"Tomorrow?" Sloane's voice echoed in the marble hallway. "I can't get married tomorrow."
Mateo didn't slow down. He was already walking toward the elevator, his long legs eating up the distance. "You can, and you will. The priest is arranged, the license is filed, and the press has already been notified."
She grabbed his arm. He stopped, looking down at her hand on his sleeve with an expression of mild surprise. No one grabbed Mateo Rivas.
"You don't get to dictate everything," she said, her voice low but firm. "I signed a contract, not a slavery agreement."
He turned to face her fully. Up close, she could see the faint lines at the corners of his eyes, the slight shadow of stubble on his jaw. He looked tired. She hadn't noticed before.
"The contract," he said quietly, "gives me control over your public presence. That includes the timing of our wedding. I have a board meeting in three days that requires a wife at my side. The paperwork needs to be finalized before then."
"Then why not today?"
"Because you need time to prepare." He reached up and gently removed her hand from his sleeve. His fingers were warm, surprisingly so. "And I need time to make sure you understand what you've agreed to."
"I understand the terms."
"You understand the words on paper." He stepped back, putting distance between them. "What you don't understand is what it means to be Mateo Rivas's wife. The attention. The scrutiny. The people who will smile at you while trying to destroy you. The ones who will see you as a weakness to exploit."
"Sounds like every woman's dream."
His mouth twitched. It might have been a smile. "You have a sharp tongue, Sloane. I suggest you learn to control it in public."
"And in private?"
He studied her for a long moment. The air between them felt charged, heavy. "In private, I expect honesty. No games. No manipulation. If you have a problem, you bring it to me. If you're scared, you tell me. I can't protect you from what I don't know."
"I don't need protection."
"You signed a contract to marry a man you just met because a loan shark is threatening to kill your father." His voice was matter‑of‑fact, not cruel. "You need protection, whether you want it or not. Silas Webb doesn't forget debts. He doesn't forgive them. The only reason your father is still breathing is because Webb knows you're trying to pay. The moment you stop trying, your father dies."
Sloane felt the blood drain from her face. "You're trying to scare me."
"I'm trying to make you understand." He stepped closer again, his voice dropping. "I'm not the danger, Sloane. I'm the solution. But only if you let me be."
She opened her mouth to argue, but he was already walking toward the elevator.
"A car will pick you up at ten tomorrow morning. You'll be taken to the estate for the ceremony. Wear something white." He stepped into the elevator and turned, his hand holding the door. "Try to get some sleep. You'll need it."
The doors closed.
Sloane stood in the empty hallway, staring at the polished bronze doors. Her reflection stared back—hair slightly disheveled, dress too tight, eyes too wide. She looked like a woman who had just signed away a year of her life.
She pulled out her phone and called her father.
He answered on the fourth ring, his voice rough with sleep and something else—something that sounded like guilt. "Sloane? It's late."
"Dad, I need to ask you something. And I need you to tell me the truth."
A pause. "What is it?"
"Why did Mom really leave?"
The silence stretched so long she thought the line had dropped. She could hear her father breathing, shallow and uneven.
"Where is this coming from?" he finally asked.
"Just answer the question."
"I told you. She couldn't handle the gambling. She said she couldn't live like that anymore. She packed a bag and left."
"That's not the whole truth." Sloane's voice cracked. "Was she running from someone?"
Another long pause. When her father spoke again, his voice was different. Smaller. Afraid.
"What did you get yourself into, Sloane?"
"Just tell me."
"She was scared," he whispered. "For years, she was scared. She said there were people watching her. People connected to a family she used to work for. I didn't believe her. I thought it was paranoia. She'd always been high‑strung, always worried about money, about the future." He stopped. "Then one night, she came home with a photograph. A man, standing outside our house. She said his name was Rivas."
Sloane's blood ran cold. "Rivas?"
"Mateo's father. The old man." Her father's voice trembled. "She said he'd been following her for weeks. She said she knew something she shouldn't know, and he wanted to make sure she kept quiet."
"What did she know?"
"She never told me. She said it was safer for me if I didn't know. She left the next morning. I never saw her again."
"Did you look for her?"
"I looked. For months. I hired a private investigator, I called hospitals, I drove to every town she ever mentioned. But she didn't want to be found. And I—" His voice broke. "I was a coward. I let the guilt eat me alive. That's when the gambling got bad. I thought if I could lose enough, feel enough pain, it would make up for failing her."
Sloane closed her eyes. Tears slipped down her cheeks. "Dad—"
"Whatever you're doing, Sloane, be careful. The Rivas aren't just businessmen. They're monsters. And monsters don't let go."
"I will." She hung up before she could cry.
She looked at the elevator, at the hallway, at the photograph Mateo had shown her of her mother, alive and well.
He knew. He knew all along.
Tomorrow she would marry Mateo Rivas. And tomorrow, she would start finding out what really happened to her mother—and why a monster had been hunting her for fourteen years.
Her phone buzzed. A text from an unknown number—not the same as before
. "Your mother is closer than you think. Ask Mateo about the garden. And don't trust his sister."