No Way Out

The security guards dropped me at Damien's apartment with a warning.

"You have ten minutes. We'll be waiting outside."

The door clicked shut behind them, and I stood in the entryway of the place I'd called home for the past year. My toothbrush was in the bathroom. My clothes are in the closet. My favorite mug in the kitchen cabinet.

These rooms are filled with all the little fragments of my existence.

I reached into the hall closet for a duffel bag and began stuffing it.

Clothes. Toiletries. My laptop.

I didn't fold anything. didn't plan. I simply pushed it in as quickly as I could, blinking back tears as my hands trembled and my eyesight became blurry.

There are eight minutes remaining.

The only evidence I had before the Blackwells came into my life was my Social Security card and birth certificate, which I pulled out of the nightstand drawer. But there was nothing in the drawer.

I checked the other drawers. Also empty. Everything I'd kept here, all my important documents, was gone.

My phone rang.

I took it out, foolishly expecting that it might be Damien calling to tell me that everything was a mistake, that he loved me, and that he believed me.

My landlord was the one.

"Miss Laurent, I'm calling about your apartment."

I put the phone up to my ear. "Mr. Chen, I know rent is due next week, but—"

"I'm terminating your lease effective immediately."

The words were like cold water to me. "What?  you cant do that.

I have a contract."

"I received a call from the Blackwell family's legal team this evening." His tone was stern but contrite. "They told me you're engaged in illegal activity. That type of tenant is not welcome in my building.

It's in the lease agreement—criminal conduct is grounds for immediate eviction.

I apologize deeply.

He wasnt sorry. He felt afraid. He was afraid that if he didn't agree, the Blackwells would ruin his company.

I said, "I didn't do anything wrong," but it sounded feeble even to me. desperate.

"Your possessions will be kept. You have 48 hours to make pickup arrangements. They will thereafter be disposed of."

He ended the call.

With the phone in my hand, I stood there attempting to comprehend what had just transpired.

No apartment. No documents. No way to prove who I was or fight back against the accusations. They'd thought of everything.

Behind me, the door opened.

"Time's up," a security officer declared.

I took the duffel bag and went with them. I was left standing on the side of the road with my bag and no idea where to go when they took me to the edge of the Blackwell estate.

My apartment was no longer mine, so I couldn't go there. I wouldn't pull Sophie into this mess, so I couldn't go to her. I already knew which side my few friends would support because they were all somehow related to Damien and members of his social circle.

Notifications buzzed across my phone. social media. I instantly regretted opening it.

The story had been leaked. Not all the details, but enough.

Gold digger. Thief. Trash.

On the internet, people who had made me smile at charity events were now ruining me.

I switched off my phone and went for a stroll.

I ended up staying at a cheap motel outside of the city. The kind of location where the carpet is stained, and neon signs flicker. After glancing at me and my lone duffel bag, the desk clerk grinned as if he knew precisely what type of evening I was having.

"Fifty dollars. Cash only."

I had sixty dollars in my wallet. After paying for the room, I'd have $10 left. My bank accounts would be frozen soon if they weren't already—the Blackwells would make sure of that. Everything I'd saved from my job at the gallery was gone.

My paycheck, which was due next week, has vanished. Six months ago, Damien persuaded me to leave my work by promising to handle everything. And I had been foolish enough to put my trust in him.

The motel room had a mildewy, smoky odor. I perched on the side of the bed, left my suitcase on the floor, and shut the door. The night's events suddenly overwhelmed me. I had been organizing a wedding this morning. I was broke, homeless, and accused of crimes I didn't commit tonight.

I ought to have cried.

Should have broken down completely. But I was too numb. Too shocked. The tears wouldn't come.

My phone rang again.

Unknown number. I almost didn't answer.

"Hello?"

"Aria Laurent?" A woman's voice, professional and cold.

"Yes?"

"Please hold for Mr. Blackwell."

My whole body tensed. Which Blackwell? Damien?

After a click, I heard a voice that I had hoped to never hear again.

"Miss Laurent. I hope I'm not interfering with your evening.

Kael.

"What do you want?" Too exhausted to be courteous, I asked.

"Direct and concise. Thank you for that. He sounded amused, like this was all a game to him. "I'm calling because my nephew is an idiot."

