1

The crystal chandelier above the dining table hummed with a low, imperceptible vibration, casting fractured light across the silver cut-out dinnerware. My mother was meticulous about the table settings. Every fork had to sit exactly two inches from the edge of the mahogany surface, as if precision could mask the rotting foundation of the Mendez legacy.

"Eat your soup, Zee," my mother said softly. She didn't look up from her own plate, her manicured fingers wielding her spoon with practiced grace. "You're picking at it."

"I'm not hungry, Mama," I replied, setting my spoon down with a sharp, deliberate clink.

Across the length of the table, my father cleared his throat. It was a heavy, raspy sound, laden with the weight of cigars, expensive scotch, and the slow, agonizing collapse of our family's wealth. For months, the quiet tension in the estate had been suffocating. Whispers behind closed doors, late-night phone calls that ended in slammed receivers, and the sudden disappearance of long-time household staff. I knew we were drowning. I just didn't realize how deep the water was until tonight.

"Your mother spent hours ensuring the kitchen prepared your favorite," my father said, his voice flat, stripped of the warmth he used to reserve for me as a child. "The least you can do is show some respect."

"Respect?" I let out a soft, bitter laugh. "Is that what we're calling this silent treatment? You brought me back from Geneva on a four-hour notice, Papa. No explanation. No driver at the airport except a hired transport. What is going on?"

My father put his cutlery down. He wiped his mouth with a linen napkin, taking his time, avoiding my gaze until he had no choice. When he finally looked at me, there was no affection in his eyes. Only cold, desperate calculation.

"We have reached an agreement," he said simply.

I frowned, leaning forward. "An agreement? With whom? The board?"

"With the Morgan family," my mother chimed in, her voice unnaturally smooth. She finally looked up, her expression a mask of tightly pulled skin and artificial composure. "With Arthur Morgan. And his son."

The name hit the room like a sudden drop in temperature. The Morgans. They didn't just hold power in Switzerland; they owned the framework of it. They were a dynasty built on old money, shadow banking, and an unyielding, ruthless grip on every market they touched. And at the helm of the younger generation was Sebastian Morgan. A man whose reputation preceded him in every social circle I navigated—cold, distant, and utterly devoid of mercy.

"What do the Morgans have to do with us?" I asked, my pulse quickening. "Papa, tell me we didn't take a loan from them. You know what they do to families who default."

"We didn't take a loan, Zee," my father said, resting his thick hands flat on the table. "We secured a partnership. A total restructuring of our debt. The Mendez name stays intact. Our assets remain ours."

A terrible, hollow realization began to form in the pit of my stomach. I looked between my mother, who was staring intently at her wine glass, and my father, whose jaw was set in stone.

"At what price?" I whispered.

"You," my father said.

The word hung in the air, heavy and suffocating.

"What?" I breathed, searching his face for a flicker of a joke, a cruel prank, anything. "What do you mean, me?"

"You will marry Sebastian," my mother said quickly, as if rushing the words would soften their impact. "It's already been finalized, darling. The contracts were signed this afternoon. The announcement will be released to the press on Friday."

I stood up so fast my chair scraped violently against the hardwood floor. "Are you out of your mind? You sold me? Like a piece of property?"

"Watch your tone, Zee!" my father barked, slamming his palm onto the table. The glasses rattled. "You live in luxury because of the name I gave you! The clothes on your back, the school you attend, the life you enjoy—it was all bought with Mendez money. Now that the family needs you to preserve that name, you will do your duty!"

"Duty?" Tears of fury pricked the corners of my eyes, but I refused to let them fall. "You are handing me over to a monster! Sebastian Morgan doesn't want a wife, Papa. He wants leverage! Everyone knows what he is!"

"He is the most powerful man in the country," my mother countered, her voice rising slightly. "He can protect you. He can give you a life beyond anything we could offer now. Do you have any idea what happens if this deal falls through? We lose the house. We lose the name. Your father goes to prison for insolvency, Zee. Is that what you want?"

"I want a choice!" I screamed, my voice trembling with rage. "I am your daughter, not a bargaining chip for your failed investments!"

My father slowly rose from his chair. He walked around the table until he was standing merely inches from me. The smell of stale tobacco washed over me, cold and oppressive.

"You don't have a choice," he said softly, his voice dead of all emotion. "Sebastian Morgan explicitly asked for you. Not our real estate. Not our shares. You. If you refuse, he tears this family apart piece by piece by morning. You will smile, you will wear the ring, and you will become his wife. Whether you love him or not."

I stared at him, my breathing ragged, my heart pounding against my ribs like a trapped bird. I looked at my mother, but she averted her eyes, taking another slow sip of her wine.

They had already given me away. The ink was dry. My life was no longer mine.

"I won't do it," I whispered, taking a step back from my father. "I'll run. I'll leave Switzerland."

My father let out a dry, chilling laugh. "Run where, Zee? With what money? With what name? Sebastian controls the ports, the private airfields, the banks. You wouldn't make it past the border before his men picked you up." He stepped closer, leaning down to my eye level. "You belong to him now. Get used to the idea."

I turned on my heel and bolted out of the dining room, my heels clicking frantically against the marble hallway as their silence swallowed the house behind me.