I should have been walking down the aisle. Instead, I was running through the woods in my wedding dress. The white fabric caught on every branch, tearing apart like my life. My name is Camela Siegel. My father is the Mayor, and he sold me to save himself. Vincent Castellano was supposed to be my husband. They call him the Mad Prince, but I learned he’s so much worse than that. His hands trembled when he touched me—sometimes gentle, like I might break, and sometimes rough, like he wanted to overpower me. “You’re mine now,” he’d whisper in the dark corners of that house. “No one else gets to touch you. No one else gets to hurt you but me.” I tried the door handle every day for three months. It only turned from the outside. When help finally came, I thought it was over. I thought I could go home and pretend none of it ever happened. I was wrong. Vincent found my journal—the one where I wrote about him, about what he did to me, and about who he truly is. Now he’s not just keeping me locked up. He’s hunting me. They call him “The Fox” for a reason. He’s patient and waits. When he catches what he’s after, he never lets it go. I can feel him watching me even now—through my bedroom window, from across the street, in the shadows where I can’t see him but I know he’s there. My father thinks making that deal saved his life. He doesn’t realize it destroyed mine. Vincent said he’d keep me until the last day of my life. I’m starting to think that day is coming soon.
View MoreRain hit the trees hard.Rain pounded the forest. Trees bent and groaned in the wind. Wind howled like wolves in the night.Camela ran.She just ran—barefoot, breathless, and terrified.Her white wedding dress clung to her legs, soaked and heavy. Tore on every branch, the lace catching like claws. Her bare feet sank into the mud, bled from thorns and sharp stones. The cold bit at her skin, and branches whipped at her face. Her lungs burned. Her breath came in short, sharp gasps. But she didn’t stop.Behind her, footsteps crashed through the trees. Voices shouted behind her.“Find her! She couldn’t have gotten far!”Camela didn’t look back. She couldn’t. If she did, she might freeze and if she froze—she’d be caught.“No,” she whispered. “Keep going. Keep going.”The woods around her were dark. The trees looked the same in every direction. Her veil had been torn off miles ago. Her legs were bleeding, her ribs ached and her heart felt like it might burst but she didn’t stop.Just that m
Rain slapped the windshield harder. Camela couldn’t stop shaking. Her hands gripped the edge of the backseat tightly. Her dress was soaked, her bare feet were numb.“Is he still following?” she askedThe woman driving—Cynthia, she had introduced herself—checked the mirror. “No sign of him now.”Camela turned, her heart pounding. There was nothing but a dark road behind them.“He was there,” she whispered. “I saw him.”Cynthia’s voice remained calm. “You’re safe now.”“No, I’m not,” Camela replied. “Not with him out there.”The phone buzzed again in her lap.Unknown caller.Camela didn’t answer.Cynthia’s eyes flicked to the phone. “Do you want me to throw it out the window?”Camela remained silent. Instead, she opened the door just a little and tossed the phone out into the storm.Cynthia nodded. “Good girl.”But Camela didn’t feel good. She felt like prey.They arrived at a small-town police station, where a single streetlight flickered above the building. Cynthia opened Camela’s doo
The envelope was waiting on the floor when Camela woke up. She didn’t hear anyone knock, nor footsteps. Just silence, and this white envelope staring up at her. It hadn't been there the night before. Slowly, she bent down and picked it up with shaky fingers.There was no stamp, no return address, and no seal. Only two words were written in perfect handwriting across the front: “Camela Castellano”Her fingers trembled. She almost dropped it. “No,” she said out loud.She tore it open. Inside was one line, written in blood-red ink:“You wear my name like it’s poison. But it’s the only thing keeping you alive.”Her chest tightened, and her palms began to sweat. She whispered, “He knows where I am.”Camela paced the room in panic and fear. Just then, Cynthia came in, locking the door behind her.“What’s wrong?” Cynthia asked.“You didn’t open the door for anyone, right?”“No,” Camela replied. “But someone still got in.”Camela handed Cynthia the envelope. Cynthia’s jaw tightened as she
“I want to see him,” Camela snapped.“No,” Cynthia replied, blocking the heavy wooden door. “You’re not ready.”“I’m not asking you.” Camela shoved past her and stormed into the Mayor’s office.That morning, Camela had gone to visit her father at his office. He looked up from his desk, like he’d seen a ghost.“Camela…” he began.“Don’t say my name like that,” she hissed. “Like you didn’t sell me.”“I didn’t have a choice.”“You always had a choice!” she shouted. “You chose yourself!”He stood up. “I made that deal to protect this city.”She laughed bitterly. “From who? Him?”Her voice cracked. “Or was it to protect your seat?”Silence filled the room Cynthia walked in, sensing the tension. “We need to go. Now.”“Not yet,” Camela said, never taking her eyes off her father. “Tell me the truth.”The Mayor lowered his voice. “Vincent owns everything. The police. The judges. The press. You don’t cross the Castellanos. You don’t say no.”Camela blinked. “So you gave me up because you were
The power went out. Camela and Cynthia ran through the small house. Camela hurriedly tossed clothes into a backpack while Cynthia checked every shadow, vent, and window. Suddenly Camela froze. “That was him, wasn’t it?”Cynthia cursed under her breath. “He’s playing with us.”A sound echoed from beneath the floor like dragging wood.Cynthia squatted down, lifting a rug in the living room. Underneath, she discovered a trapdoor.Camela’s stomach flipped. “That’s… that wasn’t there before.”“It was always there,” Cynthia said. “We just didn’t see it.”Cynthia opened the door slowly. A metal ladder led into pitch blackness.“He’s using tunnels.”They climbed down, their flashlights cutting through thick dust.It was a crawlspace—tight, dark, silent.“Where does it go?” Camela whispered.“Could be anywhere,” Cynthia replied. “This house used to belong to a judge. Vincent must’ve had it built.”Camela’s light hit something scratched into the wall—her name.**Camela Siegel** **Mine. Mine.
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