Page 11 of Watch Me Burn

“I’m not sure I follow the logic here,” Tristan continues.

“Shhh, tesoro ,” Mortelle soothes like she’s a child having a tantrum.

I stare at Caterina, whose expression has gone completely blank despite the venom in her words. She’s not even breathing normally. Her chest rising and falling too quickly, too shallow.

“I’m thrilled for you all, but I’m not sure how this pertains to our business arrangement,” I manage.

Mortelle leans forward, fixing me with a death stare. “My daughter becomes Mrs. Jackson. You gain my protection and the resources of my family. You keep your little insurance policy, as long as your loyalty never wavers.”

Wife .

The word hits like a stone. He’s offering me a bride like she’s a piece of property he’s negotiating away—no, not offering. Commanding.

And that’s the moment I realize I’m no longer a player in this game.

I’m the fucking pawn.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.” It’s the only coherent response I can manage.

Caterina’s eyes flash with something that looks like genuine horror, her carefully maintained mask cracking for the first time since I’ve known her. She looks at her father as though she doesn’t recognize him.

“Father, this wasn’t our agreement,” she says, voice trembling with barely restrained fury.

“You can’t be serious,” Tristan echoes.

“Deadly serious.” Mortelle looks delighted.

“No,” I say flatly. “Absolutely not.”

“Refusal isn’t an option in this negotiation,” he replies softly. “You both have something I want—and I always get what I want, one way or another.”

Each breath comes smaller, like the air’s being siphoned out of the room.

“And if I still say no?”

“Then you both die tonight. Insurance policy or no insurance policy. And everyone you love dies with you. Business is business, after all.”

“Father, why are you doing this?”

For one second, I catch the tremble in her voice. The plea buried beneath the venom. She’s not furious because she’s being forced to marry me. She’s furious because she wasn’t given a choice.

“This is what needs to be done, tesoro . You know I don’t make decisions lightly.”

“Marriage was never part of any plan we discussed.”

I watch the dynamic shift, suddenly aware I’m witnessing something rare.

Caterina looking genuinely shaken, talking back to her father in front of witnesses.

She’s always seemed completely in command, utterly confident in herself.

But not right now. She looks as trapped as I feel.

Betrayed, cornered, caught off-guard. A surge of sick satisfaction hits me, followed immediately by an unwelcome touch of sympathy.

We’re all just pieces on Mortelle’s chessboard.

“Our arrangements evolve as circumstances require,” Mortelle says, his tone gentle but with steel beneath every word.

“I’ve done everything you asked,” she argues. “I’ve watched them, tracked them, gathered intelligence. This is completely unnecessary. You said I could handle the situation. Let me handle it.”

“You’re out of time. The drive remains beyond our reach, and my patience has limits. Sometimes business requires…creative solutions.”

Caterina shakes her head almost imperceptibly, her gaze darting to me with a flash of what might be panic. For this one moment, she looks as caught in her father’s web as I am.

Finally, we have something in common.

Tristan shifts beside me, breaking the tense silence. “Why Aaron? Why not me?”

Something unspoken passes between Mortelle and his daughter—a challenge met with resistance, visible only in the subtlest changes of expression.

“My daughter will adapt to this necessity,” Mortelle says firmly, answering Caterina more than Tristan. “And you, Mr. Barlow, have your own setbacks that make you unsuitable.”

Tristan stiffens like he’s been slapped, his hand tightening on the armrest. I glance at my friend, puzzled by his reaction, then back to Caterina, who has retreated into rigid composure though the color high on her cheekbones betrays her anger.

She hates being out of control as much as I do. Interesting.

“Besides,” Mortelle continues with casual brutality, “your mutual dependence means Mr. Jackson’s compliance guarantees yours as well. Kill two birds with one stone, as they say.”

“This is completely insane,” I say, my eyes still on Caterina, searching for the cold predator I’ve come to know.

“This is survival,” Mortelle counters. “For all parties concerned. Family comes before everything else in this life, so consider your answer very carefully.”

“As if we have any real choice,” Tristan whispers.

The silence stretches like a held breath, heavy with unspoken threats and the weight of impossible decisions. When I look at Caterina again, her mask has returned, but something fundamental has changed between us.

“I’ll need time to consider this,” I say finally, though we all know it’s not really a consideration—it’s just delaying the inevitable.

“You have until midnight.” Mortelle stands, signaling the end of our negotiation. “Caterina will escort you to the terrace. I imagine you two have much to discuss before you become family.”

I follow Caterina toward the terrace doors, dread rising in my throat like bile.

Alone with my stalker. My enemy. My nightmare.

And now, maybe, my fiancée.

Each step feels like a descent into hell. Not a walk, not an escape—a fall into something I can’t climb back out of.

This doesn’t feel real. It feels like the kind of nightmare you wake up from gasping, clawing for air and swearing off late-night bourbon.

What a fitting nickname I gave her all those months ago.

My nightmare. And now I have to marry her.

“Mr. Barlow,” Mortelle’s voice calls behind us. “My associates would like a private word with you about some financial irregularities.”

I stop cold, every instinct screaming inside me.

Tristan goes rigid beside me. He tries to look confident, unbothered, but I catch the muscle jumping in his jaw, the way his hands clench into fists at his sides.

Mortelle’s “associates” don’t have conversations. They extract information. They eliminate problems. They make people disappear.

“I’ll be fine,” Tristan mutters, but his voice is too quiet, too strained to be convincing.

“Tristan—”

“Go.” His eyes don’t meet mine, which tells me everything I need to know about how fine he thinks he’ll be. “We’ll talk after.”

I watch my best friend disappear through another door flanked by men who look like they bench press motorcycles for fun.

Dread coils tight and venomous around my ribs. The walls are pressing in from all sides. The ground feels like it’s about to drop out from under me.

There has to be a way out of this.

There has to be.

Beside me, Caterina walks in silence, her heels clicking a soft metronome. She doesn’t speak. Doesn’t even look at me. Just walks beside me like we’re strangers headed to the same grave.

Not until we reach the terrace doors.

Then, without turning around, she says, “Don’t flatter yourself. I’d rather kill you than marry you.”

And with that cheerful sentiment, she opens the door to what might be our future.