Page 10 of Theirs to Tempt: The Marriage Claim

He looks at Lucian.

Then, with a voice edged with steel, he adds, “Satisfactory.”

Collateral.

The word echoes in my head, clinical and wrong in this glittering ballroom where my father just accepted an award for helping people no one else would touch.

My pulse kicks harder against my throat, making me tighten my grip on my father’s arm.

He trembles, and compassion rushes through me.

He’s sacrificed for the woman he loves, and I’ve done what I can—wiring every spare dollar I could from my own accounts, skipping lunch, working twelve-day stretches without complaint—because watching her fight that rare cutaneous T-cell lymphoma taught me early that some battles demand everything.

Lucian takes a step closer, and the scent of him—controlled power—reaches me on the next breath.

Even though I’m terrified, I have to know… “What collateral?” My childhood home? That’s the only thing of value that he personally owns.

My mind reels. Even if they take the house, that won’t begin to cover the cost of the debt.

Or is it that and something else? Properties?

“You.” Lucian looks at me, deep, and triumph burns in his eyes. “You’re the collateral.”

“What?” The room spins, and I have to force my knees not to buckle.

Frantically I look between all of them.

No one smiles.

“This has to be a joke.” I wait. When no one speaks, hysteria bubbles in me. “Dad?” Dropping my hand, I stare at the man who has always been my hero.

“Sophie, I…”

Oh my God. No. This can’t… Can’t.

“Your father has offered your hand in marriage, Sophie.” He pauses. “To both of us.”

The words are a physical blow. Marriage? To both of them?

The absurdity of it almost makes me laugh. And I would have, if not for the cold certainty in Lucian’s tone.

The crystal chandeliers blur, and the yellow roses in the centerpieces swim in my vision.

I blink hard, forcing my gaze back to my father, searching his face for any sign that this is some elaborate joke, some desperate bid for time.

But his eyes—those warm brown eyes that have always lit with genuine pride when he looks at me—hold only raw, exhausted defeat. “Dad?” My voice comes out smaller than I intend, threaded with the disbelief that claws at my throat. “Tell me this isn’t real. You wouldn’t…” I shake my head as I try to understand. “You could never have agreed to something like this.”

He exhales, the sound ragged, and his free hand lifts as if to touch my cheek the way he did when I was a girl scraping my knee on the playground.

It hovers, then drops. “Your mother’s next cycle is due in three weeks. The clinic in Riyadh won’t schedule without full payment upfront. I’ve exhausted every legitimate line of credit. These men… They’re willing to pay for it. The full course, Sophie. Whatever it costs, for as long as she needs it.”

His words begin to tumble, and the specialist in me recognizes the behavioral loop I have coached so many clients through—the initial rush of justification, the tightening anxiety, the compulsive grasp at the only lifeline left. “I thought I could turn it around. One more hand. But they had me cornered.”

The second man’s shoulder brushes my father’s in a subtle show of dominance, and something dark flickers in his eyes. It’s the same coiled hunger I felt pinned by eight years ago when he slammed Adrian against that stone wall. “The arrangement is simple. You marry us. Your mother’s treatments continue uninterrupted. Your father’s debts vanish. Everything else—your practice, your independence—remains yours to manage within reason.”

“Within reason.”

Fury surges, hot and immediate, beneath my skin. “I’m not chattel.”