If I don’t find someone else who’s willing to take over the penalty…
God.
This is so bad.
When I dropped by the O’Connors’ mansion a few days ago, my goal was to beg them to back out of our marriage arrangement. Knowing my father would never allow things to be canceled on our side, throwing myself at their mercy seemed like the only option. If they were the ones to back out of the union, my family would still owe theirs the original loan amount, but it’s a much smaller number than if I were to back out of the marital contract.
For years, the O’Connors have acted like they were going to go through with the union, but there was a woman living with them that they seemed veryprotective of.
Her name is Charlotte, and she has a son that looksexactlylike Patrick O’Connor. I assumed the woman was someone he hooked up with years ago who finally tracked him down to let him know he has a son. I’m still not sure if that’s true or just a wild assumption, but the circumstances were almost too good to be true.
At first, I was so relieved, I couldn’t believe it. I’ve spent the last few years fighting for my right to choose my own future. With them finding someone else, I thought it would be the perfect solution.
Unfortunately, I was too optimistic.
After everything my brothers have said over the years, I believed they would advocate for me, but now I understand, all they care about is making our father happy so he’ll finally let them take over the family. As long as they get what they want, they don’t care what happens to me.
Their betrayal doesn’t matter.
Not really.
It might hurt, but I’m not going down without a fight, even if I have to battle it out with my own flesh and blood.
Anything to keep myself from being married off to a literal monster.
Desperation isn’t a good look on anyone, but my options are limited. Trying to make a deal with my family’s enemy is a last-ditch effort to save myself. There’s a high likelihood of this blowing up in my face, but being backed into a corner has made me more reckless than I would be under normal circumstances.
After listening in on that clusterfuck of a conversation, I took a day to feel sorry for myself.
Now?
I’ve cried it out, and I’m on a mission.
My car comes to a stop at the gate to Emory Moretti’s mansion, and two men in tactical gear emerge from the guardhouse, approaching my vehicle.
This could go so badly, but I’ll beg if I have to.
Rolling down my window, I ignore the frigid chill that spills in and tilt my chin in the air.
Moretti trains his men well. They’ll have memorized pictures of all the other Boston families. That means they’ll recognize me, even though I’ve never been here before.
“How can I help you, ma’am?” one of the guys asks as the other walks to the front of my car, likely checking my license plate number.
“Vanessa Chapman, here to see Emory Moretti,” I say, fluttering my lashes.
“Is he expecting you?”
“He’s not, but I assure you, he wants to hear what I have to say.” A cutting smile crosses my face. “I’ll wait while you check in with your boss.” I hit the button to roll up my window.
He laughs and shakes his head, making his way back to the small building.
The other guard stands in front of my car with his arms crossed. The glare on his face makes it hard not to squirm, so I look away.
The huge iron gate is imposing, but I grew up in this lifestyle.
I fully understand that gate is as much to keep people in as it is to keep people out. Or maybe I’m projecting because my own home feels like a prison I have no prospects of escaping—not unless this conversation goes significantly better than I’m expecting.
It’s a long few minutes before the first guard comes back. I roll down my window once more, and he leans down until he’s at eye level.
