CHAPTER 3: THE PROPOSAL THAT WASN'T A CHOICE

ALORA

The first time I met Damian Vaughn, I was seventeen, barefoot, and yelling at a stranger over a broken shoe strap in my sister's dorm hallway.

He had leaned against the wall like he owned the building — sharp suit, ice-blue eyes, watching me unravel with a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.

He didn't introduce himself. Just picked up my shoe, looked at the flimsy plastic heel, and said, "You deserve better."

I had rolled my eyes and grabbed it back. "I deserve peace. That's what I deserve."

I hadn't seen him again for years. Not until I was twenty-one and broke in every way a girl could be broke.

Not until I became the answer to a deal.

---

My coffee had gone cold in my hand. I hadn't moved from the kitchen counter in over an hour.

Damian hadn't shown up all night. The staff floated around like shadows, answering unspoken instructions from a man who hadn't spoken a word to me since our wedding.

Not that the vows had included any real promises.

Just signatures. Just papers. Just silence.

How did I get here?

It wasn't just one choice. It was a series of desperate yeses — all whispered with my back to the wall.

---

A Month Ago

"I can't do this," I had whispered to my mother in the hallway of St. Lucille's hospital. "You can't ask me to—"

"I'm not asking," she had cut in, eyes swollen from crying but voice steel-hard. "Alora, your father owes money to the wrong people. Real people. We could lose the house. Your sister's scholarship. Everything."

She had paused, her shoulders trembling. "He made a mistake. But if you do this—if you just agree—you'll save us all."

It was quiet.

Too quiet.

And then her next words landed like thunder.

"Damian Vaughn offered to make the debt disappear if you become his wife."

I had laughed. Hysterically. Then cried. Then called it blackmail. Because that's what it was.

But the thing about drowning?

Eventually, you stop fighting the water.

---

Now

My phone vibrated where it sat on the marble counter.

One name blinked on the screen: Naomi.

My little sister.

I grabbed it with shaking fingers and stepped out into the corridor, leaning against the cold wall.

"Alora?" Her voice was soft but urgent. "Are you okay?"

I closed my eyes. I hated lying to her.

"I'm fine," I whispered. "How's school?"

She hesitated. "They let me take the art elective. I drew you in class. I miss you."

Something cracked inside me.

"I miss you too," I said, choking down the knot in my throat. "So much."

Silence stretched.

Then she whispered, "Is he... good to you?"

I opened my mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"He hasn't touched me."

A beat.

"That's not what I asked."

I wanted to cry. But I couldn't. Because if I started, I wouldn't stop.

"I have to go," I said instead. "Call you tomorrow."

When the call ended, the hallway felt colder than before.

---

Now, I had showered. The silk robe hung heavy on my shoulders again, a constant reminder that none of this belonged to me.

The bedroom still looked like a luxury catalogue page — untouched, unlived in. The only proof I existed here was the faint indentation on one side of the bed.

I hadn't even seen Damian since the wedding night. He hadn't joined me in the room. Hadn't called. Hadn't texted.

A man with everything but the courtesy to pretend.

I was pacing the carpet when a soft knock interrupted my thoughts.

The maid — the same one from this morning — entered quietly and bowed her head.

"Mr. Vaughn requests your presence at dinner," she said. "He asked that you wear something formal."

I raised an eyebrow. "Did he leave a dress too?"

She nodded. "Yes, ma'am. It's in the adjoining closet. And… he also left a necklace."

My stomach coiled. This felt less like a marriage and more like being dressed for auction.

But I didn't argue. What would be the point?

---

The dress was black. Sleek. Backless. Classy enough to pass for elegant — tight enough to remind me who had chosen it.

The necklace glittered with cold stones — not diamonds, but something sharper. More cruel.

I stared at myself in the mirror, unrecognizable.

Then I stepped into the hallway, descending the wide staircase like a ghost in a stranger's home.

The dining room doors were already open.

He was seated at the head of the long table, scrolling through something on his phone. A navy suit hugged his frame like it was tailored by sin itself.

When he looked up, he didn't smile. Just took me in with those glacial eyes — slow, consuming, unreadable.

"Sit," he said.

Not hello. Not you look nice. Just… sit.

I did.

The silence stretched. Silverware clinked. Servants entered and left with quiet precision. It felt like dinner in a palace built for two people who hated speaking.

Halfway through the main course, I finally asked, "Why did you do it?"

His eyes met mine.

"Do what?"

"Marry me."

A beat passed.

He reached for his wine and took a sip, slow and deliberate.

"Because I could."

The bluntness stung. I gripped the edge of the table.

"And because it benefits me," he added, eyes flickering to mine. "You needed saving. I needed something permanent."

"Like a wife."

"Like an agreement," he said.

Another long pause.

"You didn't even ask me."

"I didn't have to."

I stood then. The chair scraped loudly across the marble.

"Then I hope you enjoy your agreement," I said coldly. "Because it's all you're going to get."

I turned to leave — but his voice stopped me.

"Alora."

I turned back.

He was standing too now, one hand on the table, the other adjusting his cufflink.

"Don't mistake silence for absence," he said. "I've been watching. Always."

My breath caught.

"What does that mean?"

He didn't answer.

Just walked past me like a storm in a tailored suit, his cologne trailing behind like smoke and secrets.

---

End of Chapter Three