Author: [writers hub]
The pen felt like a leaden weight in Zara's trembling fingers. Each muscle in her arm screamed in protest, but it was nothing compared to the war raging within her. Defiance or destruction? The choice was a cruel illusion. Her family's faces flashed before her eyes: her mother, frail and worn from years of sacrifice, her sister Hana, vibrant and full of unfulfilled dreams. She couldn't sacrifice their future for her pride. Not to Ragnar Botermet.
With a shuddering breath that felt like her last, Zara brought the pen down. The crisp rustle of paper was deafening as she signed her full name – Zara Jones – in the designated space. It felt less like a signature and more like an epitaph for the life she had known.
Ragnar watched, a flicker of something almost akin to satisfaction in his eyes, before his gaze turned to Director Ahn. "Process the investment immediately. Release the public statement as discussed."
Director Ahn bowed stiffly, gathering the papers with practiced efficiency. "At once, Chairman. Congratulations on your engagement." His voice was flat, devoid of genuine warmth, mirroring Ragnar's own. As he turned to leave, he glanced at Zara, a fleeting, almost pitying look in his sharp eyes, before disappearing through the silent doors.
Silence descended once more, heavy and suffocating. Zara stared at her signed name, the ink a dark, damning stain. "What now?" she asked, her voice raspy, barely audible.
Ragnar moved, his silhouette cutting a dark line against the panoramic Seoul skyline. He walked to the window, his back to her, and for a moment, he seemed to absorb the city's electric pulse, its endless, intricate dance of power and secrets. "Now, you prepare. The public announcement will be made at dawn. By midday, your new identity will be solidified."
"My new identity?" Zara scoffed, a bitter laugh escaping her lips. "As your trophy wife? Your puppet?"
He finally turned, his expression glacial. "As the wife of Ragnar Botermet. A position that demands decorum, discretion, and absolute loyalty. Fail in any of these, and the consequences will be severe, not just for you, but for those you hold dear." His words were a silken threat, an invisible leash tightening around her neck. He knew her weakness. He had already exploited it.
"I won't betray my family," she said, her voice stronger now, laced with a nascent defiance that surprised even herself. "But don't expect me to be grateful for this... golden cage."
A faint, almost imperceptible curve touched Ragnar's lips, not quite a smile, more like the glint of a sharpened blade. "Gratitude is not required. Obedience is. You will be provided with everything necessary. Clothes, staff, security... and a new residence within my estate. Consider it your new home."
"Your estate?" The thought of being confined, constantly under his watchful eye, sent a fresh wave of despair through her. "I have my own apartment. My own life."
"Had," he corrected, his voice cutting. "Your apartment will be cleared by my staff. Your old life, as you know it, is over. From this moment, your life belongs to the Botermet name."
The sheer audacity of his declaration, the absolute obliteration of her past, sent a cold shock through Zara. She had thought the contract was the end, but it was only the beginning of her dissolution. Her stomach churned. "I need to call my mother. She'll be worried."
Ragnar paused, then nodded curtly. "One call. Under supervision. Then, you will rest. Your schedule will be rigorous starting tomorrow."
The "supervision" was Ragnar himself, standing a few feet away, arms crossed, a silent, imposing guardian of her despair. Her mother's voice on the phone was shaky with relief when Zara explained, in vague, carefully chosen words, that a "patron" had stepped in to save their studio, and she would be "relocating for work." The lie felt like ash in her mouth. Her mother, innocent and trusting, offered tearful thanks. Zara's heart ached with the deception.
After the call, a stern-faced woman in a crisp uniform, Ragnar's head housekeeper, Madam Cho, appeared. She led Zara through grand, echoing hallways, past art pieces that looked like they belonged in museums, to a lavish suite. It was opulent, sterile, and utterly devoid of the warmth of a home. A king-sized bed dominated the room, and a massive walk-in closet awaited, filled not with her bohemian designs, but with racks of elegant, unfamiliar clothing in muted tones.
"Dinner will be served in an hour," Madam Cho informed her, her voice formal. "Chairman Botermet expects you to join him."
Zara sank onto the edge of the plush bed, the silk sheets cool beneath her fingertips. She was in a palace, a gilded prison. Her heart pounded, a frantic bird trapped in her ribs. She was Zara Jones, a survivor, a fighter. But against Ragnar Botermet, she was nothing more than a pawn, just as the mysterious voice had claimed.
She looked around the room, feeling the weight of the enforced luxury. Her eyes fell on a framed photograph on a nearby console – Ragnar, younger, standing beside an older, stern-faced man who could only be his father, both sharing the same cold, assessing eyes. Below the photo, a small, intricate jade carving caught her eye – a miniature, coiled dragon. It seemed to embody the power she had just bound herself to, ancient and terrifying.
A sudden, sharp knock echoed from the door, making her jump. Before she could answer, it opened, and two formidable-looking men in dark suits stepped into the room. They weren't just bodyguards; their eyes scanned the room with an intensity that suggested every shadow held a threat. They were Ragnar's personal security, and their presence was a chilling reminder that her "protection" was also her constant surveillance.
"Madam is requested to prepare for dinner," one of them stated, his voice flat.
Zara stood slowly, her gaze sweeping from the imposing men to the empty, luxurious room. Her new life had begun, not with a wedding, but with a sentence. She was the Unwilling Bride, caught between a hidden conspiracy and the undisputed king of shadows. The thought of facing Ragnar again, across a dinner table, knowing she was trapped, made her stomach clench.
How many more layers of this deception would unravel? And who, truly, was the prey in this elaborate game?