"Killian, if you could sign the contract, we can get this over with," Sebastian said, his voice brisk. He clicked open the briefcase, the sound sharp and final in the silent room. He pulled out a thick stack of papers, already bound together, and a heavy, expensive-looking pen. He placed them on the polished mahogany directly in front of Killian.
"As agreed upon," Sebastian began, his voice dripping with cruel satisfaction as he laid out the terms, "one-point-seven-four billion dollars, transferred to your accounts upon completion. And my son's agreed-upon investment of one-point-five-nine percent into your company, making him a shareholder." He paused, letting the numbers hang in the air, a testament to Killian's price. A cruel smirk twisted his lips as he delivered the final, soul-crushing clause. "All in exchange for a bride of his choosing from one of your two daughters."
The words hit Naomi like a physical blow. She felt the air leave her lungs, the room spinning into a dizzying blur of colour and shadow. A bride. A choice. She wasn't a person; she was an option, a line item in a monstrous contract.
She risked a glance at Anaya, whose face had gone completely white, her knuckles white where she gripped the edge of the table. Her sister, the warrior, looked like she was about to shatter into a million pieces. And at the head of the table, their father just stared at the contract, his expression a nauseating mix of relief and greed.
Anaya and Naomi looked up, their heads moving in slow, synchronised motion, their eyes locking onto the man at the head of the table. He was no longer their father; he was a stranger, a businessman finalising a transaction. But still, a desperate, flickering flame of hope remained. Their eyes pleaded with him, a silent, screaming prayer not to go through with this. They searched his face, begging for some flicker of hesitation, a shadow of the man they used to call Dad, a man who would have moved heaven and earth for them.
But they found nothing. There was no hesitation, no regret, no trace of the loving father buried beneath the layers of debt and desperation. All they were met with was a cold, steadfast determination, a resolve as hard and unyielding as the table between them. He wouldn't meet their gaze. He looked past them, through them, his focus solely on the papers that represented his salvation and their damnation.
He reached out, his fingers closing around the heavy pen Sebastian had provided. The movement was deliberate, almost relaxed. He brought the pen to the paper, and with a scratch that echoed like a scream in the deathly silent room, he signed his name. Killian Michaelson. And with that single, fluid motion, he set their fate in ink and paper, trading their lives for his empire.
"Well, it is done," Sebastian said, a deep, rumbling satisfaction in his voice. He closed the briefcase with a sharp click. "It has been a pleasure doing business with you."
And with that, Xavier stood up. The movement was fluid, powerful, commanding. He calmly buttoned the bottom button of his impeccably tailored suit jacket, a final, dismissive gesture that signalled the conclusion of the formalities.
His gaze, which had been detached and indifferent, now swept across the table, a predator surveying its prey. It passed over Anaya without a second's pause before landing, with unnerving precision, on Naomi.
The world seemed to shrink, the faces of the others blurring into the background until all she could see was him. His cold, grey eyes bored into hers, stripping her bare, claiming her without a single touch.
"This one," he said, his voice a low, clear, and utterly terrifying pronouncement. He didn't raise his voice, yet it cut through the air with the force of a physical blow. "This one will be my bride."
The words hung in the air, heavy and absolute. For Naomi, they were a death sentence. The room spun, the candle flames blurring into streaks of light. She felt Anaya's hand shoot out and grip hers under the table, a desperate, painful anchor in a sea of overwhelming dread. But it was no use. She was drowning. He had chosen. And her life as she knew it was over.
With that, a sound like a gunshot ripped through the suffocating silence. It was the legs of Naomi's chair scraping violently against the polished floor as she shot to her feet. Her entire body was trembling, like a live wire of panic and disbelief.
"What!" she exclaimed, the word a raw, torn thing in her throat. Her eyes, wide and wild, locked onto her father. "Father, you promised!" she shouted, her voice rising to a panicked shriek that echoed off the high ceilings. "You promised he wouldn't pick me!"
"Naomi, sit down," Killian commanded, his voice like a slap, sharp and devoid of any emotion.
