Morning light filtered through the heavy drapes in my bedroom, thin and gray like it had given up on being cheerful. I hadn't slept. The lock on the door had clicked again sometime after midnight. My mother's face kept flashing behind my lids, pale against the hospital sheets, her hand cold in mine. The debt folder sat on the nightstand where I'd left it, edges curled from how many times I'd opened and slammed it shut. Elton Duncan. The name had turned into a blade in my head, sharp and unfamiliar.
A soft knock came at the door, followed by the scrape of the key. It wasn't the usual security guard. My father stood there, dressed in one of his immaculate dark suits, face unreadable. "Get dressed in something appropriate. He's here."
I stayed on the edge of the bed, arms crossed tight over the silk robe I'd pulled on hours ago. "Who's here?"
"You know who." He didn't step inside. He didn't need to. The two men behind him filled the doorway like living walls. "Downstairs in ten minutes. Don't make this harder than it has to be."
I wanted to tell him exactly where he could shove his ten minutes, but the image of my mother hooked to machines stopped the words. I stood instead, moving to the closet on legs that felt wooden. Black pants, a simple white blouse, nothing that screamed wealth or weakness. I brushed my hair back hard enough to sting my scalp and slipped on flat shoes. No heels. No armor. Just me.
The hallway felt longer than it ever had. The security men flanked me without touching, but their presence pressed in from both sides. My father led the way down the grand staircase, past the ballroom where the birthday candles had melted into nothing. The house smelled the same, polished wood and fresh flowers but everything felt off, like the walls had shifted overnight.
We stopped outside the formal sitting room, the one reserved for deals no one spoke about in daylight. My father turned to me, voice low. "Be civil. This is bigger than your pride."
He opened the door.
The room was dimmer than I expected, curtains half-drawn against the morning glare. A man stood near the tall windows, back to us, hands clasped behind him. He didn't turn at the sound of the door. The air changed the moment I stepped inside, thicker, charged, like the barometric pressure had dropped. Power rolled off him in waves, quiet and absolute.
My father cleared his throat. "Duncan. Meet my daughter, Selene."
The man turned.
He was taller than I'd pictured, broad through the shoulders in a way that made the tailored black shirt look almost too restrained. Dark hair, cut sharp. Eyes that caught the low light and held it, cold and assessing. His face was all hard lines, jaw set, mouth a straight line that gave away nothing. Handsome in the way a blade is handsome: precise, lethal, impossible to ignore. He looked at me like he already owned the outcome of this meeting, and the realization sent a slow burn up my spine.
"Miss Pierce." His voice was low, controlled, the kind that didn't need volume to command a room.
I didn't curtsy, not did I did I smile. I met his stare head-on, letting my chin lift a fraction. "Mr. Duncan."
He gestured to the leather sofa opposite him without breaking eye contact. "Sit."
I stayed standing. My father's hand brushed my elbow in silent warning, but I shrugged it off. "I'd rather stand."
A flicker crossed Duncan's face, amusement or irritation, I couldn't tell. He inclined his head once, as if deciding to allow it for now. From the low table between us he picked up a thick folder, identical to the one in my room but sealed with a black wax stamp. He set it down again, fingers resting on it like a claim.
"Your father has explained the terms."
It wasn't a question. I glanced at my father, who had taken a seat in the far armchair, hands folded, silent now that the real player had arrived. Julian wasn't here. Elliot wasn't here. Just me, the debt, and the man who held the note.
"He mentioned a marriage," I said, keeping my voice even. "As collateral. Like I'm property on a ledger."
Duncan's gaze didn't waver. "Collateral implies choice. This is payment. The Pierce empire owes me more than money. The alliance seals it. You become my wife. The debt disappears. Your family's interests remain untouched. Simple."
Simple. The word tasted like acid. I took one step closer to the table, close enough to see the faint scar along his left knuckle. "And if I say no?"
The corner of his mouth lifted, just barely, a ghost of movement that wasn't a smile. "Then the collapse begins tomorrow. Contracts voided. Partners withdraw. The hospital wing funding your mother's care? The scandal your father is barely containing? I can make it louder. Much louder."
My stomach tightened, but I kept my face blank. "You'd threaten a dying woman to force a wedding?"
"I don't threaten. I state outcomes." He tapped the folder once. "The contract is here. Standard terms. Fidelity. Obedience. Public appearances as required. In return, protection. Resources. Your name cleared within weeks. The framing incident disappears from every server that matters."
I laughed once, sharp and humorless. "Obedience. You really think I'll sign something that turns me into a puppet?"
He leaned forward slightly, elbows on his knees, and for the first time the full weight of his presence hit me. Not just height or build, something deeper, colder, the kind of control that came from breaking things that refused to bend. "I think you'll sign, because the alternative is watching everything you love burn while you stand outside the fire. Pride is expensive, Miss Pierce. I've collected on worse debts."
The room felt smaller. I could hear my own pulse. Part of me wanted to snatch the folder and hurl it at his chest. Another part, the one that still felt my mother's cold fingers, kept me rooted. He watched me the way a man watches a locked door, waiting for the exact moment it gives.
I reached for the folder anyway, flipping it open on the table between us. Pages of legalese blurred at first. Marriage date pending my signature. Joint assets. No separate residences. A clause about "mutual respect" that almost made me snort. Then, at the bottom, the final line: Groom: Elton Duncan. Bride: Selene Pierce.
I closed it again. "You don't even know me."
"I know enough." His tone didn't soften. "Your father's records. Your public life. The recent… complications. None of it changes the terms."
Complications. The word landed like a slap. The photos, Mason's choice, Camille's smile, all of it reduced to a footnote in his ledger. Heat rose in my cheeks, not embarrassment but pure, clean anger.
"You're enjoying this," I said, voice low. "The big bad debt collector swooping in to claim his prize while my mother lies in a hospital bed."
For the first time something shifted in his eyes, darker, sharper. "Enjoyment has nothing to do with it. Business does. Sign, and your family keeps breathing. Refuse, and I collect in blood and ruin. The choice is yours, but the clock is not."
My father cleared his throat from the corner, but neither of us looked at him. The air between Duncan and me crackled, thick with everything unsaid. I hated how steady he was, how completely in control. Hated that part of me registered the clean line of his jaw, the way his shoulders filled the shirt, the quiet authority that made the room tilt toward him without effort. It felt like standing too close to a live wire.
I picked up the pen he'd placed beside the folder. My fingers closed around it, knuckles white. For one long second I pictured signing, pictured the cage snapping shut for good. Then I set it down again.
"Not today," I said. "Not like this."
Duncan rose slowly. He didn't raise his voice. The movement alone filled the space. "You have forty-eight hours. After that, the first domino falls. Your mother's private care. Your brother Julian's latest acquisition. Your sister's public image. All of it. I don't bluff, Miss Pierce."
He turned toward the door, pausing once to glance back at me. The look was brief, unreadable, but it lingered a second longer than necessary. Then he was gone, footsteps measured on the marble, the front door closing behind him with a soft, final sound.
The room exhaled.
My father stood, face tight. "You just made this harder."
I stared at the folder still lying open on the table. "I didn't make anything. You did. When you sold me to pay your debts."
I walked out before he could answer, security falling in behind me like obedient shadows. My bedroom door would lock again in moments, but for the first time since Mexico the anger felt useful. Sharp and focused.
Elton Duncan thought he could knock on my life and claim it like a bill overdue. He was wrong. I would find another way—through the bars, around the debt, past the cold calculation in his eyes. Because if I signed that paper, I wouldn't just be trapped.
I would belong to the devil himself.