She’s overwhelmed. I can see it in the tight line of her shoulders, the way her breathing has turned shallow and quick. She’s fighting the reality that she’s been ripped out of her life and deposited here, in my carefully controlled world, with no clear path back.
Good. Overwhelmed means she’s processing. Processing means she’s thinking instead of just reacting.
I give her space. Move to the kitchen island, pour myself a glass of water, keep my movements slow and deliberate. Non-threatening. The worst thing I could do right now is crowd her, back her into a corner where panic takes over completely.
She’s angry—I can feel it radiating off her like heat. Anger is manageable. Anger is useful. It keeps her sharp, keeps her fighting instead of breaking down. I need her angry right now.
“This is insane,” she says finally, voice tight but steady. She’s found her footing faster than I expected. “You can’t just… take people. You can’t decide someone else’s life for them.”
I set down the glass, lean against the counter. “I didn’t decide anything. Marcus Hale did that when he sent his people after you.”
“Who the fuck is Marcus Hale?”
The question comes out raw, frustrated. She’s been thrown into a war she didn’t know existed, fighting an enemy she can’t see. I understand her confusion. It doesn’t change the facts.
“He’s someone who collects beautiful women,” I say. “Usually through intermediaries. Always through manipulation first—promises of career advancement, financial security, protection from scandal. When that doesn’t work, he uses force.”
She stares at me, processing. “So you think he wants to collect me.”
“I know he does. The men at the restaurant weren’t freelancing. They work for him.”
Her face goes pale. I can see her replaying the conversation, understanding now what those polite, invasive questions really meant. The offer of connections, arrangements, discrete men who would pay well for her company.
“You were watching,” she says. “You knew they’d be there.”
“I knew someone would try eventually. Hale doesn’t like being told no, and your very public rejection of his world makes you a challenge he won’t ignore.” I straighten, keep my voicelevel. “The attack today wasn’t a warning, Elara. It was a test. He wanted to see how accessible you are, how well protected, whether you’d break or fight.”
“And?”
“You survived. That means you failed his test.” I let that sink in. “Next time, he won’t send recruiters with soft voices and gentle hands. He’ll send hunters.”
She’s quiet for a long moment, arms still wrapped around herself like armor. When she speaks, her voice is smaller. “Why me? I’m nobody. I was nobody even before the scandal.”
“You’re visible. Beautiful. Independent enough to be interesting, vulnerable enough to be attainable.” The words taste bitter. “You fit his type perfectly.”
“So what am I supposed to do, hide forever? Live in fear because some monster has decided he wants to own me?”
This is where I make the offer. Where I present the solution she won’t want to hear but can’t afford to refuse. I’ve thought this through from every angle, calculated every risk and benefit. It’s the cleanest option available.
“You marry me,” I say.
The silence that follows is electric. She stares at me like I’ve suggested we burn down the city together.
“Excuse me?”
“A fake marriage. Legal, documented, public enough to matter. You become a Sharov wife, which puts you under the protection of my family name, our resources, our reputation for retaliation.” I keep my voice calm, professional. “It changes the calculation for anyone thinking of touching you.”
“Are you out of your mind?”
“It’s strategic. Hale operates through networks of enablers: corrupt officials, bought judges, dirty cops. They allknow what happens to people who cross the Sharov family. They won’t risk their positions for one woman, no matter how much he’s paying.”
She’s shaking her head, backing toward the wall. “This is insane. This is exactly what he was trying to do to me—trap me, control me, make me disappear into someone else’s life.”
“No.” I step closer, careful not to crowd her. “What he wanted was ownership. What I’m offering is protection. The marriage doesn’t have to be real in any way that matters to you. Separate bedrooms, separate lives, no physical contact unless you choose it. It’s a legal shield, nothing more.”
“Nothing more?” She laughs, high and sharp. “You want me to give up my name, my independence, my entire identity to become your fake wife, and you think that’s nothing?”
“I think it’s better than being dead.”
