She couldn't feel her hands.
Elena gripped the sink, knuckles white, her breath shallow. She stared at the reflection in the mirror, but it didn't feel like hers. The woman in the white dress looked perfect, too perfect, but her eyes gave her away. Wide. Hollow. Terrified.
This wasn't wedding day nerves. This was something else. Something worse.
The kind of fear that didn't shake your hands, it crushed your chest from the inside out.
"Elena." Maria's voice came through the door. Quiet. Tight. "It's time."
Time for what?
Elena didn't move.
Maria stepped in anyway, veil in hand, like it was some sacred relic. Her smile was gentle, but her eyes were full of guilt. She knew what this was.
"You look beautiful," she whispered.
Elena didn't respond.
Maria hesitated. "You know your father didn't mean—"
"Don't," Elena cut in, voice cracked and sharp. "Don't say his name."
She could still see him at the table across from Liam Blackwood. Hands shaking. Face pale. Signing away her life for a chance to clean up his mess.
She was nineteen.
Nineteen, and being handed off like property.
A knock sounded from downstairs. Sharp. Final.
Maria stiffened. "He's here."
Elena turned back to the mirror. Her reflection stared back, empty and silent. She didn't want this. But her want didn't matter.
She had no choice.
The car was black, polished, and quiet. The man holding the door didn't say a word. There was a gun on his hip and no expression on his face.
Elena slid in. Her hands were damp with sweat.
No bridesmaids. No music. No family. No love.
Just silence.
The Blackwood estate rose out of the fog like something cursed. Tall stone walls. Rusted gates. Statues lining the drive that looked like they were mourning something. The mansion was massive, gray, and lifeless.
A butler opened the door without a word. Marble floors. Cold air. Dim lights. Paintings watched her like they knew.
No one welcomed her. No one smiled.
She was led down a long hallway and into a private chapel. Small. Dusty. Dead quiet. The candles flickered, casting long shadows. It didn't feel holy.
It felt like a funeral.
Liam stood at the altar. Tall. Still. Unreadable. Not a groom. Not even a man, really, more like a warning in a perfect suit.
No smile. No warmth.
Just power.
The officiant didn't ask if she was ready. He opened a folder.
"Do you, Liam Blackwood, take Elena Vasquez as your lawful wife?"
"I do." Flat. Dry. Like a business deal was closing.
Elena barely heard the rest. Her pulse was too loud. Her chest too tight.
"And do you, Elena Vasquez—"
"I do," she said, but it came out barely above a whisper.
No kiss. No rings. No applause.
Just a pen.
She signed her name. The papers were taken. The folder was shut. It was done.
Liam didn't offer his arm. He just turned and walked away.
She followed.
Her new room was beautiful, but it didn't feel like hers. It didn't even feel human. Everything was clean. Controlled. Cold.
A tray of untouched food waited on the table. The door clicked shut behind her.
She checked it.
Locked.
She stood there in her dress for a long time. Still. Hollow. Her skin felt too tight. Her throat burned.
No tears came. Not yet.
Not because she didn't feel anything.
But because she felt too much.
She peeled off the gown, folded it neatly, and left it on the bed. Then she sat on the edge of the mattress and wrapped her arms around herself like they were the only thing left holding her together.
Inside, she was breaking.
The knock came after midnight.
She jumped.
"Elena," Liam's voice came through the door. Calm. Measured.
She didn't answer.
The door opened anyway. He stepped inside. No tie. Sleeves rolled. Hands in his pockets. Casual, like this was just another night in his schedule.
His eyes scanned her slowly. Not like a man seeing his new bride.
Like a man checking what he bought.
"You'll be safe here," he said.
She stood. "Why me?"
He didn't blink. "Because your father owed too much. And you were the most valuable thing he had left."
Her jaw clenched. She wanted to scream. To slap him. To run.
But she didn't move.
He turned to leave. Just before he stepped out, he said, "There are rules."
She stared at him, silent.
"You don't leave the estate. You don't talk to staff unless I say so. And you never enter the east wing."
"What's in the east wing?" she asked.
He paused.
"Curiosity is dangerous, Elena."
Then he was gone.
She stood in silence. Jaw tight. Fists clenched.
She hated him.
But what scared her more… was the flicker of something else.
A pull. A sick, dangerous curiosity.
She laid down but didn't sleep.
Not in this house.
Not under his roof.
Just after 2 a.m., something shifted under her pillow.
Her heart stopped.
She reached under and pulled out a folded piece of paper.
It hadn't been there before.
Her hands shook as she opened it.
Four words. No name. Just ink.
Don't trust your husband.
She sat up fast.
The door was still closed. She hadn't heard anyone come in.
Who put this here? And why?
She got up and looked out the window. Just trees. Just shadows.
Someone in this house was watching her. Someone knew something.
And someone was risking everything to warn her.
She looked toward the hallway.
The east wing.
She'd been told not to go there.
But now, she had a reason to.
And maybe… just maybe… a way out.