Lucian Blackwood left without ceremony.
No dramatic goodbye. No final warning. He simply collected his coat, acknowledged Amara's parents with a brief nod, and walked out as if the decision had already been made—because, in his mind, it had.
The door closed behind him.
The sound lingered.
Amara stood frozen in the middle of the living room, her travel bag still hanging from her shoulder, dust from the countryside clinging to her shoes like proof of the life she'd been living just hours ago. A life that felt impossibly far away now.
No one spoke.
Her mother was the first to move, sinking back onto the sofa as if her legs could no longer hold her. Her father remained standing, hands clasped together, staring at the floor like it might forgive him if he looked long enough.
Amara slowly set her bag down.
"So," she said quietly. "How long were you planning to keep this from me?"
Her father flinched.
"We were going to tell you," he said. "Once we were sure—"
"Sure of what?" she asked, her voice rising despite her effort to keep it steady. "Sure that I was the best thing you had left to offer?"
Her mother looked up sharply. "Amara, please—"
"No," Amara said, turning to her. "You both sat here. You let him speak about me like I wasn't even in the room."
Her father finally met her eyes, and the guilt there nearly broke her.
"We didn't have a choice," he said hoarsely. "The creditors are relentless. We're out of time."
Amara laughed softly, bitterly. "Funny. Because it sounds like you decided I was the time you had left."
Silence answered her.
That was confirmation enough.
She turned and walked to her room before they could say anything else.
Amara nodded.
But she saw the truth in their eyes.
They wouldn't.
She stood.
"I'll do it," she said quietly.
Her mother gasped. "Amara—"
"I'll marry him," she repeated. "I'll sign the agreement."
Her father exhaled sharply, relief breaking through his grief, and that—more than anything—sealed her decision.
She went back to her room and changed into a simple dress. No makeup. No jewelry. Nothing that looked celebratory.
When she stepped outside, the black car was already waiting.
As it pulled away from the house, Amara looked back once.
She wasn't sure if she was leaving home.
Or herself.