C2

"Look at the papers, Cecelia," Christopher says without turning his head toward me.

The warm air inside the black luxury car smells of expensive leather, faint cedarwood, and the freezing rain dripping from my soaked clothes. I sit pressed against the passenger door, shivering so violently my teeth click together in the dark. Water runs off my wet hair and pools on the fine leather seat beneath me.

Christopher reaches into his jacket, pulls out a heavy Manila folder, and drops it directly onto my lap.

My hands shake as I pull the folder open.

The first thing resting inside is a black USB drive attached to a printed transcript. Typed timestamps list every second of the video Cynthia recorded on her phone just five minutes ago. Next to it lies a stack of glossy photographs. In the photos, I am on my knees under the dim club lights, my hands reaching toward open lockboxes and cash bags staged behind the stage floorboards. It looks entirely real. It looks like a premeditated, high-level theft caught on camera.

My breath hitches in my dry throat. "This is fake. Cynthia set me up."

"It doesn't matter what is real," Christopher says, his voice flat, smooth, and devoid of emotion. "It matters what a judge sees."

I flip to the third item in the folder, and my heart drops straight into my stomach.

It is a yellowed, faded newspaper clipping from twelve years ago. The bold headline reads: Local Artist Celestine Vance Found Dead in Apartment. Below it is the only remaining printed photograph of my mother's face—her soft smile, her bright eyes, the only piece of her memory I have fought to protect from my family's debts.

"Where did you get this?" My voice cracks, my fingers digging into the paper until it creases. "Why do you have my mother's things?"

"I have everything connected to you," Christopher answers, his dark eyes staring straight ahead out the tinted windshield. "Your debts, your club records, and every digital archive of Celestine Vance's life and work."

I clutch the folder to my chest, my blood turning to pure ice. "She died twelve years ago. She has nothing to do with you."

"Your family connected itself to my brother," Christopher says, turning his head slowly to look at me. His jaw is locked tight, his dark eyes colder than the storm raging outside. "The people you work for, the people who raised you, and the debts you carry all trace back to the men who ruined Arthur's life. That makes you collateral."

"I don't even know Arthur!" I yell, the sound echoing sharply against the glass windows. "I never met your brother!"

"You carry their blood," Christopher says quietly. "That is enough for me."

He doesn't shout. He doesn't raise his voice. His stillness is more dangerous than any weapon.

"Here is the deal," Christopher continues, his tone crisp and terrifyingly calm. "You sign a marriage contract with me tonight. You stay married to me for exactly one year. You play the obedient wife when I need you to, and you endure whatever I demand."

"And if I say no?" I whisper, my throat tight with rising panic.

"If you refuse," Christopher says, leaning slightly closer so his cold breath brushes my cheek, "that framed theft video goes directly to the district attorney within five minutes. You will serve ten years in a state penitentiary. And while you are locked away, I will buy every remaining painting, photograph, letter, and public archive of Celestine Vance."

My chest heaves as I stare at him. "What would you do with them?"

"I will burn them," he replies without a single second of hesitation. "I will erase every trace that your mother ever walked this earth. She will be forgotten before your first year in prison is finished."

"You are a monster," I choke out, my vision blurring with hot, furious tears.

"I am a man taking what is owed," Christopher says. "Sign the contract and marry me for twelve months. The club theft evidence disappears. Your mother's archive stays intact, held in a private vault under your name, untouched."

"You want to trap me," I say, my hands trembling as hatred surges through my veins. "You want to punish me for something I didn't even do."

"I want control over the lineage that ruined my family," Christopher says coldly. "Choose now, Cecelia. Prison and absolute erasure, or one year as my wife."

Raw, burning hatred explodes inside my chest. I can't take the sight of his calm, arrogant face for another second.

I grab the thick folder from my lap and throw it directly at his face with all the strength left in my body.

Papers fly into the air. The newspaper clipping flutters toward the floor mats.

Before the folder even hits his chest, Christopher moves with terrifying speed. His large, warm hand shoots out and clamps tightly around my right wrist. He wrenches my arm down, pinning my hand against the leather armrest between us.

I gasp in pain, twisting my body to pull away, but his grip is like an iron shackle.

"Don't touch me!" I scream, pulling against his weight.

Christopher leans over me, his broad shoulders blocking out the dim light from the dashboard. He brings his face inches from mine. I can feel the heat radiating off his skin, contrasting sharply with the freezing air in the car. The scent of his cedarwood cologne fills my lungs, thick and intoxicating.

I look directly into his dark eyes. I look for mercy, for hesitation, for a single shred of humanity.

There is only cold, calculating contempt in his eyes. But beneath that disgust, deep in the dark pupils staring down at me, lies something far darker—a possessive, dangerous heat that makes my breath catch in my chest and my skin flush red beneath my wet clothes.

"You don't get to throw things at me, Cecelia," he purrs in a low, dangerous growl. His thumb presses firmly into the soft skin of my inner wrist, feeling the frantic, wild beating of my pulse. "You don't have the power here."

"I will never respect you," I whisper, my lips trembling as my heart hammers against my ribs. "I will never be what you want."

"I don't want your respect," he whispers back, his eyes dipping briefly to my trembling lips before snapping back to my eyes. "I want your compliance."

He lets go of my wrist abruptly, throwing my hand back toward my lap as if touching me burned him. He straightens his suit jacket with one swift motion and turns back toward the front window.

I pull my hand against my chest, rubbing the red marks his fingers left behind on my skin. My whole body is shaking, split between terrified exhaustion and a burning desire to claw his eyes out.

"We are here," Christopher says flatly.

The heavy black car slows down and glides smoothly to the curb, coming to a complete stop.

I look out the rain-streaked window.

We are parked directly in front of a small, grand brick building with dark stone pillars. The carved sign over the heavy double doors reads City Municipal Registry Office. It is long past midnight, but the warm yellow lights inside the front lobby are brightly lit, casting long beams across the wet sidewalk.

Through the tall glass doors, I can see a justice of the peace standing near a wooden desk, wearing black robes, holding a thick leather ledger in his hands. He is waiting for us.

My voice cracks, raw and broken, but I force the words past my lips as I stare at Christopher's side profile. "I hate you."

Christopher doesn't look at me. He reaches out, grabs the door handle, and pushes his car door open into the pouring rain.

"Good," Christopher says, his voice almost soft against the sound of the thunder above us. "Hate will make this easier."

He steps out into the rain, holding the large black umbrella over his head, and walks around to my side of the car. He pulls my door open wide and extends one cold, strong hand toward me.

In his other hand, resting in his open palm beneath the umbrella, is a thick gold wedding band with my mother's initials—C.V.—freshly engraved into the inside metal.