Jailer

The next few days blurred together into an oppressive haze that Mary struggled to separate into individual moments. Time lost its shape. Morning and night felt the same, each bleeding into the other without relief. She existed in a state of suspended animation, moving when she was told to move, sitting when she was told to sit, breathing only because her body insisted on it.

Her bedroom door remained locked from the outside.

Elena opened it only when necessary. Meals were delivered with mechanical precision, the tray set down without comment. Sometimes Elena stayed long enough to watch Mary take a few bites, her gaze sharp and appraising, as though hunger itself could be interpreted as defiance. Mary ate just enough to avoid punishment. Anything more felt impossible. Her stomach stayed clenched in a constant knot of dread, rejecting food as if it understood what was coming.

Dress rehearsals followed.

Elena would unlock the door and instruct Mary to stand while seamstresses adjusted silk and lace around her body. They spoke about her measurements as if she were an object, something being altered and prepared for display. Pins pricked her skin. Fabric brushed against her arms. Each fitting made the wedding feel more real, more unavoidable.

She barely spoke.

At night, sleep came reluctantly, and when it did, it offered no mercy. Her dreams were filled with shadows and the sensation of being watched. Arthur Sterling’s eyes appeared everywhere, dark and patient, waiting. Sometimes she dreamed of locked doors that would not open no matter how hard she pushed. Sometimes she dreamed she had no voice at all.

When she woke, her sheets were twisted around her legs, her heart racing.

One afternoon, Elena entered her room without warning. She did not bring food this time. Her posture was rigid, her expression as cold as ever.

“Your fiancé is here,” she said. “Your father expects you in the main drawing room.”

The words landed heavily in Mary’s chest.

Her breath hitched painfully. She had not seen Arthur since the engagement brunch, but the memory of his hands and his voice had never left her. The thought of being near him again made her vision blur.

“I am not feeling well,” Mary said weakly.

Elena’s eyes hardened.

“Your father said any refusal will result in you being dragged down there,” she replied. “It would be a messy scene, Miss Mary. And unbecoming for a future Mrs. Sterling.”

Mary knew the threat was real. Her father would not hesitate. He would humiliate her if it meant control. He would break her in front of witnesses if necessary.

She swallowed hard and forced herself to stand.

Her legs trembled as she walked, but she did not allow herself to stop. Elena watched closely, ready to intervene if Mary faltered. Each step out of her room felt like another piece of herself being stripped away.

The descent down the grand staircase was slow and excruciating. Her hand hovered just above the railing, afraid to touch it, afraid that leaning on it would expose her weakness. The house felt heavier than ever, as though it were pressing down on her, urging her forward.

The main drawing room was usually filled with sunlight. Tall windows lined the walls, allowing light to spill across polished floors and elegant furniture. Today, despite the brightness outside, the room felt dark and suffocating.

Arthur Sterling sat in a large velvet armchair near the center of the room. A glass of brandy rested in his hand. The amber liquid caught the light as he swirled it slowly. He wore a dark suit, impeccably tailored, but it only emphasized the weight of his body, the way his presence dominated the space.

Silas stood beside him, hands clasped behind his back, his posture relaxed. He looked pleased.

When Arthur saw Mary, his expression changed. His eyes lit with something unmistakably predatory. He set his glass down and rose slowly, deliberately, as though savoring the moment.

“There you are,” he said. “My little bird.”

His voice was low and rough, vibrating through the room and into Mary’s chest. She kept her gaze fixed on the floor, the polished marble reflecting a distorted version of herself.

“Come closer, Mary,” Silas ordered sharply. “Do not be rude.”

Mary forced her feet to move. Each step felt heavy, her body resisting as if it understood the danger better than her mind. She stopped several feet away, her hands clasped tightly together. Her fingers ached from the pressure.

Arthur’s eyes roamed over her openly. She felt it as a physical sensation, invasive and cold, like slime crawling across her skin.

“She is even more beautiful up close,” Arthur said. His smile was thin and knowing. “A true diamond.”

He extended his hand, gesturing toward the chair beside him.

“Come. Sit with your future husband.”

Mary hesitated.

The idea of sitting next to him, of feeling his warmth, his breath, his proximity, sent a wave of panic through her. Her heart pounded violently, her ears ringing.

“Mary,” Silas said quietly.

The warning in his voice was unmistakable.

Mary moved.

She crossed the room and sat on the sofa opposite Arthur, leaving as much distance between them as she dared. Her posture was rigid, her back straight, her body locked in place.

Arthur chuckled softly.

“Shy,” he remarked. “I prefer it that way. Less trouble. More innocence.”

A flicker of anger flared inside Mary, brief and powerless. Innocent was not the word she would have chosen. She felt stained by his gaze alone.

“She will be an excellent wife,” Silas said smoothly. He placed a hand on Arthur’s shoulder, a gesture meant to convey trust and partnership. It made Mary’s stomach churn. “Obedient. Quiet. Beautiful. Everything you value.”

Arthur nodded, his eyes never leaving Mary.

“I am considering taking her to my estate in the south of France for the honeymoon,” he said casually. “A very private place. Secluded. We will have time to become acquainted without interruptions.”

His smile widened slightly.

“Just the two of us.”

Mary’s blood ran cold.

The image formed instantly in her mind. A foreign house. Locked gates. No familiar faces. No escape. Her breathing grew shallow, the edges of her vision darkening.

“Are you feeling unwell?” Arthur asked, tilting his head. His tone carried false concern layered over something much darker. “You look pale.”

“I am fine,” Mary whispered.

“Good,” Arthur replied. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “Because there will be expectations, Mary. My wife will not be decorative only. She will host my gatherings. She will manage my staff. She will maintain my reputation.”

He paused deliberately.

“And she will give me an heir. A strong, healthy son.”

The words settled heavily in the room.

Mary felt hollow.

This was the truth of it. Not love. Not companionship. She was a means to an end. A vessel. A body chosen to produce something he wanted.

She looked at her father.

Silas met her gaze, his eyes cold and unyielding. The message was clear. Do not embarrass me.

“I understand,” Mary said quietly.

The words tasted like ash.

Arthur smiled, satisfied.

“Excellent,” he said. “I knew you had potential. We will make a fine pair.”

He lifted his glass. Silas did the same.

Mary watched them toast to her future, her body stiff, her mind retreating somewhere far away. She was no longer Mary. She was no longer a person with thoughts or fears or dreams.

She was Mrs. Sterling to be.

The man across from her was not just her future husband.

He was her jailer.

And her sentence had already begun.