"Didn't you grab my back very tightly last night?"
Boom.
Amelie's mind exploded into emptiness.
All the color drained from her face in an instant.
What… did he just say?
At a Hayden family dinner. In front of a table full of elders.
How could he—how dare he—bring up last night here?
The soup bowl in her hands suddenly felt as heavy as iron. Strength fled her fingers, and she nearly lost her grip. From the corner of her vision, she sensed a few puzzled glances drifting her way—people wondering why she was frozen in place, unmoving.
Shame and fear closed around her throat like two enormous hands, squeezing until she could barely breathe.
Yet Christopher had already withdrawn.
He straightened calmly, as if nothing had happened, lifted the spoon, and took a measured sip of soup. Behind the thin gold-rimmed glasses, his eyes were placid, unreadable.
"Not bad," he said lightly to the others at the table.
As though the devil who had whispered poison into her ear moments ago had never existed at all.
Amelie returned to her seat in a daze. She had no memory of how she set the bowl down, nor how she managed to sit. The dishes that followed might as well have been wax—she didn't taste a single bite.
At long last, the dinner ended. The family moved to the living room for tea and conversation.
Seizing a brief opening, Amelie went to Grandmother Hayden's side and spoke softly, "Grandma, I feel a little dizzy. I'd like to go upstairs and rest."
The elderly woman, assuming the young girl simply wasn't accustomed to such gatherings, waved her hand with gentle concern. "Go on, then. You don't look well. Get some rest."
Relief flooded Amelie's chest.
She turned and hurried toward the staircase without hesitation.
But instead of returning to her bedroom, she turned sharply at the second floor and headed straight for the shared bathroom at the end of the corridor.
She needed cold water—needed it desperately—to splash away the burning heat on her face, to extinguish the chaos raging inside her chest.
The hallway was lined with thick Persian carpets, swallowing every footstep.
Just as her fingers were about to close around the cool brass handle of the bathroom door, the storage room behind her opened without warning.
A hand—strong as steel—shot out and seized her wrist with terrifying precision, yanking her violently backward.
"Ah—!"
The cry barely escaped her lips before it was crushed back into her throat.
An overwhelming force dragged her into complete darkness.
Click.
The door locked.
The air was stale, heavy with the scent of old wood and dust, tinged with a suffocating hint of mildew.
The storage room was tiny, cramped, with only a narrow, high window. Moonlight couldn't penetrate the layers of dust coating the glass—there was not a shred of light.
She didn't need to see his face.
The scorching heat of the hand that held her, and the cold, unmistakable cedar scent burned into her bones, announced his identity all too clearly.
"Christopher!" she cried, fear and panic breaking her voice. "Let go of me!"
He didn't answer.
In the darkness, he released her wrist—only to step forward immediately, pressing her hard against the cold wooden door with absolute dominance.
His chest was solid, unyielding. Through layers of fabric, she could feel the forceful thud of his heartbeat—once, twice—striking against her eardrums.
In pitch darkness, every other sense sharpened brutally.
Amelie heard his uneven breathing. She felt the hard buttons of his expensive suit pressing into her chest, sending small bursts of pain through her nerves.
"Do you think," Christopher's voice cut through the dark, low and hoarse with suppressed fury, "that I shouldn't have stopped it tonight?"
"Hmm?"
Amelie shuddered violently. "I didn't—"
"Didn't?" He gave a cold, humorless laugh. One hand slammed against the door beside her head, sealing off every escape. The other gripped her chin roughly, forcing her face upward.
"Then what was that?" he demanded. "You were ready to meet David Channing, weren't you?"
"I—I didn't agree—"
"But you thought about it," he snapped, teeth clenched. "It was written all over your eyes."
His voice dropped, dangerous and sharp.
"Amelie Ford… are you really that eager to get married?"
The air seemed to tighten with the promise of an approaching storm.
Her heart leapt into her throat. Tears welled uncontrollably.
She wanted to say yes.
Yes—desperately. She would marry anyone, as long as she could leave the Hayden house, as long as she could escape him.
But she didn't dare.
Some instinct screamed that if she so much as uttered a single affirmative sound, he would destroy her without mercy.
She struggled violently, pushing at his chest with all her strength. "You can't do this! You have no right to control me! Christopher—this is illegal!"
"Illegal?"
He sounded genuinely amused.
A low laugh escaped him. Then his other hand came up, swift and precise, capturing both of her flailing wrists and forcing them high above her head. With one hand, he pinned them brutally to the door.
The sheer disparity in strength between man and woman was laid bare in that moment.
"Everything you have," he said coldly, leaning down until his lips were almost touching hers, his breath scorching, "was given by me."
"Your life was saved by the Hayden family."
His voice dropped into a dangerous whisper, heavy with possession and threat.