“Does she look familiar?”
The front desk woman leans forward slightly, eyes narrowing as she studies the image. There’s no flicker of recognition on her face, but there’s something else—tension in her jaw, in the way her fingers curl subtly under the edge of the counter.
“She came in early?” she asks.
“Yes, from what I understand,” I reply, sliding the phone back into my pocket.
“I remember her. She was visiting someone in the ICU. Room seven eighteen.”
That gets my attention.
“Did she check in under either of those names?”
She shakes her head. “She gave the name Dani Rivera. I remember her because I thought it was weird that she kept the hood of her sweatshirt up, even inside.”
“Thank you. You’ve been very helpful,” I say, smiling as I back away.
The wallsof the room are too smooth. Too clean. Not a single crack to be found, not in the paint or the crown molding, not even in the polished brass drawer handles. It’s all perfect in a way that doesn’t feel comforting. Like a mask, pulled tight over the corruption beneath. Like the room itself is lying to me.
It’s been long enough now that I can’t tell what time it is without the sun. The windows are tall and narrow, the curtains sheer enough to let in pale light, from the windows that don’t open. Nothing here opens. Nothing here breathes. The silence is a living thing, pressing at my ribs with every hour that ticks by. I sleep only because I have to. Eat because it keeps me sharp. I know better than to let myself get weak in a house full of men who are waiting for me to become a pawn again.
Grief has settled behind my eyes like smoke. It doesn’t scream. It just lingers. The sight of Declan’s body is still in my head—ragged with pain and tired from holding on. I should’ve been there when it happened. I should’ve told him I loved him when I had the chance. Instead, I was too late. Too lost in my own plan. And now I have nothing but the weight of a funeral that will never happen and the memory of the only man who ever protected me.
I press the heel of my hand to my chest, where the pain is starting to sharpen again. That’s the thing about being locked in aquiet room. You don’t have any distractions that keep the ache manageable.
I’m still seated at the small desk in the corner when I hear a knock. No one barges in around here. They let me believe I have autonomy, let me answer the door like I still have agency. But we all know I don’t.
The same maid from yesterday slips inside, avoiding my eyes as she places a small cream-colored envelope on the polished wood of the nightstand. No name. No seal.
She doesn’t speak, leaving quickly. The door clicks softly shut behind her, and I stare at the envelope.
I’m cautious of it. My fingertips hover just over the edge before I finally lift it. The weight of it is obvious—thick paper, a note too heavy for its size. My name isn't on it, but the moment I slide it open and unfold the page inside, I know exactly who it’s from.
The handwriting is tight and meticulous, each letter curved with obsessive care. I read slowly at first, but by the end, my eyes are racing to keep up with the bile rising in my throat.
Zara,
The waiting ends now.
You were promised to me, and I intend to collect what’s mine. No more delays, no more defiance. Your father may have failed in many things, but in this—he finally understood what’s required. You don’t need freedom. You need structure. Control. A man who knows how to mold you into something worthy of the name you’ll soon carry.
I remember Monaco. The fire in your eyes, the way you pulled away when I touched you.That will pass. They always fight at first—until they realize how good obedience feels.
Your dress is being prepared. You’ll walk down the aisle in white, but we both know there’s nothing innocent left to protect. You were made for a stage like this—ornamented, admired, owned.
We will be married before the month is over. That part isn’t negotiable. You’ll learn to live inside the life that’s been built for you. You’ll learn what loyalty means. And if it doesn’t come naturally, I’ll take my time teaching you.
Welcome to your future, princepessa.
—A.F.
The page trembles between my fingers, and for a second, I don’t realize that I’m holding my breath.
The week I spent in Monaco eight years ago rushes through my mind. My father had arranged the trip for Anthony and me to meet, so he could reveal his plan together with Anthony’s father, Jerome. That week was hell. Anthony never kept his hands off me. I had to deadbolt my door at night in hopes he wouldn’t come in and take what wasn’t his. By the end of the week, I knew I hated him, knew I couldn’t be attached to that man for the rest of my life. So that’s when I started planning.
I read it again. Not because I need to, but because I can’t believe the man who wrote this thinks he has the right to call himself human. It’s not a love letter. It’s a threat dressed up in ink and paper. Every line drips with possession, not affection. There’s no illusion of respect. No attempt to charmme into compliance. He already believes I’m his. He already thinks the fight is over.
I fold the letter carefully, every movement precise, methodical—because if I let myself move too quickly, I’ll tear it apart, and I need the evidence. Not for anyone else. For me. I need to remember what kind of man I’m being given to.
