Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 88960 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 445(@200wpm)___ 356(@250wpm)___ 297(@300wpm)
Age seven.
Sent away at age seven to a boarding school in another country. And this is framed as flourishing.
My chest tightens.
I know this story. Not the specifics, but the shape of it. The daughter who performs devotion for a father who never quite sees her. The child who learns early that love is earned through achievement, through obedience, through becoming exactly what someone else needs you to be.
I scroll through more photos. Father and daughter at a ribbon-cutting. Father and daughter at a press conference. Father and daughter posed in front of a fireplace for a holiday card.
In every single image, there's space between them.
Not much. Just enough. The kind of distance that a camera captures even when no one meant it to. His hand on her shoulder but not quite touching. Her smile bright but her body angled slightly away. Two people who've learned to look connected without actually connecting.
My father's anger was loud. Hot. Impossible to ignore.
But I think Patrick Briones's might be something else entirely. Cold. Distant. The kind that doesn't shout—just withdraws. Just makes you feel like you're reaching for something that's always six inches too far away.
Different weapon. Same wound.
I set the phone down on my chest and stare at the ceiling.
Abigail Briones was supposed to marry Devyn Chaleur. The perfect political match. The territory's favorite daughter and the mafia king of the South.
And instead, she ran.
He's gone insane—you should hide too.
She has to be talking about her groom...even if all of these articles seem to imply that theirs was a match made in mafia paradise. And if she were indeed talking about him, who’s now my current captor—
There’s only one way to find out if he’s insane like she implies...and thank goodness Google still works even if I’ve just found myself in another world.
Devyn Chaleur.
Articles and photos pop up, and I find it absolutely weird that my stomach starts churning when I read of how there’s this whole bridal war that unofficially took place, the moment Devyn released an actual PSA about needing a bride to maintain peace in his territory.
This world seems to be just as modern and advanced as mine was—maybe even more—but it’s surprisingly archaic when it comes to marriage and relationships. Do the women in this world really not see anything wrong in competing for a man’s attention? Is marrying for love not—
What was that?
I freeze and hold my breath...and there it is again.
Footsteps in the hallway.
Steady. Unhurried. And getting closer by the second.
Could it be Abigail?
Or the king?
Or someone else? Someone insane—
Phew.
The footsteps have passed my door before eventually fading into silence.
I let out the breath I was holding. Fall back into my bed, which is unfortunately a lot more comfortable than the one I have back home...in the other world.
Hysteria bubbles in my throat, but I manage to swallow it back.
The other world.
I can’t believe those words are starting to feel normal.
I squeeze my eyes shut, but sleep refuses to come.
Questions abound. And memories that I still can’t make sense of.
A bride in a black wedding gown.
Someone insane.
And a mafia king who wants to marry me because...
Oh.
Why did he want to marry me?
I think that matters, right?
But exhaustion pulls me under before I can even figure things out.
Chapter Three
THE SUMMONS COMES AT nine.
A sharp knock—the first knock I've heard in this house, actually, which makes me wonder if the staff are held to different standards than their employer—and then a woman's voice, quiet but firm.
"The king requests your presence in his study."
The tone speaks louder than words in this case.
She says it’s a request, but we both know I’m not really being offered a choice.
I glance down at my clothes. Same jeans and blouse I was wearing when I walked into Hewhay's a lifetime ago, but they're wrinkled now, slept-in looking even though I didn't sleep in them. I smell like stress and stale fear and the faint ghost of that bookshop tea.
Not exactly how I'd choose to face an interrogation, but captives can’t be choosers, right?.
"Coming," I say.
The woman who leads me through the house is middle-aged, efficient, her dark hair pulled back in a severe bun. She doesn't make conversation. Doesn't look at me except to ensure I'm following. I'm a task to be completed, nothing more.
We go down the main staircase, through a hallway I didn't see yesterday, and stop in front of a pair of heavy wooden doors. The woman knocks once, waits for a response I don't hear, and then opens the door and steps aside.
"Miss Sutton," she announces.
I step into my captor’s study, which is unsurprisingly...immaculate, and the photographer in me appreciates it. The composition and the lines. The way light falls through tall windows onto dark wood and leather. Built-in bookshelves line two walls, filled with volumes arranged by height and color. A massive desk dominates the center of the room, its surface empty except for a single pen, a single notepad, and a laptop closed with geometric precision.