Sabina stood by the parlor window, staring out at the withering fields beyond the grand estate that once flourished under her father's name. The house, though still elegant in its bones, bore the quiet decay of a family teetering on the edge of ruin. The curtains, once pristine, had faded. The gilded frame of her mother's favorite mirror was chipping. The house smelled of dust and desperation.
And now, she was to be its salvation.
The engagement had been arranged in whispers, in late-night conversations between her father and Mr. Whitaker, a man who had once been nothing more than a distant acquaintance. Now, he was family—or soon would be. His son, Charles Whitaker, was to be her husband.
A man she had spoken to only twice.
"Sabina," her father's voice broke through her thoughts. He stood in the doorway, his suit still well-tailored but his shoulders hunched with the weight of failure. "You understand why this must happen."
Sabina turned to face him. "I understand that I have no choice."
He sighed, running a hand over his tired face. "I wish things were different. But Charles is a good man. His family is generous. This is the only way to keep us afloat."
She wanted to scream that it wasn't fair, that she deserved more than to be bartered away like a business transaction. But what good would it do? The bank had come for their land, for their name, and now, it was coming for her.
So she nodded.
The wedding was set for the following week. It was to be small—modest, her mother called it—but Sabina knew the truth. There was no money left for grandeur, no guests who still held her family in high regard. It would be a simple ceremony in the Whitakers' estate, in a home that was grander than hers had ever been.
She met Charles for the third time the day before the wedding. He was not unkind. He was polite, well-mannered, with dark eyes that revealed nothing. He asked if she enjoyed reading, if she had ever been to New York. The conversation was cordial, distant. She learned nothing of the man she was about to marry.
That night, she lay awake in her childhood bedroom, staring at the ceiling, wondering if this was how her mother had felt on the eve of her own wedding. Had she also been filled with dread, with uncertainty? Or had she loved her husband before she ever said "I do"?
Sabina closed her eyes and tried to imagine Charles's face, tried to conjure a future where she might feel something other than duty.
The day arrived in a blur of white lace and forced smiles. The ceremony was brief, the vows spoken with the same detachment as a business contract. When Charles slipped the ring onto her finger, it was heavy, unfamiliar.
And just like that, she was no longer Sabina Belmont, daughter of a fallen empire. She was Sabina Whitaker, wife of a man she barely knew.
The reception was quieter than she expected. The Whitakers' wealth was evident in the crystal glasses and lavish spread of food, but there was no joy, no celebration. Charles was attentive but distant, offering her a polite smile when their eyes met.
It wasn't until later, when the guests had thinned and the music had faded, that Charles finally spoke to her in earnest.
"Are you afraid?" he asked as they stood on the balcony, the cool night air wrapping around them.
She hesitated before answering. "Should I be?"
He studied her for a moment before shaking his head. "No. But I won't pretend this is easy for either of us."
Something about his honesty made her stomach twist. "Then why agree to it?"
Charles exhaled, leaning against the railing. "For the same reason you did."
Survival.
They were bound not by love, nor passion, but by necessity. By a world that demanded they make sacrifices for the sake of their family names.
Sabina looked down at the ring on her finger and wondered if, given enough time, she could learn to love the man who had saved her family at the cost of her freedom.