The bitter laugh claws up my throat. I swallow it back.
A funeral would be preferable.
"And for God's sake, eat something." Prescott eyes me from his perch against the desk. His gaze travels over me—assessing, cataloging, finding me wanting. "That dress cost a fortune. I won't have you looking like a skeleton walking down the aisle."
I wrap my arms around myself. The gesture is automatic. Defensive. I've lost weight—the stress and constant nausea have stripped flesh from bones I didn't know I could spare.
But hearing him say it. Reducing me to an ornament that's not polished enough for display.
Something hot and sharp lodges under my ribs.
"I'll try." I force the words out. Keep my eyes down.
"You'll do more than try." Father's voice cracks like a whip. "This union is too important to be jeopardized by your childish behavior."
The word detonates something inside me.
"Childish?" My head snaps up. "Is it childish to want some say in my own life? To not want to be sold off like?—"
The room goes silent. That terrible, suffocating silence that means I've crossed a line.
Father rises slowly from his chair. His face darkens—first red, then purple, like a storm gathering. "How dare you."
"You're embarrassing yourself." Prescott moves faster than I can react. His hand clamps around my upper arm, fingers digging into the soft flesh above my elbow. Pain blooms, sharp and immediate.
I try to pull away. "Let go?—"
He shoves. Hard.
I stumble backward, catching myself on the bookshelf edge. Pain radiates from my arm where his fingers branded me. My elbow hits wood, sending another shock of pain up to my shoulder.
Prescott stands there, straightening his cuffs. Calm. Composed. Like he didn't just put his hands on me.
Father has already returned to his papers. Dismissing me. Dismissing what just happened.
I flee.
My feet carry me through corridors, past staff who won't meet my eyes, out into the gardens where the sunset bleeds orange and red across the sky like a wound.
I collapse onto a stone bench. The marble is cold through my thin dress, but I barely feel it. Everything is numb except my arm, which throbs with each heartbeat.
The tears come finally. Hot. Angry. Useless.
"Please." I whisper to the empty air. To Paul. To whoever might be listening. "If you can hear me... I can't do this anymore."
But only the wind answers. Rustling through leaves. Carrying away my words like they never existed.
No bumblebees appear. No magical messages.
Just silence.
The days crawl by.Each one heavier than the last.
Father makes it clear—crystal clear—that any further "outbursts" will not be tolerated. He doesn't specify what that means. Doesn't need to. The threat hangs in the air like smoke.
Prescott's touches linger longer now. His grip tighter. Fingers pressing into my waist, my shoulder, my wrist. Not quite hard enough to bruise where people can see. But the message is unmistakable.
You're mine. Or you will be soon enough.
