The Ultimatum Wife

The air in the dining room was too still.

Too careful.

Elena Sinclair knew the weight of silence, it had always been her family’s favorite weapon, but tonight, it pressed against her ribs like a knife.

Her father sat at the head of the long mahogany table, his posture as rigid as the high backed chair behind him. His untouched glass of wine caught the light from the chandelier, its crimson surface trembling ever so slightly with the draft sneaking in through the open window.

Her mother, seated to his right, smoothed her napkin across her lap with the kind of nervous precision that made Elena’s stomach twist.

Something was wrong.

“Elena,” her father began, his voice cutting through the room like the crack of a whip. “You’re of age now. It’s time you stopped floating in your own world and learned the meaning of sacrifice.”

Sacrifice. The word curled in her gut like spoiled milk.

Her fork froze halfway to her mouth. She set it down with deliberate care, her eyes narrowing. “What exactly are you trying to say?”

Her father didn’t flinch. He never did. “You’re getting married.”

The words landed with a weight so heavy she thought the table might crack beneath it.

For a moment, Elena could only stare at him.

The crystal chandelier blurred in her vision. Her heart thrashed against her ribs like a caged bird, desperate and wild. “Excuse me?” Her voice was sharp enough to draw blood.

Her mother’s lips pressed into a thin, apologetic line, but she didn’t speak. Of course she didn’t. She never spoke when it mattered.

Her father folded his hands, calm, cold, unbothered. “The Thorne family has extended an offer. Roman Thorne will take you as his wife. The arrangement benefits both families, and you will honor it.”

Roman Thorne.

The name hit like a stone dropped in her chest.

She’d seen his face before, on glossy magazine covers, in stock market reports, in headlines about acquisitions that destroyed smaller companies without mercy.

He was the kind of man people admired from a distance and feared up close. Sharp eyes, sharper words. Always in control.

Her blood boiled.

“I will not,” Elena said, each word heavy with defiance.

She pushed back her chair, the legs scraping across the polished floor in a jagged protest. “I won’t marry him. I won’t marry anyone just because you tell me to.”

Her father’s gaze didn’t waver. “You will.”

“No.” Her hands curled into fists at her sides, nails digging crescents into her palms. “You can’t just sell me off like I’m property.”

Her mother shifted uneasily, glancing between them. “Elena...”

“Stay out of it, Mother.” Her voice cracked, not with weakness but with fury.

She turned her glare back on her father. “Do you hear yourself? You think I’m going to stand there at an altar beside a man I don’t even know, smile sweetly for the cameras, and pretend this is my choice? You think I’ll let Roman Thorne, him, of all people, put a ring on my finger?”

Her father’s lips thinned into a line. “You speak as if your voice matters in this decision.”

The audacity of it stole her breath.

Her pulse roared in her ears.

She wanted to scream, to smash the untouched wineglass into the wall, to rip apart the perfect little illusion of control he’d built around this family.

Instead, she leaned forward, bracing her hands on the table.

Her eyes burned, not with tears, she wouldn’t give him that satisfaction, but with fury that scorched her from the inside out. “I will not let you decide my life for me.”

His calmness only deepened, his voice as cold as the marble floor beneath her feet. “Then consider this a reminder, Elena. Without this marriage, everything you hold dear collapses. This family’s name, its fortune, your comfort, it all vanishes. You’ll drag us into ruin with your pride. And for what? To keep your freedom?”

She froze, her heart lurching.

There it was. The trap, laid out in neat little words.

He had her cornered, and he knew it.

Still, she forced her chin up. Her voice shook, but not with fear, with rage. “If you think I’ll ever love him, you’re wrong. If you think I’ll ever bend, you’re wrong.”

Her father leaned back, unbothered, sipping his wine at last. “Love has nothing to do with this. Survival does. You’ll learn that soon enough.”

The finality in his tone clawed at her chest. She wanted to fight, to argue, to claw her way out of the fate he’d signed for her. But her mind, sharp even through the storm of emotions, whispered the truth, there was no way out of this.

She straightened, breath ragged, fury simmering in every line of her body. “Fine,” she said, voice low and venomous. “Force me into this. But don’t think for a second I’ll play the obedient wife. You’ll regret this, Father. Him most of all.”

And with that, she turned on her heel, her footsteps echoing like gunfire against the marble as she stormed out of the room.

The chandelier swayed faintly overhead, and the silence that followed her exit was colder than any words her father could have spoken.

Her heels struck the staircase in rapid, furious beats.

She gripped the railing so hard her knuckles turned white, dragging in breath after breath like she was drowning.

By the time she reached her bedroom, she slammed the door shut with a force that rattled the frame.

The echo lingered, vibrating through the air, through her bones, through the fury clawing at her chest.

She paced the room, the hem of her silk dress swishing with every sharp movement.

The walls felt too close, the chandelier above too bright, her reflection in the gilded mirror too raw to face.

Her hands trembled as she ripped the pearl necklace from her throat and tossed it onto the vanity, where it landed with a sharp clatter.

“Marry him?” she spat into the empty room, her voice shaking. “As if I’m some pawn to trade off like property? As if Roman Thorne of all men would ever have me under his thumb?”

The name was poison on her tongue.

Roman Thorne, cold, ruthless, untouchable. She’d seen enough headlines to know the kind of man he was, the type who devoured weakness for breakfast, who smiled only when the world bent to his will.

A man like that wouldn’t want a wife. He’d want a possession.