~Ciela
The hospital walls felt closer suddenly,
giving me a feeling of claustrophobia. The sterile scent of disinfectant
remained sharp in my nose. Somewhere behind those double doors that stood before
me was Damien laying down and fighting for his life with the machines breathing
to keep him. Dad sat slumped in the waiting room, his face buried in his hands.
I couldn't look at him anymore because if I did, his expression would crush me completely.
My fingers clenched around a piece of
card that dad slipped into my palm after his call, almost without me realizing.
It was his name and his address. Laurent Wolfe.
It weighed more than paper should,
like it was soaked in blood.
I told myself to breathe, to just take
one step at a time. If I thought too hard about what I was about to do, I'd
run. And running wasn't an option anymore.
Outside, the evening air was cool, but
it did nothing to calm the heat crawling under my skin. The city roared around
me—horns blaring, people shouting, the sound of life rushing forward while mine
came to a standstill.
A taxi slowed when I raised my hand.
The driver barely glanced at me before jerking his chin toward the back seat. I
slid inside, my heart hammering.
"Address?" he asked, his voice flat.
I read the card aloud, my tongue heavy
on the syllables.
The driver's eyebrows twitched
upward—just slightly, as though he recognized the name—but he said nothing. The
engine growled, and we were swallowed into traffic.
The city smeared past the car window
in streaks of light and shadow. My palms were slick against my lap, my pulse
hammering loud enough to drown out the hum of the engine. Every heartbeat
dragged me closer to a choice that already felt like a death sentence.
I had been in places similar to this before.
Towers of glass, the suffocating air of money and dominance. But tonight was
different. Tonight, I wasn't just stepping into a building. I was stepping into
a cage, a cage I could never walk out of.
The elevator climbed in silence, slow
and merciless. My worn dress clung to me like shame, out of place among the
sleek suits and shining heels of the others. They didn't look at me. To them, I
didn't exist. But to him, I was everything—a pawn, a price paid in flesh.
The doors slid open with a hollow
chime.
The office unfolded like a throne
room: glass walls opening over the city, the skyline spread beneath us like
prey. And at the center sat the man who would become my husband.
Laurent Wolfe.
The Devil himself.
His gray eyes fixed on me the moment I
entered, pinning me in place. He didn't smile. He didn't need to and from the
looks of it, he didn't do so often. The weight of his presence filled the room,
sharp and suffocating. A sleek fountain pen tapped rhythmically against the
desk, each strike like a countdown.
"You're late," he said, voice smooth
but heavy with authority.
"Traffic," I answered, though my
throat was tight with the lie.
His brow lifted, cutting through me
with the smallest flicker of disdain. "Or second thoughts?"
I forced my chin up. "My family needs the
money. Let's get this over with."
He smiled at me and passed me a
document. I read it without flinching.
Marriage Agreement
Between Laurent Wolfe and Ciela Hart
The words blurred for a moment as if
the ink itself bled.
"You're hesitating," he observed, his
voice quiet, almost mocking. "Do you finally understand what you're giving
up?"getting into?"
I gripped the pen to still the
trembling of my hand. "I know exactly what I'm doing."
"Good. Then sign."
The tip touched paper. My name carved
itself in black strokes across the contract, shaky but final. When it was done,
the page seemed heavier, as though it had drunk something from me.
Laurent folded the contract with
deliberate calm and rose to his full height. "Welcome to hell, Mrs. Wolfe."
Before I could retreat, he crossed the
distance and took my chin in his hand. His touch was firm, claiming, his grip a
warning.
"We have a wedding tomorrow," he
murmured, his breath warm against my skin. "And a honeymoon after that."
A cold knot twisted in my stomach.
"You can't mean—"
"I mean every word." His thumb dragged
lightly along my jaw, a parody of tenderness. "From this moment on, you are
mine."
"My people are already at the
hospital," he said softly, each word precise. "Your brother's treatment is
covered. Your father's debts are erased."
A wave of relief—sharp,
fleeting—crashed against the dread already filling me.
"Come," he said, releasing my chin.
"It's time you saw your new home."
The car was black, sleek, and silent,
swallowing me into leather and shadows. Laurent sat beside me, unreadable, his
gaze fixed forward. The city blurred past, lights bending into streaks of gold
and white. I didn't ask where we were going. I already knew.
When the car finally slowed, I looked
out—and my breath caught.
The mansion loomed behind iron gates,
sprawling and magnificent. Its walls were pale stone, its windows glowing
faintly in the night. Gardens stretched outward like a maze, hedges cut with
cruel precision. It was beautiful, yes, but also terrifying. A palace built to
impress—and to trap.
Inside, the air smelled faintly of
polish and something colder, sterile. Chandeliers glittered above marble
floors. Every corner was sharp, deliberate, perfect. Too perfect.
Laurent guided me through the silence.
Servants appeared like shadows.
"This is Mrs. Blackwell," he said,
gesturing to a severe woman in black, her hair pinned tight. "She oversees the
household."
The woman's eyes flicked over me, cool
and assessing, before she inclined her head.
"The guards," he continued, and I saw
them lingering at the edges of the hall—tall, armed, their gazes flat and
unyielding.
"And this," he said finally, as a
younger maid stepped forward, eyes soft with something close to pity, "is Anna.
If you need anything, you will go through her."
He led me up the staircase, his hand
lightly resting at my back like a command. At the end of a long corridor, he
opened a door.
"This will be your room," he said.
The space was larger than our entire
house—lavish bedding, carved furniture, velvet curtains. But it felt like a
stranger's museum, not a home.
I turned to him, my throat tight.
His gaze locked on mine, cold and
certain. "Get used to this place, Ciela. It's your new home. And I am your new
world."