Page 10

I sit in the vanity chair, staring at the same text I’ve been reading for the past forty-eight hours.

Unknown: The monsters that lurk in the shadows are the ones who will make you scream the loudest.

The money arrived in my account before I left the hotel, followed by the text. After I cut the tape, I threw up, sobbing on the bathroom floor. I’ve been bound and fucked countless times.

But this was different. This was fear. True terror. And it made me come. Hard.

I was supposed to be the one in control, to have the power. But instead, he took it from me, took my control, and paid me for it. And now here I sit, reading his cryptic message repeatedly.

Who is this person? How did he find me?

Clients are easy. They want the same things. They want a pretty girl to fuck. Simple. Easy. Predictable. They pay, and I play. It’s a transaction.

I’ve fucked rich, dirty, and powerful men. I’ve been tied up, beaten, humiliated, and treated like trash. But it’s always been on my terms. It’s what I agreed to, and it was my choice.

Until now.

This isn’t on my terms. I don’t have the power. I have no idea who he is or how he found me.

The scariest part is that I can’t stop thinking about him—how he made me feel. I should be horrified, angry, and furious. I should have blocked him and deleted his text. But I haven’t.

I can’t.

Deep down, I’m ashamed to admit I want more. I want the masked man. The thrill of being entirely at his mercy. The fear, the powerlessness, the pain, and the pleasure.

It’s the same feeling I get when I’m in the air performing a dangerous routine; knowing the fall could be deadly makes me feel alive. I can’t explain it, but I crave the fear. I crave the idea that this could be it, that the next trick or jump could end my life. I crave control over my life but not over my death.

I take a deep breath, willing the tears to stay put.

Fingers wrapped around the delicate pearl pendant necklace, I feel the weight of it. My mother’s necklace, the only piece of her I have left.

We never got to discuss weddings, and right now, I wish she were here more than anything. The ache in my chest is raw, grief crashing over me like an unforgiving wave. She died when I was just ten—a violent, horrific death that no child should ever witness. The nightmares still haunt me.

My need for control began after she died. The anxiety and grief from her death were too much for me to handle. The panic attacks would hit me at the worst times—in the middle of class or the dining hall. I was constantly on edge and couldn’t sleep. Eventually, I found ways to cope and numb myself using drugs, alcohol, eating disorders, sex, dance—anything that helped me forget. I was desperate, and nothing was off-limits.

After her death, my dad transformed into a stranger. My mother was his world, and losing her shattered something vital in him.

Unable to cope, he spiraled into a deep depression, sending me off to boarding school as if I were an afterthought. When I finally returned, he had stripped the house of any trace of her. The house was a hollow shell, and I was lost.

All that remained of her was this necklace and one framed picture, which Spencer had managed to save.

Spencer was the only one who cared about me. My father never recovered, and I eventually stopped hoping he would.

One drunken night, he let slip that looking at me was like staring at her ghost. The resemblance was uncanny; I was a younger version of her, a painful reminder he couldn’t bear. That’s why he sent me away.

Her death and my father’s absence changed everything.

Spencer stepped up, becoming the protector I desperately needed. We grew closer after she passed away. Without him, my grief would have killed me.

With time, the anxiety and panic attacks faded, but the need for control remained.

Now, today, I get married—I’ve lost control of my life completely.

My makeup is soft and natural. My long blonde hair falls in waves. The wedding dress is strapless with a sweetheart neckline, form-fitting with a long train. The gown is stunning, and the lace detailing is exquisite. The entire bridal suite is filled with flowers, candles, and champagne. All which Dad picked, and insisted on.

“Auntie!” a small voice squeals, and my four-year-old niece, Emma, runs into the room. She’s a carbon copy of her mother, Heather, dressed in a frilly pink dress. Her older sister, Ivy, is right behind her, dressed the same. They wrap their arms around me.

“Hi, baby girls,” I say, hugging them tightly.

“You look pretty,” Emma says.

Heather, Spencer’s Servant of choice, walks in with flowers.

“Thanks, Em.” I smile at her and stand.

“Oh, Rory! You look stunning.” She sets the flowers down and pulls me into a hug. “I can’t believe you’re getting married.”

“Me either,” I mumble. I glance at the girls sitting on the couch, giggling and playing. Dad insisted the wedding be as traditional as possible to keep up appearances. It’s ridiculous but typical of him. He’s always cared more about appearances than reality. So here I am, having a traditional wedding to a man I barely know, surrounded by people who barely care.

I glance at Heather, who is busy organizing the flowers, and then at my nieces; their innocence starkly contrasts with the turmoil inside me.

“Auntie, are you happy?” Ivy asks, her big blue eyes wide with curiosity. Her question catches me off guard, and I force a smile.

“Of course, sweetheart,” I lie through clenched teeth. “It’s a big day, that’s all.”

Heather catches my eye, and her knowing look says it all. She sees right through my fake smile but keeps her mouth shut, just giving me a reassuring nod as she rearranges the flowers in the girls’ baskets.

Then Dad bursts in, his gaze scanning the room like a hawk before landing on me. “Rory, you look perfect,” he declares with a grin that’s more pride than love. “Everything’s ready. It’s time.”

