𝐁𝐀𝐁𝐘𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋 [18+]

- 44 -

It's been a week.

Every morning, I dress in silence. I'm driven to the local university in a black car with black-tinted windows, flanked by two guards who walk me to my classes like I'm some kind of political target. And maybe I am. I can't speak to anyone properly—no phone, no emails, no accidental run-ins. The second my lectures end, I'm escorted back, the front gates locking shut behind me like a drawbridge closing over a moat.

I eat. I study. I sleep.

And I exist.

My only tether to reality is Pen.

She tells me things, little pieces of the world outside—what clients Dad's lost, what rumours are flying around about Val, how Evelyn keeps sending her playlists with obnoxiously romantic titles. Sometimes she just reads to me and stays a while. It's the only thing keeping me sane.

So when Ford knocks on my door that afternoon and enters without waiting for permission, I know something's up.

"You're wanted in the office," he says, voice gruff.

I raise a brow. "Finally decided to execute me for treason?"

He doesn't even blink. Just step aside.

I follow him down the cold corridor, past all the locked doors and cleaned-up secrets of this house. The closer we get, the heavier the silence feels. When we reach Dad's office, he opens the door and steps in first.

I see my father behind his desk, looking older than the last time I saw him. His hair is greyer, his expression like stone carved under pressure. He gestures silently for me to sit.

Ford stays standing, arms crossed.

Dad's fingers tap slowly against the surface of the desk, "How are you?"

I just stare at him blankly, "Why the fuck am I here?"

"I assume you would've already guessed out from the chaos going on." He continues, looking down at his papers pretending like his own daughter didn't swear out at him.

"About the ball?"

He nods. "Good. Saves me the trouble of pretending it's a surprise."

"What are we celebrating?" I ask, trying not to sound as bitter as I feel.

Dad meets my eyes. "You."

I nearly laugh, "Me?"

"The ball is an opportunity," he says. "For you. For our family. We're inviting our most valuable allies, business associates, and their sons."

My stomach twists. I don't need him to spell it out, but he does anyway.

"To find a match," he says. "A husband."

I stare at him. "You're serious."

He leans forward, elbows on the desk. "We are in a vulnerable position, Zara. Valentino Lawrence has been taken care of. And if we don't act—strategically—we risk losing everything we've built. Your marriage could be a step toward restoring what's been broken."