The Bride’s Black Belt

Chapter One: Rule Book

Before the groom, Adrian Cole, could even take off his wedding dress, the first crack of leather on the marble floor exploded through the room. I was wearing a white silk wedding dress, the veil was still firmly inserted in the bun, and the bridal bouquet was abandoned alone on the champagne table, with two untouched tall crystal glasses beside it.

For the past two years, I’ve been under the impression that Adrian just had a repressed personality. Sometimes appears indifferent. Difficult to deal with sometimes. Growing up in a family where gentleness is regarded as a social weakness is inevitable.

However, I mistook calculation for restraint. then, he was standing in front of me, holding a black leather riding crop in his right hand and a handwritten notebook in his left hand. There are a few words written on the cover:

【Wife Rules】 I looked down at it. She looked up at him again.

“Adrian, what is this?”

A smile tugged at his mouth. It was neither the practiced expression he wore at celebrity dinners nor the tenderness staged for our engagement photographs. This one bared his teeth.

“The right start to our marriage.”

He threw the notebook onto the low coffee table. The book slid past the champagne bucket and finally came to rest on a silver tray next to a plate of white lilies—a flower that his mother, Celeste, had forced on me because she thought my taste was “too petty” for the Cole family.

Adrian opened the rule book with one finger.

“Number one,” he said, “you can never question me.”

I stood there quietly.

“Article 2. You must ask my permission before leaving this house.”

My breathing slowed slightly.

“Article 3. Your salary, assets and accounts will be immediately transferred to my management.”

I looked at the riding crop.

“What if I say no?”

He tapped the leather against his palm. The voice is very soft. But it was even more disgusting than the sound of the whipping just now.

“You won’t.”

The penthouse suddenly seemed breathtakingly luxurious. Floor to ceiling windows. Dark wooden floors. Golden lights on marble. A bed covered with white petals. Vintage champagne bubbling away in an ice bucket. Every design should be romantic, but then it is arranged like a carefully laid trap.

Adrian took a step closer to me.

“You should be grateful, Maya.”

That’s my name. Maya Bennett.

Although Celeste once said to a donor that my name sounded “less impressive” than “Maya Cole.”

“You have nothing,” Adrian continued, “I gave you my last name.”

I came close to laughing. Nothing? My father is a high school math teacher. My mother ran a small bakery. Although we are not rich or wealthy, we never need other people’s permission to open the door of our home, and the love we have never requires signing a cold contract.

Adrian raised his riding crop slightly.

“You’ll learn to behave tonight.”

Just then, I caught a glimpse of his cell phone. The screen is facing up. Recording in progress. An out-and-out trap. If I screamed, he would publicly declare me insane. If I resisted, he would insist that I attacked him first.

If I cry, he saves the video so he can use it to “discipline” me later.

Adrian had everything planned out. So I don’t feel scared anymore. It’s not that the fear is gone. But because it became useful. I bent down and took off one of my high heels without haste.

Then another one. Adrian’s smile grew smug.

“Good. You’re learning to position yourself.”

I placed my two high heels neatly next to the rug.

“No,” I said, “I’m just making sure I don’t stain the carpet when I take the trash out later.”

His eyes sharpened. Then, he whipped over. He is strong and strong. Arrogance. But he has no fighting skills. Before the whip broke through the air and unfolded, I slid into the inner circle. She clasped his wrist firmly with her left hand and twisted her waist. His lower body was unbalanced, and he didn’t even have time to take back the arrogance on his face.

Adrien hit the floor hard. The air in his lungs was knocked into a short muffled groan. He struggled desperately. I swept my legs, pressed my knees against his ribs, and neatly locked his arms behind him, controlling the force just right.

Ten seconds. That’s all it takes to get the wannabe penthouse king to beg for mercy.

“Stop,” he moaned in pain, “Please, stop!”

I leaned close to his ear.

“Number one,” I whispered, “never threaten a woman you’re too arrogant to bother to do a background check on.”