The cold silence hung heavily as Victor's command echoed in the room. "Go back to your room, Isabella. Get some rest. Your wedding is at 10 a.m. sharp. I expect you to be ready."
Isabella sat frozen, disbelief and numbness settling into her bones as she stared back at him. The weight of his words pressed down like an iron shackle around her neck, choking off any response she might have dared to make. Adrian watched her with the same unreadable expression, his gaze never once wavering as he observed her reaction, and she could feel his gaze lingering on her like a chain.
Victor's face hardened. "Don't make me repeat myself," he said, his voice sharp and unyielding. "Now go."
She barely remembered her legs moving as she rose from the chair, her body on autopilot as she walked out of her uncle's office and into the empty corridor. The house was eerily silent, the grand halls bathed in the faintest glow of early dawn. Her mind spun, her thoughts a blur of anger, fear, and disbelief. Marriage. To Adrian Blackwell. By ten o'clock that very morning.
She reached her room and shut the door, leaning against it as her chest heaved with the effort to hold herself together. She wanted to scream, to break something, to make herself wake up from this nightmare. But every breath she took confirmed that this was her reality. Her uncle was selling her off like a prized possession, handing her life over to a man who felt like nothing less than a storm waiting to consume her.
Her legs gave way, and she sank to the floor, pulling her knees to her chest as the enormity of her situation washed over her. A thousand thoughts crashed in her mind, each one darker than the last. There was no way out; her uncle had made that abundantly clear. She had no one, no resources, nowhere to run. And Adrian Blackwell wasn't a man she could easily defy.
She glanced at the clock on her nightstand—5:10 a.m. In five short hours, she would be Mrs. Adrian Blackwell, bound to a man she barely knew but already feared. She wondered what kind of life awaited her, what lay behind that intense, unyielding gaze he had fixed on her earlier. She had heard stories about him, of course. Everyone in their circles knew the whispers of Adrian Blackwell—the ruthless businessman, the master of silent deals, and the man who left nothing but destruction in his wake if crossed.
But why her? The question gnawed at her, burrowing deeper with every passing second. Why had Adrian chosen her, of all people? She was nobody, the neglected niece of an ambitious man who cared more for wealth than family. What could he possibly gain from her?
As dawn crept closer, Isabella forced herself to stand, fighting the weight of exhaustion that pulled at her. She crossed to the window, looking out at the sprawling estate her family had called home for generations. It should have been a place of safety, of comfort. Instead, it felt like a gilded cage, each wall pressing in on her.
She pressed a hand to the cool glass, wondering if there was any chance of escaping, of slipping away before the wedding could bind her to a man she feared. But she knew her uncle too well; he would have already taken precautions, made sure every exit was guarded. Her desperation only seemed to deepen the sense of entrapment that surrounded her.
The hours ticked by as she stood in silence, her mind drifting between fear and a quiet acceptance she despised. A part of her knew that resistance would only bring her more pain, and yet surrendering felt like losing herself completely.
At 8:00 a.m., her door swung open, and two of her aunt's hired assistants entered without a word. They regarded her with a strange mix of sympathy and indifference as they set about preparing her for the ceremony. She barely registered their voices, their hands guiding her through the motions as if she were a lifeless doll.
A gown was draped over her, the delicate lace and satin a mockery of the beauty that a bride should feel. As they styled her hair and applied her makeup, she caught glimpses of herself in the mirror—a pale, empty reflection of the girl she used to be. The gown was beautiful, an ethereal creation of white and silver that shimmered with every movement. But it felt like a costume, a final illusion of freedom she didn't possess.
As the assistants finished, one of them turned to her with a hesitant expression. "You look beautiful, Miss Monroe," she offered quietly, as if the words could ease the burden of the morning.
Isabella barely managed a nod, her throat too tight to speak. She didn't feel beautiful. She felt like a ghost, a shadow of herself bound to a fate she couldn't control.
A soft knock at the door announced her aunt's arrival. Her eyes swept over Isabella with a critical gaze before she forced a tight smile. "You look lovely, Isabella. Very fitting for the occasion."
Isabella's gaze hardened. "And what exactly is the occasion, Aunt Claudia? Watching me be sold off like a piece of property?"
Claudia's smile wavered, but her tone remained icy. "Mind your tone, Isabella. This marriage is a privilege, a chance to secure a future you'd be foolish to reject."
"A future with a man I barely know?" Isabella's voice trembled with a mixture of anger and despair. "Is this really what you want for me?"
Her aunt's gaze softened, but only slightly. "What I want is for you to understand that sacrifices must be made. The Monroe name, our legacy, demands it. We all play our parts, Isabella. Yours just happens to be...different."
"Different?" Isabella scoffed, the bitterness thick in her voice. "I don't even have a choice."
Claudia's gaze shifted, a flicker of something unreadable crossing her face. "Life rarely offers us choices, dear. We simply make the best of what we're given."
With that, her aunt turned and left, leaving Isabella alone in her room. She took a shuddering breath, fighting to steady herself as she tried to process her aunt's words. There was no comfort in them, no reassurance—only a chilling reminder that she was alone in this, abandoned to her fate.
At 9:45 a.m., a knock echoed through her room once more. This time, it was her uncle's head servant, who bowed respectfully. "It's time, Miss Monroe."
The walk to the grand hall felt like a march to her own execution. She could feel every eye on her as she descended the staircase, each gaze a reminder of the life she was leaving behind. Her uncle and aunt were waiting at the bottom, their expressions impassive as they observed her approach. Her aunt offered a tight smile, but her uncle's face remained as cold as ever.
And then she saw him—Adrian Blackwell, standing at the far end of the hall, his gaze fixed solely on her. He was dressed in a tailored suit, every line and edge sharp, perfectly controlled, just like the man himself. His eyes met hers, and for a brief moment, she felt something stir—a strange thrill of fear and intrigue that she couldn't quite understand.
But as she reached him, as she stood before the man who would soon hold complete power over her, Isabella felt a chill settle over her. Adrian reached out, his fingers brushing hers as he took her hand, his grip firm, unyielding.
The priest began to speak, his voice a distant echo in her mind. She barely heard the words, her thoughts a swirl of dread and resignation as she realized that this was it—the moment her life would forever change. She could feel Adrian's gaze on her, intense, unreadable, as if he could see right through her, and yet he remained silent, offering no comfort, no reassurance.
And when the final words were spoken, when the rings were exchanged and Adrian's hand tightened around hers, Isabella knew that her life, her freedom, had been sold to a man who held darkness in his heart—a man who was as much her captor as he was her husband.