Elara's POV
"You look terrible."
Victoria Chen doesn't sugarcoat anything, which is exactly why she's the only friend I have left.
We're sitting in a tiny coffee shop three blocks from the hospital. It's the kind of place I would never have noticed before—cramped tables, chipped mugs, coffee that costs three dollars instead of eight. Now it's all I can afford.
Actually, I can't even afford this. Victoria paid.
"Thanks," I mutter, wrapping my hands around the warm mug. "You really know how to make a girl feel better."
"I'm serious, El." Victoria leans forward, her dark eyes sharp with concern. "When's the last time you ate? Slept?"
I can't remember. The days since Dad's arrest have blurred together into one endless nightmare.
"I'm fine."
"Liar." But she doesn't push it. Instead, she pulls out her phone. "I've been doing research on your dad's case. The evidence against him is—"
"Overwhelming. I know. Martin told me everything."
"So what are you going to do?"
I pull out the business card and slide it across the table. Victoria picks it up, frowning.
"Moretti Tower. Eight PM tonight." She looks up at me. "Who is this?"
"I don't know. Some anonymous person who offered to pay for everything—Dad's lawyers, Mom's hospital bills, living expenses. All I have to do is meet with them."
Victoria's expression darkens. "Elara, no."
"What choice do I have?"
"Literally any choice except walking into a trap!" She tosses the card back at me. "Think about it. Your family just got destroyed. You're desperate. Vulnerable. And some mysterious stranger swoops in offering free money? That's not generosity. That's predatory."
"You think I don't know that?" My voice comes out sharper than I intended. "You think I'm stupid?"
"I think you're scared. And scared people make bad decisions."
She's right. I am scared. Terrified, actually. But fear isn't going to pay Mom's medical bills or keep Dad out of prison.
"I have to go," I say quietly. "I have to at least find out what they want."
Victoria sighs, running a hand through her short black hair. "Fine. But I'm tracking your location. And if you're not out of there in thirty minutes, I'm calling the police."
"The police might not come for me anymore." The words taste bitter. "I'm the criminal's daughter now, remember?"
"Stop it." Victoria's hand shoots across the table, gripping mine hard. "You didn't do anything wrong. None of this is your fault."
I want to believe her. But the evidence in my father's study says otherwise. The frozen bank accounts say otherwise. The friends who won't answer my calls say otherwise.
My phone buzzes. Unknown number. Again.
I silence it without looking.
"I should go," I say, standing up. "I need to change before the meeting. Figure out where I'm even staying tonight."
"Stay with me," Victoria offers immediately. "My apartment is small, but—"
"I can't keep taking from you."
"You're not taking. I'm giving. There's a difference." She stands too, pulling me into a fierce hug. "Be smart tonight, okay? If anything feels wrong—anything at all—you run."
I hug her back, holding on maybe a second too long. She's the only solid thing in my collapsing world.
"I will. I promise."
But we both know I'm lying.
The hotel where I'm staying—a cheap place Martin arranged temporarily—is forty minutes away by subway. I can't afford taxis anymore.
The room is depressing. One bed, thin walls, a bathroom the size of a closet. Two days ago, I had a penthouse with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Central Park.
I try not to think about it.
I'm searching through my suitcase for something appropriate to wear when I notice it.
An envelope.
White, expensive-looking paper. Lying on the floor just inside the door, like someone slipped it underneath while I was gone.
My heart starts hammering.
I pick it up with shaking hands. It's thick, heavy. My name is written on the front in bold black ink: ELARA SINCLAIR.
No return address. No stamp.
Someone hand-delivered this.
I tear it open.
Inside is a document. Multiple pages, bound together with a black clip. The first page has a title in the same bold lettering:
MARRIAGE CONTRACT PROPOSAL
My brain short-circuits. Marriage? What?
I flip through the pages, my confusion growing with each one. Legal language I barely understand. Terms and conditions. Duration: two years. Compensation: full coverage of Richard Sinclair's legal defense, medical expenses for Catherine Sinclair, monthly living allowance for Elara Sinclair...
This is insane.
At the bottom of the last page is a signature line. And above it, a name.
Dante Moretti.
The business card from earlier flutters out of the envelope. Same heavy stock, same bold font. But this time there's a name beneath the address.
Dante Moretti, CEO.
Moretti.
Moretti.
Why does that name sound familiar?
I grab my laptop—one of the few things the FBI didn't confiscate—and search for him.
The results flood my screen.
Dante Moretti. Age 33. Self-made billionaire. CEO of Moretti Industries. Tech and real estate empire worth over five billion dollars.
His photo appears. Dark hair, sharp cheekbones, eyes like black ice. He's devastatingly handsome in that dangerous way that makes you think of predators in expensive suits.
I keep scrolling, looking for the connection. Why would a billionaire I've never met offer to marry me?
Then I find it.
An article from fourteen years ago. Small, buried deep in the search results.
Investment Manager's Suicide Linked to Banking Scandal
Giovanni Moretti, 47, was found dead in his home yesterday, an apparent suicide. Sources close to the family say Moretti faced financial ruin following allegations of fraud at Sinclair & Associates, where he worked as a senior investment manager...
The words blur.
Sinclair & Associates.
My father's firm.
I keep reading, my stomach churning.
...investigation revealed systematic embezzlement that destroyed multiple client portfolios. Richard Sinclair, lead banker on the case, testified that Moretti acted alone. Moretti's accounts were frozen, his reputation destroyed. He leaves behind a wife and teenage son...
A teenage son.
Dante.
Dante Moretti's father worked for my father. And my father's testimony—true or false—drove Giovanni Moretti to suicide.
The contract in my hands suddenly feels like it weighs a thousand pounds.
This isn't a generous offer from a stranger.
This is revenge.
I lunge for my suitcase, digging through the pockets where I shoved papers from Dad's study—the ones the FBI didn't take. Financial records, old emails, documents I grabbed without really knowing why.
My hands shake as I spread them across the bed.
There.
An email chain from fourteen years ago. Subject line: "Moretti Account Resolution."
I scan the messages, my father's words jumping out at me:
...Giovanni claims innocence, but evidence is clear...recommend immediate termination and legal action...cannot allow this to taint the firm's reputation...
And a response from someone higher up:
Agreed. Make sure Moretti takes the fall. We can't afford further investigation.
Make sure Moretti takes the fall.
My father didn't just testify against Giovanni Moretti.
He framed him.
And now Giovanni's son—the teenage boy who lost everything—has become a billionaire with enough power to destroy us the same way we destroyed him.
The marriage contract isn't an offer.
It's a sentence.
The business card stares up at me from the bed. Moretti Tower. Eight PM.
I check the time: 7:23 PM.
Thirty-seven minutes until I walk into the lion's den and face the man whose father my father killed.
Thirty-seven minutes to decide if I'm brave enough—or desperate enough—to sign my life away to my family's enemy.
My phone buzzes. Victoria: Remember. Thirty minutes max. I'm tracking you.
I look at the contract again. At the numbers that could save my parents. At the signature line waiting for my name next to his.
At the price tag written in invisible ink: two years of my life, owned by a man who has every reason to hate me.
I pick up the card one more time, running my thumb over the embossed letters.
Dante Moretti.
The boy who lost his father.
The man who's about to own me.
And somehow, I know that when I walk through those doors tonight, I won't be walking back out the same person.
I grab my jacket and head for the door.
Whatever he wants from me, whatever revenge he's planned—
I'm about to find out.