The cold rain had transitioned into a biting sleet, the kind that felt like needles against the skin, but Hannah McKay didn't feel the temperature. The only thing she felt was the searing, white-hot friction of Dermin Doren's hand on her arm.
The black sedan stood open, its interior glowing with a soft, amber ambient light that looked like a warm sanctuary. To Hannah, it looked like a gilded cage.
"Get in the car, Hannah," Dermin said. His voice was smooth, devoid of the jagged edges of the boy who had once panicked at the sound of sirens. This was the voice of a man who bought and sold companies before breakfast.
"No." Hannah wrenched her arm back, her boots skidding on the slick pavement. She turned her head toward the police cruisers, where Miller and the other officers were already folding their arms, their posture shifting from predators to spectators. "Miller! Take me! Take me back to the center! I'd rather spend another ten years in a four-by-four concrete box than breathe the same air as this man!"
The police officers didn't move. Miller actually looked away, adjusted his cap, and stared at a distant streetlight. The message was clear: in this city, Dermin Doren's word was the law, and his wife was his business.
"I'm not joking, Hannah," Dermin said, his shadow falling over her, tall and oppressive. "I didn't come all this way, through ten years of waiting, to leave my wife standing in the rain like a stray."
"Wife?" Hannah's laugh was a jagged, hysterical sound that tore through the rhythm of the rain. "Stop it. Stop this sick joke! I haven't seen you in a decade, Dermin. You're a ghost. You're the coward who ran while I was slammed against a hood and handcuffed. There is no marriage. There is no us. Leave me alone!"
Dermin didn't flinch. He didn't even look angry. He simply reached into the inner pocket of his bespoke overcoat and pulled out the cream-colored sheet of paper she had signed less than ten minutes ago. He held it out, protected from the rain by the overhang of the car's roof.
"Look at the header, Hannah. Not the middle. The very top."
Hannah snatched the paper, her fingers trembling so violently the page crinkled. She squinted, the moisture from the air blurring the ink.
At the very top, in elegant, raised gold foil, were the words: CERTIFICATE OF SPOUSAL UNION AND SETTLEMENT AGREEMENT.
Her eyes darted down the page, skipping the fluff, landing on the bolded sections at the bottom—the sections she had been too desperate, too hungry, and too tired to read.
...The undersigned, Hannah McKay, hereby enters into a binding legal union with Dermin Doren...
And then, the kill shot. A clause underlined in heavy black ink:
...In the event of a petition for dissolution of marriage initiated by the Bride at any given time, a liquidated damages penalty of $100,000,000 (One Hundred Million USD) shall be immediately payable to the Groom's estate to cover 'reputational and logistical damages'.
The paper slipped from her numb fingers. Dermin caught it before it hit the puddle.
Hannah's face went from the flushed red of rage to a ghostly, sickly pale. She felt the blood drain from her head, a dizzying vacuum taking its place. One hundred million dollars. She had exactly zero dollars. She didn't even have a coat that fit. She was a woman who had just been released from prison with twenty-four dollars and a plastic bag of fossilized memories.
"You... you snake," she whispered, her voice trembling with a new kind of horror. "You cunning, manipulative, bottom-feeding demon. You knew. You knew I was starving. You knew I was terrified. You sent that man to catch me at my weakest point and you trapped me!"
She stepped toward him, poking a finger into the expensive fabric of his chest. "You think this makes us married? This is a kidnapping! This is fraud! You're the same coward you were ten years ago, only now you hide behind lawyers instead of alleys!"
Dermin looked down at her, his expression unreadable. He didn't move as she cursed him, his blue eyes tracing the lines of her face as if he were memorizing a map. "Are you finished?" he asked quietly.
"I will never be finished! I'll go to the press! I'll tell them Dermin Doren, the tech visionary, is a predator who traps ex-convicts!"
"The press won't listen to an escaped parolee who signed a legal contract in front of a witnesse," Dermin countered, his tone as cold as the sleet. "It's already done, Hannah. The ink is dry, the filing is electronic, and the police have already cleared the scene. Now, move your beautiful body inside the car. We've wasted enough time in the dirt."
Hannah stood frozen. Her mind was racing, calculating. One hundred million. Even if she worked every hour of every day for the rest of her life, she could never pay that debt. He hadn't just married her; he had bought her. He had placed a price tag on her freedom that was so high it was effectively a life sentence.
How? she wondered. How did he go from a street-level dealer to a man who can trap a person with a single sheet of paper?
She looked at the car door, then at the dark, wet street. She considered running, but she knew the police were still watching from a distance, waiting for any excuse to drag her back to a cell. She was trapped between two different versions of prison.
"I hate you," she said, the words dripping with a decade of fermented bile. "I hate every breath you take."
"I know," Dermin said.
Before she could form another insult, before she could even take a step back, Dermin moved. It wasn't the slow, corporate movement he had shown so far. It was explosive. In one fluid motion, he stepped into her space, his arm hooking behind her knees and his other arm locking behind her back.
Hannah gasped as her feet left the ground. "Put me down! Dermin, put me down right now!"
He ignored her, his grip like iron. He smelled of sandalwood, expensive rain, and power—a scent that made her head swim. He ducked his head, effortlessly carrying her into the spacious back seat of the sedan.
He didn't drop her; he placed her onto the heated leather with a strange, lingering gentleness that felt more terrifying than his threats. He leaned in over her, his face inches from hers, the door handle in his hand.
"Welcome home, Mrs. Doren," he whispered.
The door slammed shut with a heavy, pressurized thud, sealing out the sound of the world, the rain, and her screams.