The power went out. Camela and Cynthia ran through the small house. Camela hurriedly tossed clothes into a backpack while Cynthia checked every shadow, vent, and window.
Suddenly Camela froze. "That was him, wasn't it?"
Cynthia cursed under her breath. "He's playing with us."
A sound echoed from beneath the floor like dragging wood.
Cynthia squatted down, lifting a rug in the living room. Underneath, she discovered a trapdoor.
Camela's stomach flipped. "That's… that wasn't there before."
"It was always there," Cynthia said. "We just didn't see it."
Cynthia opened the door slowly. A metal ladder led into pitch blackness.
"He's using tunnels."
They climbed down, their flashlights cutting through thick dust.
It was a crawlspace—tight, dark, silent.
"Where does it go?" Camela whispered.
"Could be anywhere," Cynthia replied. "This house used to belong to a judge. Vincent must've had it built."
Camela's light hit something scratched into the wall—her name.
**Camela Siegel**
**Mine. Mine. Mine.**
Hundreds of times.
Her voice broke. "He was here for months, Cynthia."
Cynthia aimed her gun forward. "And we didn't even know."
Suddenly, a crashing sound echoed behind them.
They turned to see that the ladder was gone. The trapdoor had slammed shut.
They crawled deeper, turning corners. The air grew colder.
Camela noticed a strange smell. "It smells like… like bleach."
Cynthia muttered, "He cleaned it. Recently."
Then they found another ladder. Another door.
Cynthia pushed Camela up first. "Go. Quick."
Camela climbed, pushed the door, and it opened into a dusty hallway.
"Where are we?" she whispered.
Cynthia climbed up behind her.
Then—bang! A loud noise echoed. Cynthia screamed.
Blood.
Camela caught her as she fell. "Cynthia! Cynthia!"
"Go," Cynthia gasped. "He's here. He's here."
"I'm not leaving you…"
"GO!"
Camela ran, tears blurring her vision.
She found herself in an old courthouse—empty and abandoned.
Every door creaked. Every hallway echoed.
Then she heard it.
Tap… tap… tap…
Footsteps.
Camela pressed herself against the wall, heart pounding in her ears.
A voice echoed from the hall, calm, cold, and familiar.
"Run, little bride."
Vincent.
He was here.
She ran again, ducking through doors, climbing stairs, pushing through cobwebs and rot.
Then—she stopped.
Laid out on the dusty floor was her wedding dress—clean, pressed, waiting.
Next to it sat a ring. His
Camela heard a whisper behind her.
"I told you, darling…"
His voice was soft, yet terrifying.
"No one else gets to hurt you but me."
She turned—screamed, and blacked out
The silk ribbon was still tied on the gift box when Camela picked it up. It sat on her bed, perfectly placed. Inside was a white gold necklace—thin, delicate, expensive. A dress suitable for a princess.
There she was, Camela back at the Castellano's Castle.
Footsteps behind her. She turned sharply.
Vincent leaned against the doorframe, sleeves rolled up, shirt half-unbuttoned.
"You found it," he said. His expression was without a smile.
"What is this?" she asked, her voice shaking. "A joke?"
His eyes dropped to the gift and dress laid out on the bed. "Dress up. Have dinner with me, my queen," he said with a cold dead smile. He blew her an air kiss and left.
Reluctantly, Camela dressed in the clothing and made her way down the hallway.
Camela stood frozen at the top of the stairs. Voices echoed from Vincent's office—his voice and another man's, deeper and older.
She leaned closer.
"She's yours now," the man said. "The Mayor delivered. You paid well."
Vincent laughed—low and bitter. "It wasn't about the money. It was about loyalty."
"And power," the man added.
A glass clinked.
"She's a tool," the man continued. "Don't get soft on her."
Camela's breath caught in her throat.
Tool.
They bought me.
Dinner that night was cold—the food, the silence, and her rage.
Vincent cut his steak slowly, methodically, without looking up.
Camela slammed her fork down. "Say it," she snapped.
He raised a brow. "Say what?"
"That I'm just a tool to you. That this whole wedding was a trade."
He sipped his wine.
"I didn't lie to you, Camela. I never said you weren't part of something bigger."