But Naomi was beyond obedience, beyond reason. The betrayal was a physical wound, and she was bleeding out rage and terror. "You lied!" she rebelled, her hands clenching into fists at her sides. "You said you'd do anything in your power, you said you'd protect me!"
"And I did," Killian said, his voice flat, his eyes finally meeting hers for a brief, chilling moment. There was no apology there, only the hollow finality of a man who had sold his daughter and considered it a fair price.
Desperate, Naomi's gaze darted to her sister. "Anaya..." she began, her voice cracking, a plea for an ally, for a miracle.
But Anaya remained seated, a portrait of graceful, frozen terror. Her eyes, however, were screaming. They were locked on Naomi, pleading with her, begging her to sit down, to stop, to not make this terrible, irreversible moment any worse than it already was.
"Sit down, child," a new voice interjected, deep and laced with an authority that was absolute. Sebastian Thorne had risen from his seat.
He was a towering figure of menace, looking down at Naomi as if she were a misbehaving pet that needed to be disciplined. "We will be back next month to claim what's ours," he continued, his voice a low growl of possession.
"The deal will be finalised then. Until then, we want her behaviour and attitude under control. You will deliver her to us at the altar in mint condition."
The words were a brand, searing themselves into Naomi's mind. Mint condition. She wasn't a person; she was an asset, a commodity to be kept pristine until delivery.
Sebastian gave a slight, dismissive nod. "Come now, Xavier."
Xavier rose from his seat, his movements fluid and unhurried. He cast one last, lingering look at Naomi, a look that was both an appraisal and a claim, before turning and following his father from the room. They didn't hurry. They didn't need to. The deal was done. Their departure was as calm and certain as their arrival, leaving behind a void that was immediately filled with a crushing, deafening silence.
The heavy door clicked shut, and the sound was the loudest thing Naomi had ever heard. It was the sound of her cage door locking.
The sleek black door of the car closed with a soft, expensive thud, sealing the two men in a world of leather and tinted silence. The engine purred to life, a sound of immense power held in check. Sebastian settled into his seat, his gaze fixed on the sprawling estate as it began to shrink in the side mirror.
"Xavier," he began, his voice a low rumble, "do you think you made the right choice of a bride?" He turned his head, his eyes appraising his son. "Shouldn't you have taken the eldest daughter? She seems more... efficient. Well-mannered."
A slow, chilling smile touched Xavier's lips, a predator's smile that never reached his icy grey eyes. He didn't look at his father, but stared out the tinted window at the world rushing by in a blur of darkness.
"No," he said, his voice a soft, terrifying whisper. "I like Naomi." He paused, letting the name settle in the space between them. "I will enjoy breaking her spirit."
Meanwhile, back in the house, the silence that followed the Thorne's departure was a living thing, a suffocating blanket of dread. It was all shattered by Killian's roar.
"What did I tell you? What did I specifically tell you?" he snarled, his face contorted with a rage that was both terrifying and pathetic. He shot up from his chair, his movements jerky and aggressive. He inched towards Naomi, his shadow falling over her like a death sentence. Before she could react, his hand shot out, his fingers twisting into the roots of her hair. He yanked her upwards, forcing a strangled cry of pain from her lips as she was dragged to her feet.
"You were told to fucking behave, you ungrateful brat!" he spat, his face inches from hers, the scent of his anger was sour. With a final, violent shove, he pushed her away. Naomi stumbled and fell onto the floor with a sickening thud, the impact knocking the air from her lungs.
His chest heaved, his eyes burning with a furious light. "Anaya," he snapped, his voice cutting through Naomi's pained gasps. "Take your sister to her room and teach her to be more like you." Without another glance, he turned and stormed out of the room, his footsteps echoing his fury down the hall.
The moment he was gone, Anaya was at Naomi's side, her graceful movements now frantic with worry. "Are you okay?" she whispered, her hands hovering, afraid to touch where she might cause more pain.
