4. Framed and Forgotten

Ivy

I hear the soft click of the door before I even notice Tyrance stepping inside.

“You have two hours,” he says, voice calm, measured, but sharp enough to cut through the silence. “Two hours to prepare yourself for the marriage.”

I blink, caught between disbelief and fury. “Marriage?” My voice trembles despite my attempt to stay composed. “You mean—now?” His dark eyes don’t waver.

I swallow hard, dread and anger twisting in my chest. I want to question, to yell, demand answers—but something in the way he stands pins me silent.

“I…” I pause, searching for words, but nothing fits. My mind spins with doubts and the bitter taste of betrayal. 

Owen’s face flashes before me, my so-called husband, the life I thought I had. And now… this.

He tilts his head slightly, reading the storm inside me. “Time’s moving,” he says simply. “You’ll need to be ready as a bride.”

I bite back a retort, nodding stiffly, feeling inevitability settle like stone.

Outside, the garden glimmers under soft moonlight. Shadows mask the edges of his world. Tyrance stands near a small, private altar, flanked by men in sharp suits. No vows, no rings—just paperwork waiting for signatures.

I step forward, shoulders tense, as if armor could shield me. The ceremony is clinical, swift. My signature, his signature—the papers exchanged. Just like that, it’s over. A marriage in ink, not heart.

Walking away from the garden, disbelief coils around me. Married on paper, surrounded by strangers who obey him without question. I glance at the estate walls, the guards stationed strategically, and the truth lands hard: I am trapped.

Morning brings no relief. My stomach twists in knots as the realization hits again—I’m married to Tyrance now. Owen, the life I thought I had, erased. That’s what he said.

After slipping into a knee-length floral frock, I decide on a walk around the estate. Maybe now, as his wife, the household will treat me differently. 

And a small relief flutters—I’m glad he didn’t come to me last night.

The garden stretches before me, sunlight spilling over rows of flowers in every color imaginable. My fingers brush a cluster of pink roses, and for a fleeting moment, a quiet smile touches my lips. 

Pink roses have always been my favorite. Their delicate scent feels like a whisper of home in this strange place.

A guard blocks my path, voice firm. “Not beyond this point, Miss. Return inside.”

I nod, forcing calm. But the mansion’s walls close in, a silent prison. Every door seems like a barrier, every corridor a cage.

Curiosity claws at me as I retreat to the upper floors. I wander cautiously, studying the corridors, watching the guards’ patterns.

One hallway catches my attention—narrower, less ornate, almost hidden. At the end, a polished, locked door waits.

The guard shifts away, distracted by distant conversation. My pulse hammers. Instinct overtakes caution. I press my ear to the door, then turn the knob.

Inside, the air is cooler, shadows deeper. Objects line shelves, but then I see them: My pictures. Hundreds of them. Framed, stacked, lying in drawers—images of me from college, grocery runs, birthday parties, even my wedding with Owen.

I hover my fingers over a photo from a random Saturday—me smiling, oblivious to the chaos ahead—and shivers crawl over my skin. 

How could Tyrance have collected all this? Watched all this?

Then my gaze lands on a massive portrait on the far wall. Me… painted in meticulous detail, every curve, every line, every expression captured. 

I stare, breath catching, a thrill of something dangerous mingling with awe.

Footsteps outside make me freeze. I slip out silently, moving quickly but carefully down the stairs. My pulse pounds, yet I force calm. Fists clench, back pressed to the cold brick wall. 

I’m going to confront Tyrance.

I stop a passing servant. “Where’s Tyrance?” I ask, voice steady, hiding every flicker of fear. My anger needs answers.

In the grand foyer, a few steps ahead, I freeze. Tyrance sits in the shadows, a girl perched on his lap. Lips locked, intimate, claiming. The sight punches the air out of me.

“What is this?” My voice slices the silence, trembling with fury. “Who—”

Tyrance lifts his head slowly, expression unreadable, as if my interruption is trivial. The girl’s fingers slip from his neck; her eyes dart to me, wary.

“This is Natalie,” he says smoothly, deliberately. Each word lands like stone. “My woman.”

Shock roots me. “Your… woman? What… What about marriage? Us?”

He chuckles softly, a sound that slithers under my skin. “Marriage? Just papers, Ivy. That’s all it ever was.”

I stumble backward, disbelief and rage mingling. “Just papers? You… you married me for… what?”

“For legality. To honor deals your father made. To secure obligations,” he says evenly, hands resting lightly on the chair, eyes locking mine with precision that feels like a weapon. 

“Nothing more. Nothing less. Nothing you imagined.”

I glare, words failing, reality slamming into me like waves.

I step into the kitchen, fists still tight. The old woman, busy cooking, looks up, her eyes knowing. “Love can be difficult at times,” she says softly.

Her words hit like a jolt. “There’s no love between us,” I snap, brushing away tears. “I just met him… two days ago. Our marriages are just papers.”

His words echo in my mind. Not painful alone—it’s the thought that stings: I’m trapped in a loveless marriage, a pawn in a deal I never chose.

“If he doesn’t care about this marriage… he could have married that woman and left me free,” I mutter, words catching in my throat.

Before the woman can reply, I continue, determination sharpening. “I’m not angry because of him. I cry because my father’s deals left me no choice. Everyone treats me like… like a possession, nothing more.”

I draw a sharp breath, resolve hardening. “I will not let anyone play with me. I will escape this place.”

Silence stretches too long. Then a voice—cold, sharp, full of fury—cuts through the air: “Escape, huh?”

I spin. 

Tyrance stands there, eyes blazing with a storm I’ve never dared see. His presence fills the room, a living warning. I feel the heat of his anger like a blade pressing against my skin.