My blood turns to ice. “What day?”
He pauses just long enough to look back at me over his shoulder.
“Your wedding day.”
The door closes softly behind him.
I collapse back against the pillows, shaking, the truth finally naked and undeniable.
Rose Brown is gone. Brooklyn Lark has been dragged home.
Time stretches into something thick and shapeless. I stare at the ceiling for what feels like hours, counting the tiny imperfections in the plaster, the faint shadows where the light doesn’t quite reach. My body is still heavy, my head still aching, but the real pain sits relentlessly in my chest.
The door opens again without a knock.
My mother, Dora, walks in like she’s stepping into a meeting she’s already late for. Perfectly dressed. Perfectly composed. Not a hair out of place.
“Brook,” she says, brisk and familiar, like nothing is wrong.
“That’s not my name anymore,” I answer, pulling my gaze away from her.
She pauses, just long enough to register the inconvenience, then dismisses it with a flick of her hand. “Don’t be dramatic. This is not the time.”
I swing my legs over the side of the bed, heart pounding. “You can’t make me do this,” My voice rises a notch higher. “You can’t marry me off to him.”
Her expression doesn’t change.
“We don’t have a choice,” Dora replies calmly. “The family has debts. Serious ones. The Pavlov money fixes that.”
I laugh, sharp and broken. “So that’s it? You sell me and the books balance?”
Her eyes harden. “Watch your tone.”
“Where’s Dad?” I ask. The question slips out before I can stop it. “Does he know you dragged me back here like property?”
“He’ll be at the wedding,” she informs me. “That’s all that matters.”
The words land harder than any blow.
He didn’t even come to see me.
Something in me finally gives. “I’m not a thing you can trade,” I say, voice shaking. “I’m your daughter.”
Her composure seem to crack at the sound of those words, not with guilt, but irritation.
“You are a Lark,” Dora snaps. “And you will do what’s required of you.”
“You can’t force me,” I bark at her.
“I can,” she retorts.
I’m boiling with anger. “You won’t dare.”
She doesn’t say another one, instead I feel a sharp crack of pain across my cheek, heat blooming instantly. I gasp, more in shock than hurt, fingers flying to my face.
“Enough,” she says right after slapping me. “Behave, or I’ll have you drugged until it’s time to drag you up that altar.”
She turns, pulls the door shut behind her, and I hear the lock slide into place.
