Chapter 3

                                                 The Price of Defiance

I made it to my bedroom before my legs gave out.

My hands shook as I locked the door, pressing my back against the wood. The bravado drained from my body like water through a sieve, leaving behind the trembling, terrified girl I actually was.

What had I done?

Downstairs, voices erupted—my father's rage, my mother's tears, Victoria Ashford's cutting accusations. And beneath it all, Richard's voice, calm and controlled, like a predator deciding whether to pounce now or wait.

My phone buzzed. Unknown number.

You just made a very expensive mistake. - RA

My stomach dropped. He already had my number. Of course he did. Richard Ashford did not pursue things without doing research first. He probably knew my schedule, my friends, every vulnerable point in my life.

Another message: Your father's company will be bankrupt by Friday. Unless you reconsider.

I threw the phone across the room and watched it shatter against the wall.

Think, Aria. Think.

In my first timeline, the engagement had proceeded smoothly. I had been so desperate to save my family, so blinded by Richard's manufactured charm, that I walked willingly into the trap. The marriage happened six months later. The abuse started on the wedding night.

But I also remembered something else—something that happened two years into the marriage.

Richard's competitor, Marcus Zhao, had nearly destroyed the Ashford empire with a single business deal. Richard had spent millions recovering from that blow, and he never saw it coming.

Because it had not happened yet.

A knock interrupted my thoughts. "Aria, open this door right now." My father's voice was glacial.

I did not move.

"Your mother is having a panic attack because of your selfishness. Victoria Ashford threatened to pull all investments. We will lose everything!" The door handle rattled violently. "You will apologize to Richard and agree to this marriage, or so help me—"

"Or what?" I yanked the door open, and my father stumbled back. "You will hit me? Lock me in my room? Oh wait, you already did that when I was sixteen for getting a B in mathematics."

His face went purple. "How dare you—"

"How dare I finally speak up?" Something wild and reckless surged through me. Years of submission in my first life, years of being the perfect daughter, the perfect wife, the perfect victim. "I am not marrying Richard Ashford. If that ruins you, maybe you should have built a company that did not require selling your daughter."

My mother appeared behind him, mascara streaking her face. "Aria, please. We will lose the house. Your father will go to prison for the debts. Is that what you want?"

Yes, a dark part of me whispered. Let them suffer like I suffered.

But I was not that person. Not yet.

"I will fix it," I heard myself say. "But not by marrying him."

My father laughed, bitter and sharp. "You? Fix a fifty-million-dollar debt? With what, your college fund?"

"Trust me."

"Why should I?" He stepped closer, and I smelled the brandy on his breath. "You have been nothing but a disappointment your entire life. Your sister—"

"Lila is sleeping with Richard." The words came out cold and factual.

Silence.

My mother's hand flew to her mouth. My father went very still.

"What did you say?"

"Lila. Your golden child. She has been sleeping with Richard Ashford for three months." The lie tasted bitter, but it was not really a lie. In my first timeline, they had started their affair before the wedding even happened. I was just moving the timeline up. "Ask her yourself. Better yet, ask him."

My father's face was drained of color. "You are lying. You are jealous and lying because Lila is everything you could never—"

"Then call her." I pulled out my broken phone, threw it at his feet. "Call her right now and ask where she is."

He did not move. Because he knew. On some level, he already knew.

Lila had been distant lately, secretive. She came home late smelling of expensive cologne. My father was not stupid—just willfully blind when it came to his favorite daughter.

"Get out," he whispered.

"What?"

"Get out of my house!" He grabbed my arm, nails digging into flesh. "You have poisoned this family enough. I do not care where you go, but you are not staying here another night."

My mother said nothing. Did nothing. She turned away, and that hurt more than my father's grip.

"Fine." I yanked free, grabbed my purse and jacket. "I will leave. And when Richard destroys you anyway—because he will, Father, whether I marry him or not—do not come looking for me."

I was halfway down the stairs when Richard's voice stopped me cold.

"Going somewhere, darling?"

He stood in the foyer, all six feet of lethal grace and controlled fury. His jacket was off, sleeves rolled up, and I saw the tension in his shoulders. A predator ready to strike.

"How did you—the door was locked."

"Your father gave me a key." He held it up, smiled that empty smile. "For after the wedding. But I thought I would break it in early."

My father appeared at the top of the stairs. "Richard, I apologize for my daughter's behavior. She is clearly having some kind of breakdown—"

"Leave us." Richard's voice cut through the air like a blade.

"But—"

"Leave. Us."

My father scrambled back into the hallway. Coward.

Richard moved toward me, and I backed toward the door. "Stay away from me."

"No." Simple. Absolute. "We need to have a conversation about boundaries, Aria. About consequences."

"I am not marrying you."

"Yes, you are." He kept coming, slow and deliberate. "Because if you do not, I will dismantle everything you love piece by piece. Your father's company. Your mother's reputation. Even that pathetic art scholarship you think no one knows about."

How did he—

"I know everything about you, Aria Chen." He backed me against the door, caged me with his arms. "Every dream. Every weakness. Every secret you thought was safe." His breath ghosted against my ear. "You are mine. You have always been mine. And if I have to break you to make you understand that, I will."

His hand wrapped around my throat—not squeezing, just holding. The same way he would hold me five years from now before killing me.

"Let me go," I whispered.

"Never." His lips brushed my temple, almost tender. "See you at the altar, darling."

He released me and walked away, leaving me gasping against the door.

My phone—the new one I grabbed—buzzed in my pocket.

Marcus Zhao Capital. 2:00 PM tomorrow. Come alone.

I did not remember sending any messages.

But then I saw the draft folder, filled with texts I apparently wrote in my panic. Investment proposals. Business plans.

Had I really done that? Or was something else happening?

Either way, I had twenty-four hours to either save myself or sign my death warrant.