’s sick and Steve: I think she’s on her period. Steve: I don’t know what to do.
The response came almost instantly.
Martha: I’ll handle it. Stay with her.
Steve set the phone down and looked at you again, curled into his side now, trusting him without even knowing it.
He didn’t move.
Once Martha had come and gone, he woke you just enough to sit you up, slowly and carefully, like you were made of glass.
“Hey,” he murmured, pressing a pillow behind your back. “Just a little food, okay?”
You barely registered the plate until he brought it closer. A sandwich, cut into neat triangles. He fed you small bites, waiting between each one, watching your face like he was afraid you’d disappear if he looked away. When you finished half, he offered you a painkiller and a glass of water, steadying it while you drank.
“Sleep,” he said softly. “I’ll be back.”
You didn’t ask where he was going. You just let your eyes fall shut again.
When you woke up, the room smelled faintly of night air and something sweet. You were groggy, limbs heavy, head foggy, but calmer. Steve was back, sitting on the edge of the bed, jacket gone, sleeves rolled, hair slightly out of place like he had rushed.
“You’re awake,” he said quietly, relief slipping through before he could stop it.
You blinked at him. “Hey.”
He reached for the bedside table and started lining things up, one by one, almost shy about it.
“I… bought some things,” he said. “I know your dad told me a lot of bullshit, so I just… guessed.”
There was chocolate. A couple of different kinds. Chips – your favourite brand, somehow. A book with a worn-looking cover that felt comforting just to look at. And a small bag of drawing pencils and a sketchpad.
Your chest tightened.
“I didn’t know if you’re allergic to flowers,” he added, rubbing the back of his neck. “So, I figured… safer to skip them.”
You swallowed.
“I’m sorry,” you blurted out suddenly. “For- last night. For climbing all over you. And for… bleeding on your bed.”
He stared at you for a beat.
Then he huffed out a laugh, soft and surprised.
“Honey,” he said, gently tilting your chin up so you had to look at him. “This is the best kind of blood I could ever be covered in.”
You looked at him. “That’s gross.”
He shrugged, unapologetic. “Occupational hazard.”
You laughed weakly, then leaned forward and hugged him again, arms wrapping around his middle. He held you tight immediately, like he had been waiting for it, one hand pressing warm and solid between your shoulder blades.
“Thank you,” you murmured into his chest. “For all of it.”
He pressed a kiss into your hair. “Anytime.”
You pulled back just enough to look at him.
Really look.
At the softness in his eyes. The worry that hadn’t quite left his face. The man who had brought you tea, walked with you, held you while you cried, and bought you chips instead of diamonds.
Your gaze dropped. To his lips.
Before you could overthink it, before fear could catch up, you surged forward and pressed a gentle, chaste kiss to his mouth.
It was brief. Soft. Intentional.
When you pulled back, his breath was unsteady.
“Hey,” he murmured, barely above a breath. “You don’t have to—”
“I know,” you said quietly. “I trust you. I just… can we go slow?”
He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t argue. His thumb brushed your hand, grounding, patient.
“Take your time,” he replied.