"I'm not a chess piece," she said
He set his glass down. "You're not. You're the queen. That's why everyone wants to use you."
She stood up. "You're sick."
"And you're in denial," he replied.
An hour later, Vincent found her in the garden.
"You heard it, didn't you?" he asked.
Camela didn't look at him. "I'm not a person to you. Just a deal."
His voice was calm—too calm. "It was more than a deal. You're a symbol. You belong to a name now. A legacy."
"I'm not an object," she snapped.
Vincent tilted his head. "No, you're something more dangerous than that. You're a bride with feelings."
He handed her a folder.
She opened it.
Marriage Contract – Siegel & Castellano.
Signed. Stamped. Witnessed.
"Your father signed you away to save his seat," Vincent said. "He didn't even blink."
Camela stared at the paper in her hands, but the words blurred.
"Why didn't you tell me?" she whispered.
Vincent took the folder back. "You wouldn't have believed me."
He poured a drink and handed it to her. "Let me show you something else."
He played a video. In it her, father was sitting across from Vincent.
"She's smart," the Mayor said. "But she's too soft. You'll need to harden her up."
Vincent sipped his drink in the video. "I can handle her."
Camela stepped back, filled with sadness. "I wasn't even in the room," she said. "I didn't even get to say no."
"You were never meant to," Vincent replied.
Later, Camela crept into his office. She knew the passcode now—her birthday, twisted into Roman numerals.
The safe clicked open. She pulled out a folder marked "SIEGEL DEAL". Inside were old photos of her as a child, medical reports, school records, and even letters—etters from her father to Vincent. "I trust you'll keep her in line. She can be emotional." "Make sure this marriage stays out of the press until she's trained."
Camela gasped; her stomach twisted. Her name was right there, like an item on a bill. She dropped the papers in immense shock. Her heart pounded; every word, every line felt like knives in her chest.
"You knew everything," she whispered to herself.
Camela waited until midnight. She used the house's landline since Vincent always monitored her cell—she called.
"Hello?" her father's voice answered.
"Dad?" she whispered.
"You sold me," she said quietly.
Silence.
"Camela—"
"I heard everything. You called me soft. You said I was a problem. You didn't even say goodbye."
"It was complicated," he said. "You were in danger…"
"No," she interrupted. "You were"
He sighed. "Vincent promised me peace. I did what I had to."
"I hate you," she whispered before hanging up.
Behind her, a voice said, "That was brave."
She turned to see Vincent standing in the doorway, walking in slowly. There was no anger in his attitude, just something darker— disappointment.
"You called your father," he said.
"He's still mine," Camela replied.
Vincent's eyes narrowed. "No. He gave you away. You're mine now."
She stood up. "I'm not a possession."
"No," he said. "You're a test. And you're failing."
He stepped closer, holding Camela's hand and kissing it. The room was dimly lit, his sleeves rolled up, and his watch ticked loudly in the silence.
"You looked in the safe," he said, and Camela didn't deny it.
"Do you want to leave?" he asked.
She blinked in surprise. "What?"
"I'll give you a choice," he said. "You can go back to your father. I'll let you walk out right now. No guards. I'll even send a car."
Camela blinked again. "Really?"
She stepped back, confusion clouding her mind.
"But if you do," he continued, "I'll destroy your father. I'll release every deal, every dirty record." "You'll never be safe. He won't protect you. And I'll still be watching."
She stared at him, shocked.
"And if I stay?" she asked.
"You'll be under my roof, my rules. But alive."
Silence filled the space.
"I'd rather die than live like this." she finally said.
Vincent smiled, slow and cold. "I was hoping you'd say that."
Later that night, Camela walked past the west hallway—a place she was told never to go. The old key felt cold and heavy in her palm. She didn't know what led her there, but when the attic door creaked open, it felt like it had been waiting for her.
Something felt… off.
A light was on.
She opened the door. Inside—
Photos.
Of her.
Pinned to every wall.
Sleeping. Reading. Crying.
A map of her movements.
The journal she lost two weeks ago lay open.
A voice behind her startled her: "You found my collection."
She turned, her heart racing. Vincent stood there, smiling. "I've been watching you far longer than you think."