---
The knock came just after midnight.
Not a polite knock, but the kind that made your stomach drop—sharp, deliberate, and far too confident. I froze, my hand hovering over my laptop as the echo of it rattled through the dorm.l moved back to my dorm earlier in the day , l couldn't bear to stay a moment in that house.
Ariana stirred on the other bed. "Did you hear that?"
I didn't answer. I was already moving.
I crossed the room, my heart hammering against my ribs as I approached the door. Another knock followed—slower this time, almost playful.
I peeked through the peephole.
Two men stood in the dim hallway.
One wore a perfectly tailored black suit, his posture rigid, expression unreadable. The other was older, with silver-streaked hair and a cane he didn't seem to need. He wasn't leaning on it. He was *holding* it—like a weapon.
Both men wore the same ring.
A silver band with an insignia engraved into it—sharp lines forming the letter **M** entwined with the head of a serpent.
The Marrow family crest.
I stepped back.
"They found me," I whispered.
Ariana was already at my side. "Who is it?"
"The Marrows."
---
I didn't open the door.
Not then.
But that didn't matter. A few hours later, an official-looking envelope was slipped under the door. I picked it up with trembling hands.
The seal was wax.
The paper—thick, textured, expensive.
Inside was a single card:
> **Miss Carpenter,**
> You will be collected on Friday.
> Pack accordingly.
>
> — *E. Marrow*
That was all.
No explanation. No request. No choice.
Just... a date.
A deadline.
---
By morning, I was pacing the dorm floor like a caged animal. Ariana sat cross-legged on the bed, trying to talk me down, but the panic was like a storm cloud inside my chest.
"They can't just *take* you," she said, arms folded. "This isn't the 1800s. You can say no."l had given Ariana the updates when l came back.
I shook my head. "It's not that simple. There are contracts. Debt. Legal leverage I don't even understand."
"But your dad wouldn't—"
"My dad is dead," I snapped, harsher than I meant. "And he signed it. He agreed to all of this. I'm just... the price tag."
The room fell silent.
Until there was another knock at the door.
Not like the one from last night. This one was timid. Uneasy. Like whoever stood outside wasn't sure if they'd be welcome.
I opened the door slowly.
A woman stood there. Early forties, maybe. Faded jeans, leather jacket, short-cropped hair dyed auburn. Her eyes—green, tired, and sharp—flicked to my face with familiarity.
"Zoey?" she asked.
I blinked. "Who are you?"
Her lips tightened. "Someone who owes your father more than I can repay."
---
Her name was **Briana Winter**.
She wasn't a lawyer. Or a family friend. She wasn't even someone I'd heard my dad mention.
But as she sipped the tea Ariana handed her and leaned forward on the edge of the bed, her story came pouring out.
"I worked with your dad," she began. "Years ago. Before the company went under. Before... any of this."
She reached into her bag and pulled out a photo—creased and faded. My dad stood beside her, younger, smiling. They both wore lab coats.
"We were researchers," she said. "Your dad was a genius. But not just in tech—he understood people. He saw patterns no one else saw. That's what made him valuable."
I furrowed my brow. "To the Marrows?"
Briana nodded slowly. "They invested in us through a shell group. Called themselves the *Marrow Foundation for Scientific Advancement.* Sounded philanthropic. But it wasn't."
She pulled out another file—this one thinner, labeled only with a handwritten word: **EXPERIMENT 3C.**
"They weren't funding research," she said. "They were building control. Over data. Over people. Over loyalty."
"And my dad was involved?"
"Not by choice," Briana said. "At first, he believed in it. Then he found out what they were *really* using the technology for—surveillance, manipulation, behavioral testing. When he tried to pull out, they bled him dry."
I stared at her. "So he owed them?"
"He owed them everything," she replied. "His reputation. His savings. Even this—" she tapped the marriage contract still sitting on my desk. "—wasn't about tradition. It was about leverage. Your father was cornered. The only asset they couldn't seize... was you."
The room tilted.
I sat down hard on the edge of the bed. My throat was tight. "So they traded me."
"They *bound* you," Marla corrected. "And your father hated himself for it. That's why he never told you. He thought he had time to fix it. But then... he died."
A silence fell.
A heavy one.
I looked up at her. "Why are you here now?"
"Because I promised him," she said, her voice cracking for the first time. "If anything ever happened, I'd try to give you a choice. Even if there wasn't one."
---
That night, I barely slept.
Marla had left behind the file, and I read every word. It painted a picture of a man backed into a corner, trying desperately to protect his family by sacrificing the only thing he had left to offer.
Me.
There were no loopholes. No clauses. The marriage was a binding agreement tied to a multimillion-dollar settlement. If I broke it, the debt defaulted back to me—with interest.
There was no escape.
Friday was three days away.
And someone was coming to collect me.
---
To be continued.