If I ever wrote a memoir, Chapter One would be titled: "That Time My Dad Sold Me Like a Discount Goat."
Romantic, right?
"Ava." My aunt rapped on the bedroom door hard enough to rattle the hinges. "Stop hiding and finish your lipstick. The Volkov men are almost here."
Technically, I wasn't hiding.
I was sitting in front of the mirror, dressed in enough white lace to wallpaper a church, and contemplating homicide.
His.
I glanced at my reflection. The makeup artist had done a phenomenal job. I looked like someone rich enough to be tragic. Glossy brown hair twisted into a low bun, cheekbones carved with contour and soft pink lips.
Bride material.
Inside, I felt like a hostage.
"I'm not wearing lipstick for a man I haven't even seen," I called back. "What if he's allergic? I could kill him."
God, please let him be allergic.
"Your father told you not to argue," my stepmother said on the other side of the door. "You should be grateful they took you. A girl with your... attitude."
Attitude. Right. That was what you called having opinions.
It was funny. I had left this house ten months ago with a scholarship, a suitcase, and the insane idea that my life might be my own. I had done my exams, got a crappy part‑time job, and learned what it felt like to exist without being a bargaining chip. I had thought coming home for summer would mean homemade pasta and yelling relatives and my little brother trying to steal my fries.
Instead, I got… a surprise engagement.
I had found out three hours ago, which I think we can agree was not an appropriate amount of notice before legally binding someone to a stranger.
"Ava, open the door," my aunt said. "Your father is furious."
I picked up the lipstick just to prove I wasn't completely suicidal, swiped it on, and stood. The dress pooled around my feet, heavy and unfamiliar. I had never worn anything this expensive. I had never been worth this much.
The thought made something ugly twist in my chest.
The door opened before I reached it. One of the maids must have unlocked it for them. My aunt, my cousin, and my stepmother all stopped and stared like I was a museum exhibit.
"Oh," my cousin breathed. "You actually look–"
"Don't say beautiful," I warned. "I might start crying and then the eyeliner situation becomes a war crime."
They shuffled aside to let me pass. Halfway down the hall, my little brother's door creaked open. Matteo stuck his head out, wearing Star Wars pajama pants.
"Ave?" he whispered. "They really making you marry him?"
"Looks like it." I tried for casual and ended up somewhere near deranged. "On the bright side, I look incredible."
He didn't smile. "It's because of that thing, isn't it? With the money?"
Of course he had heard.
"Hey." I stepped closer and tugged his hair gently. It sprang right back. "Listen. You stay in school. Keep your head down. Pretend you don't hear anything you hear, okay?"
"That's stupid," he muttered.
"It is," I agreed. "But do it anyway. For me."
"Can't you–"
"I'll be fine." I lied smoothly, because what else could I do. "You know I'm impossible to get rid of."
He huffed something that might have been a laugh. "Love you."
"Love you too, pest." I tapped his nose. "If anyone asks, you never saw me in this dress."
He disappeared back into his room as my aunt yelled my name again.
***
At the top of the stairs, I paused.
The living room below was full. Rossi men in suits hovered around the edges. In the center, facing the stairs, were the guests: The Volkovs.
Russian. Of course.
Everyone knew Volkov. Rumors, mostly. Things whispered between crates at the docks, in the back rooms of bars. Cold. Efficient. Not sentimental.
I gripped the banister to steady myself, heart pounding so loud it felt like everyone must hear it.
My father stepped out from the cluster, all smiles and charm. "Ava," he boomed, like this was his proudest moment. "Look at you. Bellissima."
For a second, there was this tiny, deranged part of me that wanted him to meet my eyes and say, I'm sorry, I had no choice. This is the only way to keep us alive.
He didn't.
He just looked satisfied.
My gaze skipped past him to the men he was selling me to.
Six suits. Broad shoulders. Expressionless faces. One was older, hair grey at the temples. Another had a scar along his jaw. They all looked like they could kill you with a napkin and then finish their espresso.
I scanned for the oldest, fattest, sleaziest.
That had to be him.
