Chapter Three

Bree’s POV

I was jolted from sleep by an unsettling sort of silence.

Not the gentle kind that wraps around you like a warm hug or the serene type that blesses lazy Sunday mornings. No, this was the kind of quiet that closed in on my chest, making it feel impossibly tight, as if I were trapped in a vise, while my brain struggled to process just what was going on.

I blinked a few times, my eyes adjusting to the dim light.

The steady whir of a ceiling fan drifted lazily above me, and I felt the cool touch of crisp sheets against my skin. There was a velvet curtain drawn halfway open, letting in streaks of gray morning light. But as I took in my surroundings, a sense of confusion washed over me.

This was definitely not my cozy little bedroom at home, nor was it even my aunt’s cluttered, stuffy house filled with her meticulously arranged trinkets and suffocatingly cheerful wallpaper.

This was—

My brain felt like it was spinning, a whirlwind of thoughts and memories colliding as I tried to sit upright. The room tilted around me, and my mouth felt parched—as if I’d swallowed a mouthful of chalk dust mixed with a healthy dose of regret.

What the hell happened?

Then it all came flooding back. Vivid snippets of last night's chaos: the pulsating music filling the room, people laughing and dancing, Juliet’s bubbly smile lighting up the dark corners of the party. And that drink she handed me—something sweet, with hints of citrus and an underlying kick that felt much stronger than any regular orange juice I'd ever had.

Next came the memory of climbing the stairs, hand in hand with her, the fabric of her dress brushing against my arm. The softness of the bed I flopped onto afterward. Her hand rested lightly on my back, offering comfort, a promise of safety… or so I thought.

Then, just like that, my recall fell into a void. Complete blackout. How could this happen?

Deciding I needed to get my bearings, I sat up slowly, carefully, and that’s when I spotted him.

A man.

There he was, standing at the far end of the room, arms crossed tightly across a broad chest, radiating an intensity that felt almost palpable. It was as if he was a pressure cooker, ready to blow at any moment.

I froze, a chill creeping down my spine.

“W-who—” I managed to stutter, my voice cracking like a record that had seen better days. “Who are you?”

He turned to face me, his movements deliberate and slow. He was tall, with sharp, striking features and disheveled brown hair. His eyes—icy, steely, and cold—seemed to pierce right through me.

Recognition settled in, and dread pooled in my stomach. I knew that face all too well from articles I'd seen online, whispers of scandals buzzing through the art world.

Mike Powell.

And he was glaring at me like I had singlehandedly derailed his entire career.

“You really played your cards well, didn’t you?” he said, his voice low, slicing through the silence with an edge.

“What?” I stammered, still trying to gather my scattered thoughts.

“You got exactly what you wanted,” he said, the accusation dripping from his words.

I frowned, feeling completely bewildered. “I don’t… I don’t understand.”

He took a step closer, pulling out his phone and holding it up. The screen illuminated, and I braced myself as a video began to play. It was shaky and blurry, but unmistakably, it was footage of me on that bed, his figure looming over me, recorded from the hallway—just enough to suggest things that were never really there.

Oh my God.

“No, no,” I whispered in horror. “That didn’t happen. I didn’t—nothing happened!”

“I know,” he replied coldly, his tone dismissive. “But the world doesn’t care about your memory. And my sister? She’s already spinning her own narrative.”

“I did not send that video!” I exclaimed, the heat rising in my cheeks as my pulse quickened.

A sharp laugh escaped him, devoid of humor. “Of course you didn’t. That would make it too obvious,” he replied, sarcasm leaking from each word.

I stood up suddenly, my heart racing, my knees shaky as I tried to keep my composure. “I don’t know who recorded that! I don’t remember anything after—Juliet handed me that drink, and—”

“Convenient,” he retorted, his eyes narrowing as he seemed to size me up. “She gave me one too.”

I blinked in disbelief. “Wait. You were drugged as well?”

His jaw tightened, his expression revealing nothing.

Instead of responding, he turned toward the door. “Get dressed. You’re coming with me.”

---

Fifteen minutes later, I found myself in one of those sleek, too-modern offices that felt more like a cage than a legitimate workplace.

Mike paced back and forth behind a massive glass desk, the gleaming city skyline beyond him casting a cold, unyielding glow. The walls were stark and sterile, reflecting the chilling nature of this entire situation.

My fingers twisted nervously in my lap, and I realized my voice barely functioned. “Why… why am I here?”

Still, he didn’t bother to look my way. Instead, he slammed a thick file onto the desk with a decisive thud.

“Your future,” he said flatly, as if it were the most normal thing to say in this surreal moment.

