MILA
Father looks at me with an unreadable expression. "You need money for your mother's care. The Humphreys are willing to provide it. In exchange, you marry Eric. It's a simple arrangement."
"Simple?" My voice cracks.
I cast a quick glance around the table, stopping briefly at the Humphreys before returning my gaze to Father. I had no idea they knew about my predicament. The way Father spoke so carelessly about Mother's condition, using it as bait to trap me, makes my blood boil. The fact that the Humphreys agreed to this scheme makes it worse.
I should have known this dinner was a setup.
"You wanted my help, Mila. This is it," Father says, one eyebrow arching as if daring me to refuse.
Eric finally speaks. "Mila, I know this is sudden, but..."
I stand abruptly. My chair scrapes against the floor.
"No."
Father's jaw tightens. "Sit down."
"No."
"Mila." His voice is steel.
"You can't just arrange my marriage like I'm some business asset."
"I'm giving you what you asked for. A solution."
"This isn't a solution. This is..." I can't even find the words.
Florencia sighs. "Really, Mila. Must you always make a scene?"
"I'm not making a scene. I'm refusing," I say through gritted teeth.
Gregory clears his throat awkwardly. "Perhaps we should give them a moment to discuss..."
"There's nothing to discuss," I say. "I'm not marrying anyone."
Father sets down his glass. "Then your mother doesn't get her treatment," he says coldly.
The words hit like a slap. My eyes burn with tears, but I refuse to let them fall. I won't give any of them the satisfaction of seeing me break.
"You're blackmailing me." My voice cracks.
"I'm offering you a choice."
"That's not a choice!"
Eric stands. "Mila, please. Just listen..."
"Don't." I turn to him. "Don't you dare pretend this is anything other than what it is. You didn't want me four years ago. And you don't want me now. This is just business to you."
His face flushes. "That's not fair."
"Isn't it?"
Father's voice cuts through. "Enough. You have twenty-four hours to decide. Marry Eric, or your mother is transferred to the state facility tomorrow."
My hands shake. "You're a monster."
"I'm a father trying to help his foolish daughter."
I grab my purse. "I'd rather die than marry him."
Sophia laughs. "How dramatic."
I ignore her and look at Father one last time.
"You've already lost me once. Congratulations. You're about to do it again."
I turn and walk out. Behind me, I hear Eric call my name. I don't stop. The housekeeper opens the front door without a word. I step out into the cool night air. The gate is already opening. I walk through it, down the tree-lined street, heels clicking against the pavement.
My phone buzzes in my purse. I pull it out. A text from Father:
"Twenty-four hours. Make the right choice."
I scoff at the message. I'm not letting him control my life. If I have to marry someone to save my mother, it'll be someone I choose, not someone he forces on me.
Before I can second-guess myself, I scroll through my contacts until I find Visconti's number.
Somehow, I knew this moment was coming. I had only been avoiding it, but not anymore. If I have to choose between Eric and Damian, at least with Damian I know where I stand.
My heart thumps as my finger hovers over the call button.
One last time, I let their faces flash through my mind. Eric. Father's smug expression. The Humphreys. Florencia. Sophia. All of them willing to sell me like property.
Contract marriages aren't uncommon in my world, but I never thought Father would stoop to arranging one for me. What is he even getting out of this?
I let out a strained sigh.
This isn't a mistake, I remind myself. At least with Damian, I know what I'm getting into. Six months. Then freedom. With Eric, I'd be trapped in Father's world forever.
I press call. It rings once.
"Ms. Thorne." Damian's voice is calm, unsurprised. "Calling rather late, aren't we?"
I close my eyes. His voice is smooth, controlled, dangerous. Like velvet over steel.
"I'll do it. I'll sign your contract."
A pause. "Are you certain?"
"Yes."
"Where are you?"
"Upper East Side. My father's house."
"Stay there. Marcus will pick you up in ten minutes."
"Wait, tonight? I thought..."
"You said yes, Ms. Thorne. I'm not giving you time to change your mind."
He hangs up. I stand on the sidewalk, phone still pressed to my ear. Ten minutes until Marcus arrives. Ten minutes until my life changes forever.
I look back at Father's mansion, glowing in the darkness. Then I turn away. I'm done being a pawn in Arthur Thorne's games. If I'm going to be used, it'll be on my terms, even if those terms belong to Damian Visconti.
***
I wait under a tree on the corner. True to his word, Marcus arrives exactly ten minutes later.
"Ms. Thorne," he calls softly, stepping out of the car. The same black town car from that first night he drove me to the penthouse.
He doesn't say anything as he opens the back door for me. I thank him with a small smile that doesn't reach my eyes.
The tears I had been holding back at Father's house finally spill over the moment I sink into the soft leather seat. I wipe them away as Marcus returns to the driver's seat. The door shuts with a soft click.
I turn toward the window, trying to compose myself, when I notice Marcus extending something toward me. A tissue.
"Thank you," I manage to say. I take it and dab at my eyes. The car pulls away from the curb smoothly, leaving Father's mansion behind. Marcus doesn't ask questions or offer platitudes. He just drives in silence while I fall apart in the backseat.
After a few minutes, I find my voice.
"How long have you worked for him?" It's not my business, but the anxiety simmering within me pushes me to ask.
Marcus glances at me in the rearview mirror. "Mr. Visconti? Eight years."
"Do you..." I hesitate. "Do you know why he wants to marry me?"
A pause. Then: "That's not my place to say, Ms. Thorne."
"But you know."
"I know what Mr. Visconti chooses to share with me."
"Which is?"
"That you needed help. And he was in a position to provide it."
I laugh bitterly. "Help. Is that what we're calling it?"
Marcus's expression doesn't change. "Mr. Visconti is a complicated man. But he keeps his word. If he promised to take care of your mother, he will."
"Even if I'm just a means to an end?"
Marcus doesn't answer. Which is answer enough.
I lean back against the seat and close my eyes. Some time later, we pull up to Visconti Tower. The building looms above us, all glass and steel and cold elegance.
Marcus opens my door. "Mr. Visconti is waiting for you. Top floor."
I step out onto the sidewalk. My legs feel unsteady.
"Ms. Thorne?"
I turn back. Marcus is watching me with something that might be sympathy.
"Your purse," he says quietly, holding it out to me. I stare at it a moment. I don't know why I had expected him to say something else, perhaps a simple you're doing the right thing, or some small affirmation to bolster my courage.
"Thank you," I say, taking it from him.
"I'll be waiting to pick you up afterwards."
I nod, grateful.
He turns away and slides back into the car. I watch him drive off, then turn around. Nothing but silence and the faint smell of exhaust remains.
This is it. I'm finally doing this.
I catch my breath and make my way forward.
The lobby is empty at this hour. My heels echo against the marble as I cross to the private elevator, the one that goes directly to the penthouse. I press the button. The doors slide open immediately, as if it has been waiting for me. I step inside. The doors close.
My reflection stares back at me from the polished steel. My mascara is smudged. My eyes are red. My hair is slightly disheveled. I smooth it down with my hands.
The elevator rises silently. My stomach drops with each floor. What am I doing? Choosing the devil I don't know over the devil I do?
The elevator slows. Then stops. The doors open.
Damian Visconti stands in the center of the room, hands in his pockets, perfectly composed in a simple white dress shirt, sleeves rolled to his elbows, top button undone. No tie. No jacket. Almost casual. But there is nothing casual about the way he is looking at me.
"Ms. Thorne," he says. "Welcome home."
Home. The word feels wrong. But I don't correct him. In time, this will sadly be my new home.