A man at the far end of the room was sitting, one ankle resting on his knee, fingers loose around a tumbler of something amber. He was talking quietly to the grey‑haired one, head tipped slightly down.
He stood when my father tugged my hand to lead me down the stairs.
The atmosphere tightened the moment he stood, as if the room had quietly decided he was now the most dangerous thing in it.
Cillian Volkov was not old.
He looked like a prince straight out of a fairy tale.
A very specific kind of fairy tale. The kind where the prince slaughters a dragon and then takes over its cave and starts charging rent.
He was tall, first of all. Stupidly tall. The kind of tall that made the men around him look shorter without knowing why. His suit was black, impeccably tailored, hugging broad shoulders and a trim waist. His hair was dark, thick, and a little too long on top like he'd run his fingers through it more than once that day. There was a scar splitting his left eyebrow, pale against warm skin.
His eyes, when they found mine, were green. Not soft hazel, not muddy olive. Green like something dangerous growing in a forest no one went into.
For a moment my brain forgot everything it had prepared. All the speeches about consent, and freedom, and human rights? Gone.
Instead, my stomach did this weird swoop like someone had just opened a trap door under my feet. Heat rushed up my neck, into my face.
Okay. No. Absolutely not.
Fear, I told myself aggressively. That's all this is. Basic biology. Fight‑or‑flight.
We reached the bottom of the stairs. My father gave my hand a warning squeeze. Smile. I pasted something on my face that might have passed for one in low light.
"Cillian," my father said, spreading his free hand like he was unveiling a dessert. "My daughter, Ava."
Up close, his cologne smelled like something smooth and expensive layered over winter air. There was a hint of an accent in the way he said, "Ava Rossi."
Something about the way my name sounded in his mouth made my spine straighten.
He studied me slowly, from face to neckline to the edge of my lace sleeves, then back to my face. Not leering. Not... exactly. More like he was checking if I matched whatever was on the invoice.
I fought the urge to squirm.
"You're late," he said.
His English was perfect. Low, controlled, every word precise.
"I told your father seven," he continued. "It's now seven‑ten."
"I had to emotionally prepare," I said before my self‑preservation could tackle my mouth. "Turns out that takes more than ten minutes."
My father's fingers dug into my palm hard enough to grind bone. "Ava."
Something moved in Cillian's eyes. Not quite amusement. Not quite annoyance. A flicker of curiosity, like he'd picked up a strange object and was deciding if it was dangerous or entertaining.
"She jokes when she's nervous," my father said hastily.
"Do you?" Cillian asked.
"Do I what?" I asked, because my brain was now apparently mush.
"Joke when you're nervous."
"Apparently," I said.
His mouth shifted just enough to hint at a smile before it disappeared. "Then you must be hilarious tonight."
My father let out a laugh that sounded too loud. "She is a good girl. Educated. Top of her class in university."
"Accounting," I added, because if we were listing my qualifications like a résumé, we might as well be accurate.
"Yes," my father said quickly. "She'll be an asset."
Cillian's eyes slid briefly to my father, then back to me. "Useful," he said.
Not "impressive." Not "congratulations." Just useful. Like I was a spreadsheet that could walk.
My father swallowed it like a compliment. "We are honored, truly. You have cleared our...difficulties." He cleared his throat. "This arrangement benefits us both."
"That's what this is to you?" I asked softly. "An arrangement?"
"Ava," my father snapped.
Cillian didn't look away. His eyes stayed on mine, steady and unblinking. It was unnerving. I felt pinned to the spot by his attention.
"Your father owed me money and blood," he said calmly. "He was unable to pay either."
The room felt warmer all of a sudden, despite the ice in his tone.
"He offered other things." His head inclined a fraction. "Including you."
"Incredible," I said. "And here I thought he forgot my birthday."
My father hissed my name, but Cillian's mouth twitched again. It wasn't a nice expression. It was halfway between entertained and irritated.
"He signed the papers," Cillian continued. "You clear his ledger. In return, you become my wife. Simple."
Simple?!
"The contract is binding," my father added quickly, not meeting my eyes. "In the eyes of their family, the papers are the marriage. Tonight is... ceremonial."
