Elara:I’m home. You okay?
No.
Not even close.
Me:I’m on my way.
I grab my bag from the chair, shove my phone inside, and walk out of the room before I can lose my nerve.
If my parents want to sell me, they can do it without my tears. I’m done crying in this house.
I arrive at Elara’s townhouse in thirty minutes, and she’s already standing at the entrance, arms folded, worry etched across her face.
Her expression softens when she sees me.
“Viv?” she calls out, stepping forward. “What’s wrong?”
The moment I reach her, she opens her arms, and I let her pull me into a quick hug before she grabs my hand and guides me inside. Her living room is warm and softly lit, nothing like the cold, echoing luxury of my parents’ home. Everything here feels lived-in. Safe.
We sink onto the couch, and she studies me closely.
“Talk to me,” she says. “Are you okay?”
I force a small smile. “I’m fine.”
Elara just lifts one eyebrow.
I crumble instantly.
I take a shaky breath, press a hand to my forehead, and stare at the patterns on the rug as if they might help me find the words.
Then everything spills out.
I tell her about the marriage contract already in motion. About being sold like a strategic asset. About the humiliation curling like smoke in my chest. About the panic. The helplessness. About the fact that I’m supposed to marry a man whose name my father won’t even say out loud.
Elara listens without interrupting, her expression darkening with every sentence. By the time I finish, she’s gripping the edge of the couch like she’s trying not to break something.
“Oh my God,” she whispers. “Viv.”
I swallow, throat thick. “They’re not even giving me a name, Elara. I’m being married off like a…like a portfolio they want to unload quietly.”
Her jaw clenches.
“Who the hell does your father think he is?” she mutters. “He can’t just—Viv, this isn’t the nineteenth century. You can’t be auctioned off because your family screwed up their finances.”
I exhale shakily, sinking deeper into the couch. “Apparently, I can.”
Her eyes soften with sympathy and anger tangled together.
“Okay,” she says quietly, reaching for my hand again. “Then we figure this out together.”
I close my eyes for a moment, breathing in the soft lavender scent that always hangs in Elara’s living room. It settles my nerves just enough to let the words escape.
“Tell me the truth, Elara.” My voice cracks around the edges. “Why do I have a feeling that this…can’t be fixed?”
Elara exhales, a long, heavy sigh that sounds like she’s been holding it in for years.
“Because sometimes,” she says quietly, “power doesn’t give you choices. Just cages.”
