Two days.
I'd had two days to find a way out, and I'd found nothing.
I stood before my bedroom mirror, forcing my trembling fingers to button the black suit jacket. Severe. Professional. Armor that felt like tissue paper. I'd pulled my hair into a sleek bun so tight it made my scalp ache, but the pain helped. It kept me focused. Present.
I looked like someone attending a funeral.
Maybe I was.
"You can do this," I whispered to my reflection. The woman staring back looked hollow-eyed, pale. A stranger. "You can do this."
But I couldn't. And I would anyway. Because two hundred jobs hung in the balance. Because Dad's desperation had become my prison. Because every escape plan I'd imagined collapsed under the crushing weight of reality.
I'd considered running. Called Maya at two in the morning, voice breaking as I tried to explain. She'd offered her couch, her savings, her fierce loyalty. But running meant destroying everyone else. The employees. The shareholders. People who'd done nothing wrong except trust the Winters name.
I'd considered lawyers. Spent hours researching contract law, coercion, illegal agreements. But Dad's lawyers had already reviewed everything. Blackwood's terms were airtight. Legal. Horrifyingly binding.
I'd considered begging. Practiced speeches in my head where I convinced Blackwood to show mercy, to accept something else, anything else.
That fantasy died quickest.
Men who systematically destroyed families didn't have mercy.
The car Dad sent arrived at nine-thirty. I descended from my apartment building like a condemned prisoner walking to execution. The driver wouldn't meet my eyes either. Apparently everyone knew what I was.
Collateral.
Manhattan blurred past the tinted windows. I watched the city I loved become a cage. Every street corner held memories of freedom I'd never get back. The coffee shop where I'd sketched strangers. The gallery where I'd sold my first painting. The park where I'd sat for hours, dreaming of a future I'd never have.
The Blackwood building rose before us—all black glass and sharp angles, a blade cutting into the sky.
My hands shook as we pulled to the curb.
"Miss Winters?" The driver's voice was gentle. "We've arrived."
I forced myself to move. One foot. Then another. Through the pristine lobby where my reflection fractured across polished surfaces. Into an elevator that climbed so fast my stomach dropped. Higher. Higher. Until the doors opened onto the top floor.
A receptionist with a practiced smile gestured down a hallway. "Mr. Blackwood is expecting you. Last door on the left."
My heels clicked against hardwood. Each step felt weighted, final. The door loomed before me—dark wood, no nameplate. As if the man inside needed no introduction.
I raised my fist to knock.
"Come in, Miss Winters."
His voice carried through the door, cold and certain. He'd known I was standing there. Known I was hesitating.
I turned the handle.
Lucian Blackwood's office was a study in controlled power. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed Manhattan like a conquered territory. The furniture was minimal, expensive, chosen for intimidation rather than comfort. And behind a massive desk sat the man who'd purchased my future.
He was younger than I'd imagined. Mid-thirties, maybe. Dark hair cut precisely, sharp jaw, eyes the color of winter storms. Handsome in the way a blade is beautiful—elegant and dangerous. His suit probably cost more than my annual rent.
He didn't stand when I entered. Didn't smile. Simply watched me with an expression that revealed nothing.
"Sit."
Not an invitation. A command.
I remained standing. Small rebellion. Pointless, but mine.
His mouth curved slightly. Not quite a smile. "Suit yourself."
"Why me?" The words escaped before I could stop them. "If this is about my father's debt, take the company. Take everything. But why do you need a wife?"
"Need?" He leaned back in his chair, studying me like something under glass. "I don't need anything, Miss Winters. I take what I'm owed."
"I'm not something to be owed."
"You are now." He opened a folder on his desk. My life, reduced to documents. "Your father signed the agreement. You'll honor it."
My nails bit into my palms. "There has to be another way. Money, assets, something else—"
"There isn't."
"You can't just buy a person!"
"I didn't buy you." His eyes met mine, and I felt the chill clear to my bones. "I accepted you as payment. There's a difference."
"What difference?"
"Intent." He closed the folder with a soft snap. "I made the offer. Your father accepted without protest. He saw you as a means to clear his conscience and save his company. The choice to demand you was mine. His surrender was immediate."
The room tilted. "He wouldn't—"
"Read the contract if you doubt me. Paragraph seven. He proposed the arrangement himself."
Lies. Had to be lies. But something in Blackwood's absolute certainty made my conviction waver.
"Why?" My voice cracked. "What did we do to you?"
For just a moment, something flickered across his face. Something ancient and bitter. Then it vanished behind that impenetrable mask.
"That," he said quietly, "is none of your concern."
"It's every bit my concern! You're demanding I marry you, and I don't even know why!"
"You're demanding nothing. You're fulfilling an agreement." He pulled another document from his desk drawer. "The wedding is scheduled for Saturday. Two days from now. St. Patrick's Cathedral. Three o'clock. Your father has the details."
Saturday. Three days away. My exhibition was Friday night.
"I have an exhibition," I said numbly. "Friday. My first major show."
"Congratulations."
"I can't get married the next day."
"You can and you will." He pushed the document across the desk. "This is the marriage contract. Review it with your attorney if you wish, though the terms aren't negotiable. You'll sign it after the ceremony."
I stared at the papers, vision blurring. "What if I refuse?"
"You won't."
"But if I do?"
He stood finally, moving to the windows. With his back to me, silhouetted against the city, he looked like a king surveying his kingdom. Or a conqueror counting his spoils.
"If you refuse, I'll destroy everything your father built," he said conversationally. "The company liquidated. The assets seized. Every scandal, every hidden transgression exposed. Your family name will become synonymous with corruption and failure. Two hundred people will lose their livelihoods. And your father..." He turned, his eyes finding mine. "Your father will spend what's left of his life drowning in shame."
My throat closed. "You're a monster."
"Perhaps." He returned to his desk, already dismissing me. "But I'm the monster who owns you now. Saturday. Three o'clock. Don't be late."
I wanted to scream. To throw something. To make him feel even a fraction of the helplessness clawing through my chest.
Instead, I walked to the door on legs that barely held me.
"Miss Winters."
I stopped, hand on the handle, not looking back.
"Wear white," he said. "Let's maintain appearances."
The laugh that escaped me was broken, jagged. "Appearances. Right."
I walked out before he could see me shatter.
The elevator ride down felt eternal. I watched the numbers descend—forty, thirty-nine, thirty-eight—each one a countdown to a life I didn't choose.
When I finally reached the lobby, stepped into Manhattan's bright afternoon, I couldn't breathe. Crowds moved around me, people living their normal lives, unaware that mine had just ended.
I'd gone into that office as Isla Winters—artist, dreamer
, free.
I'd left as merchandise. Purchased. Owned. A transaction completed.
Saturday was two days away.
My wedding day.
My funeral.