The evening sun poured through the tall windows of the Montclair estate, casting long golden streaks across the polished marble floor. Elena sat curled on the edge of the couch, a cup of tea warming her hands, unaware that everything in her life was about to change.
Her mother sat opposite her, flipping through a magazine, while her father stood silently near the fireplace, unusually tense.
"Elena," he said suddenly, his voice firm. "We need to talk."
She looked up, eyebrows raised. "Okay… about what?"
Her father stepped forward. "There's been a decision. One that concerns your future—and the future of this family."
She blinked. "You're scaring me. What decision?"
He didn't blink. "You're getting married."
The cup slipped slightly in her grip. "Excuse me?"
"To Jaxon Wentworth," he continued. "It's already in motion. The agreement will help stabilize our partnership with his company. It's... necessary."
Elena stared at him in disbelief. "You're not serious. You can't be serious."
Her mother looked away, avoiding her gaze.
Elena stood up, her voice rising. "You want me to marry someone I've never met? Someone I don't love? Like I'm some... bargaining chip?"
Her father's tone remained calm but firm. "You're not a child, Elena. This is about responsibility. About family."
"This is about you," she snapped. "Not me."
A heavy silence filled the room.
She looked between them—her father cold and unbending, her mother silent like stone—and she suddenly felt like a stranger in her own home.
"I can't do this," she whispered, her voice trembling. "I won't."
Her father opened his mouth, but she cut him off, eyes blazing now.
"If this means so much to you, then maybe you and Mom can go ahead and marry him yourselves," she snapped. "But I'm not going to spend my life with someone I don't love. Someone I've never even met. That's not who I am."
With that, she turned and stormed out of the living room, heels clicking sharply against the floor. She didn't wait for their reply. She didn't care what they had to say anymore.
Her footsteps faded down the hallway, the final slam of the front door echoing like thunder through the grand room.
Richard Montclair exhaled slowly, rubbing his temples. "She'll come around."
His wife, Vivian, finally set the magazine aside. Her voice was low, touched with worry. "You should've told her differently. She's not a pawn, Richard. She's our daughter."
"She is our daughter," he said tightly, "which is why I'm trying to protect her—even if she doesn't see it yet."
Vivian looked toward the door where Elena had disappeared. "You're protecting the company. But who's protecting her heart?"
Richard said nothing. His silence was louder than any answer.
---
Upstairs, Elena slammed her bedroom door shut and leaned back against it, her chest rising and falling with shallow breaths.
How could they?
She dropped onto her bed, burying her face in her hands. Her thoughts raced—What did this Jaxon guy even look like? Was he cruel? Arrogant? Cold? Why her?
The anger gave way to exhaustion. Eventually, her eyes grew heavy, and she curled into herself under the soft glow of her bedside lamp.
The last thing she thought before sleep took her was—there has to be a way out of this