I didn't know what to reply to that. "Damien intended to simply destroy you and move on.

But I'm a businessman, Miss Laurent. I don't waste assets, even criminal ones."

"I'm not a criminal."

"The evidence says otherwise. But that's not why I called." Papers rustled in the background. "I'm calling to offer you a choice."

"I don't want anything from your family."

"That's unfortunate because I'm the only thing standing between you and a lengthy prison sentence."

My mouth went dry. "What?"

"Tomorrow morning, we're filing charges with the district attorney. Corporate espionage, theft, fraud. The kind of charges that carry sentences of 10 to 15 years in federal prison. You'll be arrested, processed, and held without bail given the dollar amounts involved."

"You can't—"

"We can, I promise. We've got enough proof to bury you."

I nearly dropped the phone because my hands were trembling so much. jail. He was talking about putting me in jail for a crime I didn't commit.

"But," Kael said with ease, "I'm willing to postpone filing those charges under certain conditions."

"What conditions?" The words came out as a whisper.

"Marriage."

I nearly laughed. It was so absurd. "You want me to marry Damien?"

"God no. My nephew has proven he lacks the spine for difficult decisions. No, Miss Laurent. You'll marry me."

The room tilted. "That's insane."

"Is it? Consider your current situation. No home. No money. No job. Your reputation is destroyed. No one will hire you. Your landlord has already evicted you—yes, I know about that. I arranged it."

Of course he did.

"A criminal trial will drain what little resources you have left," he continued. "You'll lose. I'll make certain of it. Then you'll spend the next decade in a cell. Or—" he paused "—you can marry me. Live in my home.

For a year, pretend to be my wife. I'll give you a divorce and drop all charges at the end of that year."

"Why would you want that?"

"I have my own reasons. The fact that this is the only offer you will receive is what counts.

I tried to think, but it felt like fog was passing through my brain. This was illogical. If he thought I was a criminal, why would he want to marry me?

"You're insane."

"Perhaps. But I'm also your only option." His voice hardened. "Let me be clear about what this marriage would entail. You'll live under my roof. Attend events as my wife. Follow my rules. You'll have no access to money. No contact with friends or family without my permission.

You will rely entirely on me for everything. And I'll have you arrested right away if you cross the line even once."

"This is blackmail."

"The word 'blackmail' is so offensive. I would rather see it as a win-win situation. You avoid going to jail. I get a wife who knows her place."

"And if I say no?"

"Miss Laurent, I'll see you in court then. I will personally testify against you. And I'll see to it that everyone is aware of your true nature."

I shut my eyes.

He had me trapped.

Totally and utterly confined. I would lose if I went to trial. I had no connections, no money for attorneys, and no means of retaliation.

The Blackwells would crush me.

But marriage?

To this heartless, icy man who had humiliated me all night long?

"I need time to think," I replied.

"You have twenty-four hours. Tomorrow night at 7, my driver will pick you up.

He'll take you to my office, where you'll sign the contract. Or—" he paused "—he'll take you to the police station instead. Your choice."

"I hate you," I whispered.

"Good. That will make this easier." He sounded satisfied. "One more thing. If you try to run, I'll have you hunted down and arrested within hours. I have people everywhere. There's nowhere you can go that I won't find you."

The line went dead.

I knew I had no option at all as I sat in that awful motel room, staring at the phone in my hand. Marriage to a man who hated me or prison? In any case, my life was ended.

My phone buzzed.

A text from an unknown number: Address: Blackwell Tower, 72nd floor. Seven PM. Don't be late.

Twenty-four hours.

I had twenty-four hours to choose between being a prisoner of Kael Blackwell for the next year and being a prisoner of the state for the next fifteen years.

Some choice.

I reclined on the discolored mattress and gazed at the water-stained ceiling. Damien was most likely celebrating his near escape from a gold-digging criminal somewhere in this metropolis. Most likely, his family was celebrating their win. Furthermore, it's likely that Kael Blackwell was already plotting how to ruin my life.

Once more, my phone buzzed. Another text: I advise you to make a good decision.

I shut my eyes and switched off the phone.

My life would change irrevocably tomorrow at seven o'clock.

And there was nothing I could do to stop it.