ELEVEN

ELEVEN
SOPHIA

A knock slices through the stillness, jerking me out of sleep like a splash of ice water.

My heart thrashes wildly, pounding so loud I can barely hear my own gasp. For a beat, I don’t know where I am—just that something’s wrong. Deeply, instinctively wrong.

My legs are tangled in fine sheets that suddenly feel too tight, like soft bindings trapping me in place. Panic surges, hot and heavy, echoing old fears I thought I’d buried.

I try to breathe, but the air is too thin. My body remembers before my mind does. The darkness. The silence. The way their eyes never blinked.

My throat tightens. My skin prickles.

Where the hell is Luca?

My hand shoots to the other side of the bed, fumbling for the familiar weight of him, the warmth. But he’s gone. The space is cold. Empty. And that terrifies me more than the knock did.

“Who’s out there?” My voice barely carries. It’s a rasp, strangled by memory. I hate how small I sound.

No answer at first.

Then—relief, like a sudden summer rain.

“It’s just me, love. Marcella,” says a voice from beyond the door, soft and grounding.

I exhale slowly, shakily, pressing a hand to my chest. Her voice steadies something in me. Like a hand outstretched in the dark.

“I’m fine,” I call, though I know I don’t sound it. “One second.”

I untangle myself and rise quickly, my movements clumsy and frantic. The night comes back to me in fragments—stirring restlessly, the chill against bare skin, a soothing hand pulling soft fabric up my legs.

Pajama pants. Him. He dressed me in my sleep, like I was fragile. Like I needed protection.

Maybe I did.

When I open the door, Marcella is waiting with that calm presence she always carries. No judgment. No questions. Just her.

She steps in gently, offering a warm smile. “Time to get ready, darling.”

I nod, dazed, and follow her gaze to the chair by the window.

That’s when I see it.

The dress.

It looks like it doesn’t belong in this world—too delicate, too divine. Like it was spun from moonlight and memories. Layers of whisper-thin chiffon float above silk, shifting as the breeze from the open window stirs them.

The bodice is snug and sculpted, soft as breath, trimmed with lace that reminds me of something ancient—like a secret tucked inside a well-loved book.

Pearls dust the neckline, catching the morning light like dew on petals. It’s quiet luxury. The kind that speaks softly but leaves you speechless.

The sleeves—barely there—kiss the edges of my elbows, edged in that same lace, adding a timeless grace. The skirt flows in a wide, weightless sweep, with slits in the chiffon revealing flashes of the luminous silk beneath.

At the waist, a slim silk ribbon ties off the look with a small bow at the back. Elegant. Effortless.

And the train, short but unforgettable, trails like a soft sigh behind it, the embroidery glittering subtly like starlight caught in thread.

I can’t move. I can only stare.

So this is real. It’s really happening.

The words leave my lips in a whisper. “This is it, isn’t it?”

Marcella hears the tremor, sees the flicker of disbelief in my eyes. She doesn’t rush me. Just gives me a small, knowing smile.

“It is,” she says gently. “But you’re not alone.”

Her hands are steady as she helps me step into the dress, adjusting the fabric like she’s done it a hundred times. Each motion is careful. Thoughtful. Reverent.

And when I finally look in the mirror, I see someone I almost don’t recognize.

Someone not just surviving—but stepping into something new.

Someone who might, finally, be free.

While Marcella works on my hair and makeup, I focus on the rhythm of her movements—the soft strokes, the gentle hum of her breathing. There’s a strange kind of calm in it. Like the eye of a storm. For a little while, it lets me forget what’s waiting outside this room.

By the time she’s finished, I hardly recognize the girl in the mirror.

No—woman.

There’s something new in her eyes. Not fear. Not entirely. Something steadier. A kind of grit I didn’t know I had. Maybe I can do this.

A chime breaks the silence—Marcella’s phone lighting up with a message. She glances at the screen, then looks at me with a spark of urgency.

“He’s waiting downstairs,” she says gently. “It’s time.”

I nod, my stomach coiling tighter with each step I take toward the door. I’m about to marry a man I barely know. Step into a world built on secrets, shadows, and danger. But I’m doing it for my sister. For the only person who’s ever been truly mine.

And strangely, with every click of my heels down the stairs, every soft whisper of chiffon against skin, a quiet voice inside tells me I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.

Last night creeps into my thoughts, uninvited.

The way his hands claimed my body without apology. The way he read every inch of me like I was his to memorize. He made me unravel—and then rebuilt me. It scared me how easily he reached inside me. How badly I wanted more.

And yet… that same part of me screams not to fall. Not to trust a man who thrives on control. Who sees power as a language, not a choice.

But he listened, the voice murmurs again.

He stopped when you asked. Said you had the power. Don’t forget that.

I find him in the conservatory, the morning sun painting golden streaks across the marble floors. He’s there—seated, relaxed, reading—like it’s just another quiet morning and not the first day of the rest of my life.

The space is serene, beautiful even. Tall glass walls reveal lush gardens stretching down to the water, a view so peaceful it feels like a lie.

He looks up when I step in.

Doesn’t say a word at first. Just looks at me.

I’ve never felt so exposed. Or so seen.

“This isn’t bad luck?” I ask softly, gesturing to my dress. “Seeing me like this before the ceremony?”

He closes his book with a quiet snap. “I don’t believe in luck.”

“Well, good morning to you too,” I mutter, mouth dry.

“How are you feeling?”

I let out a breath, shaky and uncertain. “Like I’m about to jump off a cliff.”

He nods once, slow and thoughtful. Then steps forward. “If you don’t want this life, I won’t trap you in it,” he says, voice low but firm. “But I also know you’re stronger than you think.”

His words slip under my skin, calming something wild and clawing inside me.

Then, with that unshakable steadiness of his, he adds, “Give it six weeks. Stay married to me. If, after that, you still want out—I’ll let you walk. I’ll cover your debts. I’ll make sure you’re safe. But I need your word, here and now.”

“Six weeks?” I echo, my heart pounding.

“And after that, if you want to leave—no tricks, no pressure—I’ll help you live the life you want. What is that, by the way? What do you want?”

The question catches me off guard. No one’s asked in so long. I blink, voice soft. “College. I wanted to study counseling. I thought maybe... maybe I could help girls like my sister.”

Something flickers across his face. Respect, maybe.

“Done,” he says simply. “And if Briarwood is still breathing when those six weeks are up, I’ll have guards with you 24/7 until he isn’t. I’ll make sure you’re protected.”

It’s too rational. Too kind. Too... honest. I don’t know what I expected. But it wasn’t this.

“You’d really let me choose?” I ask, barely believing it.

“I swear on it,” he says. And there’s weight in that promise. Like he means it.

“All I ask is that you give me those six weeks. Follow my lead. Let me show you what this could be.”

I stare at him, heart in my throat. Six weeks.

That I can survive.

I nod slowly. “Okay,” I whisper.

And just like that, I say yes to a deal that might ruin me—or finally set me free.