The study smelled of old cigars and silent defeat. The shadows clung to the corners like witnesses, and the fire flickered weakly, barely lighting the room.
Rigid by the fireplace, Charles stands his jaw tight, fingers drumming against his side. Maeve sat across from him, hands twisted in her lap, her knuckles white, staring at the floor as if it could swallow her whole.
The crackle of the flames was loud in the silence, a sound too small to fill the weight of what was happening.
Atticus leaned casually against the wall near the door, calm, composed, predatory. Every inch of him screamed control, but his eyes, his eyes never left Maeve. Not once.
"I'm not marrying him," Maeve whispered, her voice trembling, raw, fragile, yet threaded with defiance.
"You are," Charles snapped, louder than he intended. The sound echoed off the walls like a gavel. "You will do as you are told."
"Why?" Her voice cracked. She finally lifted her gaze, and the anger there burned like fire. "Why are you letting him do this? Why are you doing this to me?"
Her father did not answer. His eyes flicked to Atticus, then to the floor, then to the bar. With shaking hands, he poured himself a drink, the amber liquid spilling over the rim. Maeve rose to her feet, trembling, fury coiling tighter in her chest.
"He threatened you, did not he?" she accused.
Charles did not speak. He could not.
"He said he would ruin us," she continued, voice growing, sharp like glass. "He said he would destroy everything, our family, you, mom. And you, you just gave me to him? Just like that?"
Charles slammed the glass down, the crash of shattering crystal echoing in the room. "I did what I had to!" he shouted, his voice breaking with desperation.
Maeve flinched at the sound, but did not retreat.
"You think I want this?" he barked, trying to justify himself. "You think I chose this? He came with lawyers, with contracts, with threats. He has the power to bury this family six feet under. I tried to say no. I really did. But your mother, she begged me. I, we thought maybe if you just went along, he would leave the rest of us alone."
Atticus took a step forward, the faintest smirk on his lips. His voice was smooth, controlled, and icy. "It is not a prison, Maeve," he said softly. "It is a union. You will want for nothing. You will be comfortable. Safe."
Maeve's laugh was hollow, sharp with pain. "I already want for nothing," she spat. "Except freedom."
His smile did not waver. "Then take it as a challenge. A clever girl like you, who knows what you might accomplish from the inside?"
Maeve whirled back to her father, tears burning in her eyes. "You are choosing him over me."
Charles' shoulders sagged. "No," he whispered, defeated. "I am choosing survival."
Her voice hardened, sharp and cutting. "You mean cowardice."
He flinched at her words, anger flaring in his chest. "Watch your tone."
"Or what?" she shot back, fury giving her strength. "You will sell me to someone worse?"
The fire flickered, shadows stretching across the walls. The room felt smaller, suffocating. Charles turned away, burdened by age and fear and guilt, muttering to himself. "I never thought it would come to this. We gave everything, everything to this name. And when the tide turned, there was no one left to help us. No one but him."
Maeve's voice softened, trembling but fierce. "Then you should have let it all burn."
Charles' face twisted with pain and rage. "You think that is bravery? Watching your mother starve in a hospital bed? Watching our staff lose everything? That is not bravery, Maeve. That is recklessness."
"Maybe," she whispered, "but at least I would still belong to myself."
Atticus stepped closer, voice smooth, reassuring, dangerous. "You will still belong to yourself, Maeve. I do not want your obedience. I want your loyalty. And in time, maybe even your trust."
Her gaze snapped to him, wild and angry. "You want what you cannot earn, so you are taking it by force."
"That is not force," he said coolly, his voice low and measured. "That is power."
"Same thing," she said, the words sharp as knives.
He smiled, unfazed. "No. Force is messy. Power is inevitable."
Her eyes snapped back to her father, steel-hard now. "You could have fought."
"I did," he said bitterly. "And I lost."
"And my mother?" Maeve asked softly. "Was she okay with this?"
A shadow passed over his face. "She was the one who told me to sign."
Maeve's heart twisted painfully. Her knees felt weak. For a moment, she forgot how to breathe.
Atticus' voice cut through the quiet. "We will announce the engagement tomorrow. A modest gathering. Then the wedding in three weeks."
