Scanning the document, my heart nearly skitters out of my chest at his signature already in place.Konstantin Morozov.
It’s written in bold, black ink. Sharp and jagged like the man himself. He signed it before he even walked into this room. Hedidn't hope I would surrender. He knew it. He was so certain of my weakness that he prepared the paperwork in advance.
The room spins.
"What is this?"
"Spousal privilege," Konstantin says, as if he’s discussing a business merger. "A wife cannot be compelled to testify against her husband. But more importantly, Helena, once we’re married, your assets become legally entangled with Morozov Holdings."
He leans forward, voice low.
"My lawyers will argue that the shipment falls under international jurisdiction due to my diplomatic contracts. They’ll tie this case up in litigation for ten years. You’ll be free while they drown in paperwork."
He points a finger at me.
"But if you’re single? You’re just a CEO who signed a false manifest. There’s no delay. You go to jail today."
"You want me to marry you?" I gawk at him like he’s insane. "I’m sitting here charged with trafficking, and you’re proposing?"
"I’m not proposing. I’m negotiating."
He opens the velvet box.
Inside sits a ring. It’s a massive, dark sapphire surrounded by black diamonds, set in heavy platinum. It glitters under the harsh fluorescent lights.
"The agents outside are waiting for my signal," he says. "If I walk out of here alone, they process you. You go to a holding cell. Tonight, you sleep in a cage with general population. Tomorrow, the press destroys your name. Your life ends."
He slides the paper toward me.
"But if we walk out of here as Mr. and Mrs. Morozov, the warrant disappears."
"Why?" I ask.
"Because a wife cannot testify against her husband," he says smoothly. "And without your testimony, their case collapses. But more importantly, Miller knows better than to arrest my wife."
He holds out a pen.
"Prison," he says. "Or the Penthouse. Choose."
My heart hammers like a trapped bird beating itself to death. I look at the door. For a terrifying second, I can see my future.
I see the steel bars. I feel the scratch of a gray uniform against my skin. I smell the bleach and the unwashed bodies of a cell block. I see myself sitting on a cot, staring at a wall for seven thousand days, watching my skin wrinkle and my hair turn gray while the world forgets that Helena Blackwood ever existed.
I’ll die in there. I’m not built for cages. I’ll wither and rot, and my father will never know. I’ll be erased.
The air in the room suddenly feels too thin. The walls are closing in, squeezing the light out. I’m drowning on dry land.
A violent war rages inside me.Don't do it,my pride screams.Go to prison. Keep your soul. Be the martyr.But my survival instinct screams louder, clawing at my throat.
I try to be brave. Try to tell myself I can survive twenty years.I’m a Blackwood. I’m strong.
My hands tremble, revealing the awful truth.
I’m not a soldier. I’m a businesswoman. I deal in contracts, not violence. Konstantin is right. I’ll break. I’ll be chewed up and spat out, and the company, my mother’s legacy, will be auctioned off to the highest bidder anyway.
If I sign, I lose my freedom to him. If I don't, I lose my life to the state. It’s a choice between a slow death and a quick surrender.
My focus drifts from the ring to the door. Back again and again.