I take a deep breath, standing straight and smoothing down my dress like it’s going to magically make everything okay. I follow my father out, each step toward the ceremony feeling more like a march toward the gallows.

The backyard is a wedding magazine dream—white chairs perfectly lined up, an archway dripping with flowers, and a string quartet playing soft, romantic tunes.

Everything’s flawless—except for the groom.

Since that night outside the Pavilion, Axe has been as silent. The only thing I got from him was a text saying a moving truck would arrive at my house yesterday to pack my belongings. I was stuck at rehearsal, unable to stop it.

When I came home, my clothes in my closet and a few things from my bedroom were gone. Everything else in my house was left.

What kind of jerk just packs up your life without so much as a word? I could strangle him. Running away crossed my mind, but I know he’d hunt me down. There’s no escape from this.

As I approach the aisle, the sheer absurdity of this situation makes me want to hurl. The smiles, the fake congratulations, the cloying air of celebration—it’s all a load of crap. My emotions are a chaotic mix of disgust, sadness, and rage.

But underneath it all lurks a deep, gnawing fear.

Fear of what my life is about to become.

The music swells, cueing the crowd to rise. My heart races, and my palms turn clammy. Each step feels like I’m marching toward my own execution.

Finally, I reach the end of the aisle, and my stomach drops. Axel Hawthorne stands there, dressed in a sleek tuxedo, hair perfectly styled like he just stepped out of a magazine. A cruel smirk stretches across his lips, and the darkness in his eyes sends chills down my spine. Tattoos peek from under his jacket sleeves and crawl up his neck. I can’t believe I’m about to marry this monster.

Beside him stands Isaac, the High Chancellor, keeping up the Sovereign tradition as the officiant. My father steps back, the puppeteer of this travesty, his expression smooth, betraying none of the chaos he’s caused. Axe extends his arm, and against every survival instinct I have, I take it.

As the ceremony blurs, I lock my gaze forward, refusing to meet Axe’s eyes. I can feel them, burning into me, but I won’t give him the satisfaction. Tears prick, sharp and stinging, but I choke them down. I’ve endured worse. I can survive this.

Isaac’s voice drones on—empty words wrapped in tradition. I let the numbness take over, let it dull the absurdity of it all. Until the silence falls. Thick. Heavy. The kind that wraps around your throat and tightens.

I know what’s coming.

Axe turns to face me. His shadow looms larger than life. My heart clenches, and I force myself to look up, to meet his dark eyes. My stomach twists, dread coiling tight. This is the moment that seals my fate.

“Under the Sovereign Order, I claim you as mine, body and soul.” His voice is steady.

My throat tightens, the words I’m supposed to say clawing at my mind. I can’t. My lips part, but nothing comes.

Axe’s jaw clenches, his teeth grinding with impatience. His fingers tighten around mine, and a sharp pain shoots through my hand. My chest heaves as I struggle to breathe, to think, to resist the inevitable. But his grip tightens further, the pain forcing my focus.

“Under the Sovereign Order, I claim you as mine, body and soul,” I say, my voice barely a whisper.

Axe steps toward me and retrieves the vow-bound collar from his jacket pocket. I clench my teeth and shut my eyes, silently pleading for this to end. The collar wraps around my neck, its weight settling heavily. He locks it into place, and the click feels like a death sentence.

Closing the distance, he leans in, his lips grazing my ear. “I. Own. You.” Those three words make my blood run cold. Swallowing hard against the rising nausea, I fight back tears. Isaac announces us as Mr. and Mrs. Axel Hawthorne , a phrase that sounds like a nightmare incarnate.

Axe pulls me closer, gripping my face roughly. I squeeze my eyes shut as his lips touch mine. Applause erupts from the crowd, but my heart sinks deeper into despair. This is the beginning of the end.

As we walk down the aisle together, the guests cheer and clap. Once inside the house, I wrench my arm away from him and glare.

“Take it off now.”

“You look stunning when you’re angry.” He chuckles.

I can’t fucking stand him.

“Take the goddamn collar off,” I snap.

He retrieves a small key from his pocket and steps closer, his breath warm against my neck. “No,” he whispers, returning the key to his pocket. I want to stab him, cut him, hurt him.

“Fuck you,” I hiss, turning sharply and storming away. I race through the house, ignoring Alicia’s calls behind me.

Upstairs, I slam into a bathroom and immediately double over, retching violently. Disgust churns in my stomach—for myself, for him, for the whole fucking situation. Tears stream down my face as I sob uncontrollably.

“Rory.” Alicia’s voice breaks through my cries.

“Leave me alone!”

“It’s not polite to ignore your guests.” Her tone is filled with faux concern. I won’t dignify her with a response, and after a few moments, her heels click away down the stairs.

In the bathroom mirror, I see the reflection of a woman in a beautiful wedding dress who’s terrified and heartbroken. My chest heaves with sobs, and I can barely catch my breath.

I want to scream. I want to tear this dress off and rip the collar from my skin.

I will never belong to him. Never.