Page 93 of His To Erase

Ani

Getting ready was a blur. I spent most of it trying not to vomit, cry, or jump out a window. My brain short-circuited the second those two men showed up, all polite smiles and silent stares, saying they were here to “escort me to my room.”

I thought they were going to drag me in by the hair. Strip me down. Pick out a dress and a necklace and maybe even a tiara while they held me down and told me to smile for the fucking photos.

Is this my life right now? Really?

A forced wedding, in a goddamn mansion. In Puerto Rico. To a man who probably killed my grandfather and keeps acting like I’m some lost little heiress who just needs a firm hand and a fitted suit to get her shit together.

Jesus.

How did I end up here?

I pace the length of the bedroom again, arms tight around my middle, ignoring the sting behind my eyes and the taste of acid crawling up my throat.

I mean, it’s a beautiful room. Every detail screams wealth, and I hate it. The second I stepped inside, my heart stuttered with recognition.

I’ve been in this room before, lived here, slept here. How did I forget an entire life? An entire place?

And now it’s being used as a prison.

I don’t know what’s worse—that I used to live here, or that I didn’t even know it until my body remembered for me.

Pretty sure it’s the same damn furniture, too.

Ten-year-old me probably loved it. Too bad current me is now getting dressed in it—for a wedding I didn’t agree to, wearing a dress I didn’t pick, for a man I wouldn’t choose if the world was on fire.

I glance at the door. It’s still locked. I checked. Twice.

The two men who brought me here didn’t say a single word. Their posture was rigid, their guns clearly visible, and their energy screamed we’re not here to chat. They were professional, cold, and efficient—no smiles, no warmth, just business.

I even tried to lighten the mood, making a sarcastic comment about whether this kidnapping package came with hair and makeup.

Neither of them reacted. Not a smile. Not a twitch. Just blank, polite professionalism—the kind that somehow felt more violating than being shoved inside.

Assholes.

They left without a word, shutting the door behind them like I was just a problem they’d successfully delivered.

And now I’m alone. With a dress laid out on the bed like it’s a gift instead of a fucking prison sentence, a pair of bone-colored heels that scream expensive hostage, and a full-length mirror that keeps showing me a version of myself I don’t recognize.

I haven’t even put the dress on yet. I’ve just been pacing back and forth across this bedroom that’s somehow mine.

I keep trying to stay calm. Trying to think clearly. I’ve been freaking out in what I thought was a mature, adult way—meaning I bit the wooden bedpost once and seriously considered yeeting myself out the third-story window onto the decorative fountain below.

The dress is nice. Which makes me want to burn it more. Frank had it tailored to fit me perfectly, I'm sure. It’s not even white—it’s more bone than bridal, very fitting for a chic hostage aesthetic. I wish I could throw up on it.

I sit on the edge of the bed and breathe. I know—deep down—that once I sign those papers, I’m done. He won’t need me anymore. Maybe he’ll kill me. Maybe he’ll keep me locked up, perfectly preserved in some psycho version of Stepford Wife prison.

Hell, I’d sign the papers right now if it meant I could go home. I don’t even want any of this. I highly doubt he’d believe me if I tried telling him any of that though. I just want to sit on my couch, read a book, and eat stale popcorn. I just want to pretend none of this ever happened.

I don’t want any of it.

And I sure as shit don’t want him. But that’s irrelevant, isn’t it? Because what I want has nothing to do with it. He doesn’t care if I love him or loathe him—just as long as I sign on the dotted line.

Have you ever looked at yourself and realized you’re not inside your life anymore? You’re just watching it—like a movie you didn’t audition for—burning down behind a sheet of glass you can’t break.

Yeah, that’s me right now.

Hi. I’m Ani. But you might as well call me Alice, except this Wonderland doesn’t have talking animals or tea—it has guards with guns and a dress that fits a little too well for comfort.

The knock at the door is soft. “Five minutes,” someone says through the wood. “Be ready.”

For what, exactly?

Surely he’s not actually planning a wedding the same day we land. I mean—doesn’t he need a florist? A schedule? Maybe a psych evaluation?

The footsteps outside are already retreating, leaving me alone once again with my thoughts. It’s the kind of silence that sinks into your ribs and makes itself at home.

This is the part where I wish I could say something brave.

Something clever. Something that sounds like survival.