My chest tightened. Outwardly, I kept my face flat.
"I didn't sign anything," I said.
"For now," Cillian replied.
His eyes darkened, just a shade, and I felt it like a drop in air pressure. There was a possessive weight in the way he was looking at me that wrapped around my ribs and squeezed. Some part of him had already filed me under 'mine', and he was annoyed I hadn't caught up.
"Cillian is very generous," my father said quickly. "He will take care of you, Ava."
"Like a houseplant?" I murmured.
He ignored me. Cillian didn't.
"Do you think being married to me is like being kept on a windowsill?" he asked.
"I don't know," I said. "Do you water your wives once a week or only when they start wilting?"
For a heartbeat, the air between us felt tighter. His gaze sharpened, and I had the ridiculous impression of invisible fingers closing carefully around my throat.
"You're not a houseplant," he said quietly.
"You're a responsibility."
Better than 'burden,' I guess.
"And a liability," he added.
"There it is." I nodded. "I was waiting for that one."
One of the men behind him coughed into his hand like he was hiding a smile. Cillian didn't look at him. His eyes never left me.
He stepped closer. He didn't hurry. He just reduced the distance between us until the lace at my neckline almost brushed his suit jacket when I breathed. My next attempt at a cutting remark dissolved somewhere between forming and arriving. I opened my mouth and what came out was nothing, just a small exhale that I hoped read as indifference.
He lifted his hand, slow enough that I could have flinched away. His fingers skimmed along my jaw, thumb resting for a second at the corner of my mouth. The touch was barely there.
My heart jerked against my ribs. It was stupid.
His eyes darkened another shade.
"You belong to me now," he said.
The words were soft, not loud, but they landed heavy.
"No," I said, equally soft. "I don't."
For the first time, a real emotion cracked through his control: annoyance edged with something more primal. He leaned in. Not enough for anyone else to think it was improper, but close enough that when he spoke, I felt his breath against my cheek.
"You will," he murmured.
My pulse jumped again. Fear, I reminded myself. It was fear. That was all.
He pulled back a fraction, giving me air.
"We marry tonight," he said. "After that, you will come with me. You will wear my ring. You will live under my roof. You will not run."
He reached into his jacket and produced a small velvet box, setting it on the table between us. "My grandmother's ring," he said. "Resized. For you." I stared at the box.
Behind him, my father beamed, relieved. "See? It's settled."
"That depends," I said.
My father stiffened. "Ava."
"On what?" Cillian asked. His tone was still calm, but there was a new sharpness in it now. Like he was ready for me to try something.
"How many wives do you have already?" I asked. "I like to know where I rank in the collection."
His mouth curved, slow and dangerous. "You would be the first," he said. "And the last."
The way he said it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.
"I'm not in the habit of losing what is mine," he added.
There it was again... that iron band of possessiveness around my chest.
If I went with him, I wouldn't get out. Not in a year. Not ever.
"May I go and freshen up?" I asked, forcing my voice to stay steady. "I'd rather not faint at the altar."
My father opened his mouth, ready to say no.
Cillian spoke first. "Fifteen minutes," he said. "Your bag is already in my car. You have nothing to pack."
Of course it was.
"If you're not back," he added, voice smooth, "I'll come and get you myself."
Something about the way he said that sent a shiver down my spine that had nothing to do with romance and everything to do with threat.
"Then I guess I'd better not smudge my eyeliner," I said. "Wouldn't want to slow you down."
We stared at each other for a long second. He looked like a man who always got what he wanted. I looked like the thing he'd just acquired.
He nodded once. "Fifteen minutes, Ava Rossi. Don't be late again."
I turned and walked toward the stairs, feeling his gaze between my shoulder blades with every step. The dress swished around my ankles. My heart hammered.
At the top, I didn't look back.
In my room, I closed the door, leaned against it, and let my fake smile drop.
Okay.
Fifteen minutes.
That was how long I had to find my grandmother's jewellery box, raid my father's hidden cash, and get as far away from Cillian Volkov as humanly possible.
Nobody ever suspected the obedient daughter. They really should have.