Naomi pushed herself up onto her elbows, her scalp still throbbing, her eyes burning with unshed tears of betrayal. "Why didn't you do anything?" she accused, her voice trembling. "You should've stood by me."
Anaya's face crumpled, a flicker of her own pain breaking through her composed mask. "If I did, it wouldn't change anything," she said, her voice low and urgent. "It would only have caused me to be beaten by Father. And I didn't want you to get hurt, and if I rebelled, he would've hurt you more."
And in that moment, a chilling realisation washed over Naomi. The way Anaya said "he," the fear in her eyes that went deeper than their father's volatile temper... it wasn't just about Killian.
"You're not talking about Father, are you?" Naomi asked, her voice barely a whisper.
Anaya slowly shook her head, her expression grim. "We don't know how he is, Naomi," she said, the unspoken name of Xavier hanging between them like life and death. "We can't risk anything." She reached out, her touch gentle now, helping Naomi to sit up. "Come on, let's get you rested. I'm sorry I was no help."
Naomi looked at her sister, at the fear and love warring in her eyes, and her own anger dissolved into a sea of shared despair. "It's okay," she said, letting Anaya help her to her feet. "It's not your fault."
A month flew by faster than they could have hoped, yet each day crawled by with the agonising slowness of a death row march. The world outside the mansion walls change but Naomi no longer had the heart to see it. Inside, time was measured in lessons, in the relentless ticking of a clock counting down to her execution.
In that time, Anaya kept her promise. She became a drill sergeant in a war of poise, a sculptor chipping away at Naomi's every flaw until she resembled the perfect, porcelain doll they needed her to be.
She taught her how to walk with a book balanced on her head, not for grace, but for the appearance of unshakeable confidence. "Chin up, shoulders back," she'd command, her voice devoid of emotion. "In public, you are a queen. You own every room you enter. Your confidence is your shield."
She drilled her on how to hold a wine glass, how to smile without it reaching her eyes. She taught her which fork to use, which wine to sip, how to laugh at a joke that wasn't funny and how to deflect a personal question with a disarming smile.
Naomi learned how to walk with a silent, purposeful stride, how to hold a champagne glass without her hand trembling, how to offer a smile that was polite yet unreadable. She was taught to be confident and affirmative in public, a silent, beautiful pillar by her future husband's side.
But the nights were for a different lesson. In the privacy of Naomi's room, lit only by a single lamp, Anaya's lessons took a darker turn. "When you are alone with him, or with his inner circle, the mask changes," she'd whisper, her voice heavy with a knowledge that seemed to pain her.
"Your eyes lower. Your answers are short, respectful. You are submissive before your husband. Your will is not your own. You anticipate his needs, you exist to please him, and you do it all without making him feel like he has to command you." It was a brutal education in erasure, and Naomi learned it all with a hollow ache in her chest, the lessons feeling like rehearsals for her own funeral.
But nothing, not even Anaya's programme, could ever truly prepare her to be the bride of Xavier Thorne. This was the unspoken truth that hung between them, a ghost in the room during every lesson.
What Naomi didn't fully grasp, not until the final days, was the magnitude of Anaya's sacrifice. Anaya was teaching her things she had spent five years being taught to master. Five years. Since she was seventeen, just after their mother's death, Anaya had understood the dangerous route of their father's world.
She had begun her own preparation, a silent, lonely crusade to master the skills needed to survive. All in preparation for protecting her sister, even if it meant sacrificing herself. She had studied the cold calculus of their world, memorized the unspoken rules of powerful, dangerous men, and carved herself into a weapon of composure and grace, all to be the one chosen, to take the bullet meant for Naomi.
And now, all of it, that lifetime of sacrifice forged in the fires of grief and love, had gone down the drain in one month. The knowledge, the five years of preparing her own soul, was now being desperately poured into her younger sister, a frantic attempt to build a fortress in a month when it had taken her years to build her own. Anaya was giving Naomi the only armour she had, and in doing so, was leaving herself utterly defeated.