With trembling hands, I peeled open the file, a series of legal documents spilling out. My eyes fell on one word that popped out repeatedly, almost mocking me.

Marriage.

“What… what is this?” I asked, bewildered, feeling as if the ground had shifted beneath my feet.

“You’ll sign it,” he said, maintaining his deadpan expression, as if he were discussing the weather rather than the ruin of my life. “You trapped me. Now you’ll stay caged too.”

My lips parted in shock, but no sound escaped.

“I didn’t—”

“Save it,” he cut me off, the irritation evident in his voice. “You woke up in my bed. You looked innocent enough for PR to spin this. Juliet’s already framing the narrative. If I walk away now, the media will get the sensational story they crave—heartless Mike Powell ruins another girl.”

“But I am ruined,” I whispered, the weight of reality crashing down. “You really think I planned any of this?”

His gaze bore into me, and for just a heartbeat, I thought I saw something shifting behind those icy eyes of his.

Not kindness. Not regret.

Just a weary, simmering rage.

“I don’t care what you planned or didn’t,” he stated, his voice cold and unyielding. “This is all about damage control now.”

I glanced at the shiny pen he slid across the table, its black ink and sharp tip glistening ominously, like a weapon in the middle of this twisted game.

“I don’t want your money,” I said defiantly, my heart racing in my chest.

He smirked bitterly, the expression almost cruel. “Good. You're not getting any of that either.”

An oppressive silence filled the space between us, and I could feel my heart pounding like a drum against my ribs, as if it were bleeding into my lungs.

And deep within me, I wondered if Aunt Brianna would be proud of this moment. Look at you now, little beggar. You caught a rich one after all.

I swallowed hard, my voice barely managing to stay intact. “Juliet… she said she was helping me.”

Mike's laugh hit my ears like a jagged rock skidding across pavement. There was a roughness to it, almost like it was meant to mock me. “You know, your first mistake was putting your faith in someone you barely know. And just look where that's landed you," he said, a smirk creeping onto his face.

Before I could respond, a swift knock echoed through the room, breaking the tension hanging in the air like a thick fog. Juliet stepped in, her presence spilling in with a blend of elegance and concern, though the frown etched on her face warned us both that something was off.

“Bree?” she called out, feigning a surprise that didn’t quite match the worry in her voice. “Are you okay?”

I could only stare at her, the tight grip of unease wrapping around my throat like a noose. It burned with each shallow breath.

“You gave me the drink,” I managed to choke out, throwing the accusation at her like a lifeline.

Her head tilted slightly, confusion flickering in her eyes. “I didn’t think you’d be so affected by just one glass," she replied, her tone almost dismissive, as if my condition was a mere inconvenience.

I flinched at her words, each one striking me deeper than I wanted to admit.

Mike didn’t even spare her a glance, his focus remaining fixed on some point in the distance as if the room had suddenly turned uninteresting for him.

Juliet, determined to bridge the ever-growing chasm between us, placed a gentle hand on Mike’s arm, her voice soft yet firm. “You know, you could do the right thing here. You’ve hurt enough women in the past. Maybe... just maybe, you could try a different approach this time.”

Despite her plea, Mike’s expression remained tight-lipped, unreadable and cold, like a fortress bracing against an impending storm.

Turning back to me, Juliet offered a warm, almost motherly smile. But it didn’t quite reach her eyes; it felt hollow, like a mask she wore to conceal her true emotions. “We’re going to take care of everything, Bree. It’s just paperwork,” she said, her voice soothing yet laced with an underlying urgency.

Just paperwork.

Just a few signatures standing between me and the rest of my life.

Her words echoed in my mind, creating an unsettling din as she slipped out of the room quietly, like a ghost intent on good intentions but leaving chaos behind her.

I glanced down at the contract laid out in front of me, the letters swimming in and out of focus as tears began to blur my vision.

But despite the welling emotions threatening to spill over, I signed.

In that moment, the idea of fighting against it all felt utterly exhausting, like running on a treadmill that just wouldn’t stop. I was tired—like bone-deep tired.

No one had ever chosen me willingly, and now, even if it had been a mistake, I was desperate to hold onto whatever scraps of dignity I had left. I didn’t want to beg for something that felt just out of reach.

With a scratching sound, the pen glided across the paper, marking my name and sealing what felt like an unchangeable fate.

Mike remained silent, still without a flicker of response.

Taking a deep breath, I stood slowly, swiping at my cheeks in a half-hearted attempt to erase the evidence of my tears.

And then, I walked out of the room, each step heavy with the weight of what I had just done and what was yet to come.