But the truth is, I don’t feel brave. I feel tired.

Shaky. Hollow in places that used to be sharp.

My heart's thudding like it’s trying to punch its way out of my ribs, and all I can think about is how fast everything unraveled.

I hate that I’m considering it. I hate that for one split second, I wonder if it would be easier to stop fighting. To just give in. To let them put the mask on me and pretend I belong here.

But I don’t. And I never fucking will.

I clench my jaw, curling my hands into fists, and stand. Sure, maybe I don’t remember everything yet, but I know this much, I’d rather walk straight into hell with my middle fingers up than stand here and pretend I’m not already burning.

Putting on the dress feels like surrender, and I hate that, but I do it anyway because what else am I going to do? Refuse and get slapped again? Yeah, no thanks. I’m too hot to have my cheek permanently dented from that fuckers hand.

My hands shake as I pull on the dress. It settles around me like it knows it doesn’t belong—clinging to my skin, molding to every inch like smoke with claws.

The shoes are worse. I hate heels. They’re strappy, stiff, and tight in all the wrong places.

These were clearly designed to look delicate while cutting off your circulation.

Which is perfect, all things considered.

There’s no clock in this room either, but I know it’s been at least five minutes. I sense the footsteps before I hear the boots coming down the hallway.

The bolt clicks and two new guards stand in the doorway. One gives a stiff nod. The other steps forward and extends a hand, like we’re about to dance. I stare at it, trying my best to hold in the laugh that’s coming up my throat. I try to walk right past, keeping my chin held high.

“Careful,” I mutter as they fall in on either side of me. “Wouldn’t want me tripping and signing the wrong name.”

Neither of them reacts. Tough crowd.

They don’t let me walk ahead—not really. One stays close at my back, the other half a step in front, boxing me in like I’m something fragile or dangerous.

We move past rooms I barely remember. I walk slowly, memorizing every step. Luckily I used to live here, so I’m sure I know where all the good hiding spots are, if I need them.

The main hall is cloaked in shadows. Literally. Only a few wall lamps are lit, like they’re trying to conserve electricity—or add to the dramatics. Either way, it’s too quiet.

I don’t know what I expected. Maybe music. Champagne. An altar made of bones. Something appropriately theatrical for the horror of it all. I don’t know, effort?

Instead, there’s a man at the long table in a grey suit with wire-rim glasses and a neat stack of papers in front of him.

No one says it, but I know who he is. At least I think it’s safe to assume he’s either the lawyer they were talking about earlier, or the one who’s going to make all this official.

No one even looks at me when I walk in.

Frank stands off to the side, one hand around a glass of whiskey, with the smug calm of a man who thinks he’s already won. He’s not smiling, not exactly. It’s worse than that—he’s content, and he looks like he’s already tasting the victory.

I stop at the edge of the table but I don’t sit. Instead, I cross my arms on instinct.

He doesn’t deserve to see me shake. He doesn’t get the satisfaction of watching me fall apart. My body is vibrating with adrenaline, and a fear I refuse to name. My knees want to give out but I won’t let them. So I hold still, staring him down.

“Sit,” he says.

My feet stay planted, and every muscle in my body feels like it’s waiting to snap. “What, no aisle? No music? You couldn’t even spring for a flower girl?”

His jaw clenches and I can see the crack in his mask.

“I said sit.”

“And I said no.”

If I’m going down, it’s going to be with a fight.

The man at the table—the priest, officiant, or whatever kind of legal parasite he is—finally looks up.

His eyes flick between us, like he’s just now realizing the bride might not be a willing participant.

But does he say a word? No, of course not.

He just blinks and waits, like paperwork matters more than consent.

If he signs that paper knowing what this is, he’s just another coward cashing in on silence.

I smile, but there’s no warmth in it. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt your hostage ceremony. I just have a couple questions before we start.”

Frank’s nostrils flare with barely contained rage, dressed up in cufflinks and cologne, but I ignore him and take a single step to the left.

“First question,” I say, keeping my tone steady, “does this become legally binding before or after you threaten to kill me if I say no?”

He sets the glass down, carefully eyeing me. He knows I’m up to something, I’m sure, but he makes no move to stop me. Yet.

“Second question,” I continue, “should we ask him?” I nod toward the suited man. “Are you planning to lie for him? Sign off on a forced marriage and pretend it’s consent?”