Novel-novel oleh Debbie's ink

Elena’s heart slammed against her ribs.Damien’s weight shifted on the mattress, his arm dropping across her waist like a barricade. He didn’t kiss her. His face was close enough that she could feel the heat of his breath, but his eyes were half-lidded, unfocused, not seeing her seeing something else, someone else, in the fog of whiskey.“What are you doing?,” she ask. Her voice was low, steady, even though her hands were shaking under the blanket.He didn’t answer.Instead, he caught her wrist when she tried to push him back. His grip wasn’t cruel, but it was immovable. He tugged, and her injured back screamed as he dragged her down the length of the bed, away from the edge.“Stop,” she shouted, biting back a whimper.Damien muttered something incoherent and shifted, pulling her down the bed with a loud turdand he let go of her. His head dropped to the pillow on the bed.Elena cried in a whim.Every muscle in her body wanted to fight, to claw, to run. But one wrong move and the banda

~Nextday morning~Elena woke up to the smell of antiseptic and . For a second, she thought she was back in the east wing bedroom. Then the pain hit. Her back felt like it had been flayed open and stitched back together with fire. She bit down on a groan and forced her eyes open. White ceiling. IV stand. A doctor in scrubs packing up a bag. “Easy,” the doctor said, not unkindly. “You’re awake. No permanent damage. But don’t move too fast for the next 48 hours.” Elena tried to sit up. “Why am I here?” Her voice was hoarse. “You were flogged,” the doctor said bluntly. “Your husband stopped it before you lost consciousness. I was called in an hour ago.” Husband. Damien. He’d stopped it. But only after eight strikes. Only after she’d gone limp. “Who paid you?” Elena asked. The doctor hesitated, then said, “Not your husband. A man who said if I didn’t come, he’d have my license reviewed.” He left a bottle of painkillers and a note on the bedside table. No name. Just:

NextdayThe Cross family arrived at noon.Richard and Margaret Cross didn’t come to see Elena. They came to see Damien. To make sure the marriage still looked solid on paper, to smooth over the merger, to smile for the press if needed. They brought Sophia with them, dressed in soft pink, eyes red-rimmed like she hadn’t slept in days.Damien had given the order: “Lunch in the main dining room. Twelve sharp. No excuses.”Elena was told at 11:45.“You will sit at the table,” the housekeeper said quietly. “You will not speak unless spoken to. You will eat.”Elena nodded.When she walked into the dining room, her parents didn’t look at her. Margaret’s eyes slid right over her like she was part of the furniture. Richard gave a curt nod to Damien and sat down. Sophia sat beside him, clutching his arm like she needed protection from the air itself.The meal started in silence.Elena ate slowly, head down. She didn’t touch the wine. She didn’t reach for the bread. She chewed, swallowed, and co

Damien woke at with a splitting headache and the taste of whiskey still coating his tongue.For a second, he thought it had been a nightmare. The courthouse at 3 AM. The rushed vows. The girl in the ivory dress who wasn’t Sophia.Then he saw her.Elena Cross sat on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a thin blanket, her face pale but her eyes clear. She wasn’t crying. She wasn’t begging. She just looked at him like she’d already accepted the worst of it.“Who told you to come here?” he demanded, pushing himself upright. The room spun.Elena flinch.“you asked for me,” she said. Her voice was steady, too steady for someone who’d been dragged into a marriage against her will. “Your wife. According to the marriage certificate you signed at 3:14 AM.”Damien stared at her. The name meant nothing. The face meant nothing. He’d been told Sophia would be here. Sophia, nineteen, soft-spoken, desperate to please. This woman was older, sharper, and she wasn’t looking at him like he owned her.“You tr

The courthouse at 3 AM smelled like old carpet, cold coffee, and decisions that couldn’t be undone.Elena stepped inside and the sound of her heels echoed off marble floors that hadn’t seen a janitor in hours. There were no reporters. No photographers. No family. Just two bored clerks, a sleep-deprived judge in a rumpled robe, and Damien Wolfe.He was leaning against the wall like it was the only thing keeping him upright.Five thousand dollar suit. Tie loosened to the point of indecency. Hair messy from running his hands through it too many times. Eyes bloodshot, unfocused, a faint smell of whiskey on him even from three feet away.He’d been told he was marrying Sophia Vale. Sweet. Obedient. Nineteen.He hadn’t looked up when Elena walked in.“About time, Sophia,” he muttered. His voice was rough, irritated, like he’d been waiting all night for a child to show up.Elena didn’t correct him.What was the point?The judge cleared his throat. “Are we ready?”Damien gave a short nod. He d

Elena Cross stood in the hallway of her childhood home and listened to her life being sold.The walls here were thick with memory. The wallpaper was the same pale blue her mother had chosen twenty-six years ago, when Elena was born and they still pretended they were a normal family. The carpet under her feet was worn thin in the exact spot where she used to kneel as a kid, waiting to be called into the dining room. Most nights, the call never came.Tonight, the voices coming from her father’s study were too loud to ignore.“If we don’t marry her to Wolfe by Friday, we lose everything,” Richard Cross said. His voice was tight, desperate. The kind of desperate that made men do things they couldn’t take back.Elena’s fingers tightened on the doorframe. Wolfe. Damien Wolfe. The man whose name had been on every financial news site for the last month. Vale Corporation was collapsing, and the only thing keeping it afloat was a merger. A marriage merger.“Sophia is only nineteen,” her mother