The grand ballroom of the Reynolds estate looked like it had been plucked out of a royal fantasy.
Crystals shimmered from every chandelier. Rows of white roses lined the aisle, their fragrance masking the tension in the air. Guests whispered behind glittering champagne glasses, some curious, others clearly suspicious.
Amelia's veil was too heavy.
Or maybe it was her heart.
Each step she took down the aisle felt like walking toward a cliff edge. Her fingers trembled under the weight of the bouquet, and her knees threatened to give out with every silent judgment passed from the crowd.
At the end of the aisle stood Andrew Reynolds.
Unbothered. Unshaken. Uninterested.
He looked every inch the powerful CEO—immaculate black tux, dark hair slicked back, face carved from ice. His eyes met hers briefly, unreadable as ever, before he turned to the priest.
Not a smile. Not a nod. Nothing.
He didn't want this either. At least, not the marriage.
But the deal?
That, he wanted.
Her father's freedom for her hand. A cruel exchange. A silent transaction written in signatures and blood.
When she reached the altar, Andrew didn't offer his hand.
Not even a glance.
She stood beside him in silence, and the priest began.
"We are gathered here today…"
Amelia's mind drifted.
She didn't hear the words. She saw flashes.
Her father, silent and pale behind a courtroom bench.
Her mother, weeping quietly in the backseat of the limousine.
And Andrew, days earlier, sliding the contract across the table like it was a routine business merger.
"You'll marry me, or your father goes to prison. Simple."
"Do you, Amelia Donovan, take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
Her lips parted, but no sound came out.
She glanced to the side. Her father, seated in the front row, didn't blink. He just gave her a solemn nod.
"Amelia?" the priest asked again.
She heard her own voice—small, broken. "I do."
Andrew turned his head slightly, just enough to show the edge of his profile. "I do," he said, cold and robotic.
It was done.
The kiss never came.
Instead, applause rippled across the room, polite and short-lived. Andrew turned and offered her his arm—not out of affection, but duty.
She took it.
Because she had no choice.
Inside the car, silence blanketed them like a third presence.
Amelia sat stiffly, still in her gown, the veil pushed back but forgotten. Andrew sat beside her, relaxed, scrolling through his phone like he hadn't just ruined someone's life.
"So that's it?" she asked finally, her voice quiet.
"That's what?" he replied, eyes not leaving his screen.
"Our wedding."
He let out a humorless chuckle. "You expected cake and vows from the heart?"
She turned her body to face him fully. "I expected a man who would at least pretend I wasn't a business transaction."
His eyes finally lifted to hers, cold and sharp. "You are a transaction, Amelia. One I paid a great deal for."
Her chest tightened.
"You're disgusting," she muttered.
He smirked, then looked out the tinted window. "You've known that since the day I made the offer. And yet here you are. Mrs. Reynolds."
The car slowed as they pulled into the long circular driveway of the Reynolds estate. The mansion loomed ahead—cold, massive, and unfamiliar.
Her new prison.
When the car door opened, Amelia didn't move.
Andrew stepped out first, adjusted his cufflinks, then extended a hand to help her. For a second, she hesitated. Pride warred with necessity.
She took it.
Inside, the housekeeper greeted them with a soft bow. "Welcome home, Mr. and Mrs. Reynolds."
"Show her to the south wing," Andrew said, already walking ahead. "And keep her out of my study."
Amelia stiffened. "Your study?"
He paused at the staircase, glancing over his shoulder. "Yes. You're my wife, not my spy."
Then he disappeared upstairs.
The south wing was beautiful but cold.
Marble floors. Gold accents. Velvet drapes. And a walk-in closet that looked like a boutique.
The housekeeper left her with a respectful nod and closed the door behind her.
Alone at last, Amelia sank into the edge of the bed, her hands trembling. She stared down at the diamond ring on her finger.
It sparkled cruelly in the low light.
She hated it.
She hated him.
And she hated herself—for saying "I do."
Night had fallen.
Amelia couldn't sleep. She wandered the halls like a ghost, trying to memorize the layout of her new prison. Everything was quiet, too quiet.
Until she passed the double oak doors.
Andrew's study.
She paused.
The door was slightly ajar.
Her heart beat faster.
She wasn't supposed to be here. He made that clear.
Which meant there was something inside he didn't want her to see.
She pushed the door open silently.
The room was a contrast to the rest of the mansion—warm wood, dim lighting, heavy leather furniture. A fire crackled low in the corner.
On the desk sat a thick folder with her family name on it: Donovan Holdings – Liquidation Strategy.
Her stomach dropped.
She stepped closer.
Page after page detailed how Andrew's company had acquired, split, and sold off her father's business—months before it collapsed.
He didn't just save her father from ruin.
He caused it.
Her hands shook as she flipped through the last page.
There—at the bottom—was a signature.
Her father's.
Only it wasn't.
She knew her father's handwriting. This one was close, but not exact.
Forged.
She stumbled back, knocking over a glass paperweight in the process.
It shattered on the hardwood floor.
Footsteps echoed down the hallway.
Her breath caught.
She looked toward the door.
The footsteps were getting louder.
Closer.
Then—
The knob turned.
Amelia had only seconds to decide. She grabbed the folder and bolted to the shadows behind the curtain just as the door creaked open.
Andrew walked in, phone pressed to his ear, his voice low and sharp.
"—she's just a pawn. As long as she stays in line, she doesn't need to know the rest."
Amelia's pulse thundered in her ears.
The folder pressed tight to her chest.
She couldn't breathe.
She couldn't move.
But now, she knew.
And if he found her hiding there—everything would change.