"Miss Winterland, they want you."
Zeraida froze mid-step, her hand lingering over the worn wooden surface of the waiting room desk. Three years of endless humiliation had systematically eroded her optimism, leaving behind a dull ache that usually accompanied every casting call.
Three miserable, exhausting years of auditions, rejected applications, background roles, and smiling politely while executives told her she was pretty but ultimately forgettable.
Finally, against all realistic odds, someone actually wanted her for a project.
"You're serious?" she asked, her voice barely carrying across the room as her heart thudded against her ribs.
Her manager, Rhea, grinned broadly and waved a thick paper contract directly in front of her face. "Supporting female lead. Twelve full episodes. And before you ask, no, they don't have a single clue that you're a Winterland."
Zeraida snatched the papers from her manager's grip, her eyes rapidly scanning the black print on the opening page. This is real, she thought, a sudden surge of warmth blooming in her chest. It's actually happening.
That secrecy was precisely how she wanted every aspect of her career to remain. In the cutthroat entertainment industry, she was simply Zeraida Winters, a twenty-four-year-old aspiring actress trying to make a living. She lived in a modest studio apartment, navigated the city on public transportation, and survived mostly on lukewarm coffee and late-night convenience-store meals.
Nobody needed to know that real Winterland blood secretly ran through her veins. Nobody needed to know that a single phone call to her family could grant her instant access to fleets of luxury cars, sprawling estates, private jets, and enough generational wealth to make struggling directors suddenly remember her name.
She desperately wanted something in this life that belonged entirely to her. She refused to owe her success to the Winterland name.
Her phone vibrated violently against the table, the sharp buzzing shattering the fleeting moment of triumph. Zeraida glanced down at the glowing screen, watching the caller ID illuminate the quiet room.
[Grandfather.]
Her triumphant smile instantly disappeared into a flat, rigid line. She reached out and deliberately declined the incoming call without hesitation.
The device rang again almost immediately, the persistent vibrations buzzing against the wood. She declined it a second time, setting the device face down.
A moment later, a single text message appeared on the display screen. Come home immediately.
Zeraida stared at the cold words before firmly locking her phone. Not a chance in hell, she thought, slipping the device into her bag.
"No," she murmured aloud, shaking her head.
Rhea raised an eyebrow from across the room, leaning against the doorframe. "Family troubles?"
"Unfortunately," Zeraida replied smoothly, attempting to project a calm exterior she did not feel.
Another message arrived with an aggressive ping. If you refuse, every account, property, and asset belonging to you under the Winterland estate will be frozen by midnight.
Zeraida's jaw tightened as the harsh reality set in. She could easily survive without the family money, considering she practically did so already on her modest acting income.
However, several of those contested properties had originally belonged to her late mother before her passing. Her calculating grandfather knew precisely where to strike to guarantee her total compliance.
"Bastard," she whispered under her breath, her knuckles turning white around her phone.
Three hours later, Zeraida stood before the towering iron gates of the ancestral Winterland estate. The immense stone mansion had not changed at all during her prolonged absence. Neither had the suffocating feeling of dread that settled deeply within her chest whenever she stepped onto the grounds.
A middle-aged servant opened the front doors, stepping aside with a practiced bow. "Welcome home, Young Miss."
"Don't sound so excited," Zeraida said, her tone laced with dry irony. "I'm certainly not staying long."
She marched directly toward her grandfather's study, her heels clicking sharply against the polished marble floor without waiting to be officially announced.
The double doors opened smoothly to reveal the expansive, dimly lit room. Her grandfather sat motionless behind his enormous mahogany desk, looking irritatingly calm despite the sudden intrusion.
"You came," the old man observed, his stern gaze tracking her approach across the room.
"You threatened me," Zeraida corrected coldly, stopping just short of the desk.
"I simply reminded you of your familial obligations," he replied, adjusting his posture slightly.
"I don't have any obligations to this place," she spat back, her eyes narrowing.
"You are a Winterland," he stated, as if that single fact explained everything in existence.
"Biologically," she retorted with a bitter edge. "Tragic, really."
His stern expression hardened further, but he did not break eye contact. Zeraida crossed her arms tightly over her chest, refusing to yield an inch of ground.
"What do you actually want from me?" she demanded, cutting straight to the point.
Her grandfather reached down and pushed a thick leather folder across the polished surface of the desk. She looked at the item but did not reach out to touch it.
"What is that?" she asked, inspecting the plain cover from a distance.
"Your future," he answered without a hint of hesitation.
"That sounds distinctly ominous," she remarked, folding her arms tighter.
"Sit down, Zeraida," he commanded, gesturing toward the empty leather armchair across from him.
"I prefer standing," she countered, keeping her body rigid.
The old man released a slow, measured sigh that seemed to age him slightly. "Then stand quietly while I tell you."
Something about his unusually solemn tone made her lingering amusement vanish instantly. He isn't posturing this time, she thought, a cold knot forming in her stomach.
"The Winterland family entered into a binding agreement with another prominent family many years ago," her grandfather began smoothly.
"And what does an old agreement have to do with my life?" Zeraida questioned, her impatience growing.
"It has everything to do with you," he stated firmly.
He flipped open the cover of the leather folder, revealing a single document accompanied by a prominent photograph. Zeraida's eyes involuntarily fell upon the image of a handsome man dressed in a tailored black suit. He possessed strikingly sharp facial features, distant eyes, and an overall expression that seemed carved from solid stone.
She recognized the man immediately, just as virtually anyone in high society would. His name was Xaviere Arventine, a ruthless billionaire and the sole heir to the vast Arventine corporate empire. According to every high-society magazine in the country, he was a cold figure whose heart had effectively died alongside his childhood sweetheart years ago.
Zeraida slowly lifted her gaze from the photograph to meet her grandfather's unyielding eyes. "No."
"You don't even know what I am about to say," he pointed out calmly.
"I know exactly what you're going to say," she snapped, her breath catching in her throat.
"Then this conversation will be significantly easier for both of us," her grandfather replied, folding his weathered hands over the desk. "You will marry Xaviere Arventine."
An oppressive silence descended upon the room, heavy and suffocating. Zeraida stared at the old man, searching his face for any sign of a cruel joke.
Then she laughed once, a sharp, entirely humorless sound that echoed off the high ceilings. "I'd rather lose every cent of my mother's inheritance than do that."
Her grandfather's resolute gaze did not waver under her open defiance. "This situation isn't merely about your personal inheritance anymore."
Zeraida's forced smile vanished entirely, replaced by a sudden wave of genuine apprehension. "What is that supposed to mean?"
He slid a second, older document across the dark mahogany wood toward her. This time, curiosity overcame her resistance, and she reached out to look.
The blood slowly drained from her face as her eyes tracked down the yellowed page. At the bottom of the document were two distinct signatures written decades ago in dark ink: Winterland and Arventine.
Her grandfather spoke quietly into the stillness, his voice carrying the finality of a court verdict. "Your marriage was promised long before you ever ran away from this house."
Zeraida stared down at the signed paper, the reality of the trap closing around her. I spent three years escaping this family, she thought, her pulse racing frantically. And I was traded away before I even learned how to walk.