Maeve swallowed hard, a scream stuck in her throat. "No white dress will make this pretty."
He smiled faintly, almost cruelly. "That is alright. I like red."
For a long moment, the fire popped and hissed, the only witness to a room filled with fear, anger, and obsession. Maeve's hands shook. Her father looked hollowed, broken, and Atticus looked satisfied, like he had finally claimed what he had been waiting for all his life.
In that room, the quiet predator and the furious girl faced off, one fueled by possession, the other by defiance, and the air between them felt like it could ignite at any second.
Engagement Night
The estate glowed with gold and crystal, chandeliers shimmering like captured stars above guests in black tuxedos and silk gowns.
Music floated through the ballroom like perfume - soft, elegant, hollow. The room pulsed with laughter and false congratulations. Champagne glasses clinked like warning bells no one else could hear.
Maeve stood at the center of it all, a statue carved in white lace and diamond dust. Her back was straight. Her smile was practiced. But her fingers, laced together just below her bouquet, were cold despite the heat of the lights and the sea of bodies pressing in around her.
The engagement ring glinted on her finger, a flawless emerald, rare and heavy. A cage.
Atticus stood beside her, hand resting on the small of her back with the confidence of ownership. His fingers were firm, claiming. His smile never faltered. Not when the crowd raised their glasses. Not when the photographer clicked photo after photo. Not when her mother dabbed at tears with a napkin too delicate to absorb grief.
Charles raised a toast with eyes that didn't shine. He looked through his daughter like he didn't recognize her.
Guests laughed. Danced. Applauded.
But Maeve wasn't listening.
Her ears were full of static. Her lungs were tight. Her heartbeat felt wrong, too loud, too fast, too aware.
And then she saw him.
In the corner of the ballroom, just behind the string quartet, carrying a tray of champagne flutes. A waiter. At least, that's what anyone else would see.
But not Maeve. Not her.
But Alex. His hair was slicked back. His tuxedo didn't quite fit borrowed, maybe stolen, but the way he moved, calm and focused, erased any doubt. It was him. And then she saw his eyes.
Those were his eyes. And they were saying one thing.
"Now."
Time fractured.
The music kept playing. People kept talking. But for Maeve, everything slowed to a single breath.
Now. She moved.
"I need some air," she said softly, just loud enough for Atticus to hear.
Atticus turned to her, his gaze sharp beneath the smile. "Everything alright?"
She nodded, managing a soft laugh. "Just a little overwhelmed. It's a lot."
He studied her for a moment, the smile tightening like a noose. Then he kissed her cheek. "Don't take long."
She turned, forcing herself not to move too quickly, not to betray the urgency screaming inside her chest.
Every step felt like walking on a tightrope.
She exited the ballroom through the side corridor, heels silent on marble. The hallway was empty. Cold. He wiped the cheek where Atticus kissed her.
Alex was behind her within seconds.
They didn't speak until they'd slipped through the kitchen doors. Staff bustled around them, too busy or too oblivious to notice anything strange.
Then they were out the back door.
The night hit her like a gasp.
"Where's the car?" she asked, voice barely above a whisper.
"Close," Alex said. "We go through the east trail. They won't see us until it's too late."
Maeve nodded. Her dress dragged against the damp grass, lace catching on roots, but she didn't stop. She didn't care.
They ran.
The cold air sliced through the silence between them. Adrenaline burned away the fear. All Maeve could think about was escape, one more step, one more breath, one more second away from everything she was supposed to become.
Back inside, a glass shattered.
A guest blinked, confused.
A guard's hand flew to his radio.
"The bride's missing."
In the garden, Alex grabbed Maeve's hand tighter, pulling her forward as lights flared behind them.
"Faster."
Back inside, Atticus stepped through the now half-empty ballroom. The smile was gone. The warmth drained from his face, replaced by cold calculation.
He reached the balcony just as a guard rushed up behind him. "Sir. She's gone."
Atticus didn't speak nor blink.
His gaze swept the garden below, just in time to see two shadows disappearing into the trees.
His hand curled into a fist. "Find them."
But it was already too late, Maeve was gone.