Chapter 3 3

Isabell POV

The air in the living room had gone stale, thick with the scent of my father's cheap cigars and the palpable relief of a disaster narrowly averted. My father, Jerrold, didn't waste time. He was a man who treated his daughters like expiring inventory; now that one was damaged goods, he had to liquidate her fast.

Coleton Joseph stood before him, twisting his hat in his hands like a penitent schoolboy. He was handsome in a soft, unthreatening way, with the kind of jawline that suggested weakness rather than resolve.

"You take her," Father grunted, not even looking at the young lawyer. He poured himself another scotch, his hand shaking slightly. "But it happens tonight. A civil ceremony. No guests, no reception. I want her name changed before the sun comes up. If the Griffiths ask, she was already gone."

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir," Coleton stammered, his eyes darting nervously to the floor. He knew what he was-the son of a *Rat*, a man whose father had squealed to the Feds before being silenced. He was lucky to be breathing the same air as a *Made Man*, let alone marrying into the family.

Emmalee, however, was radiant. She clung to Coleton's arm, her tear-stained face now glowing with a triumphant smirk. She looked at me, standing in the shadows by the bookshelf, and her expression shifted to one of pitying superiority.

"Oh, Isabell," she sighed, smoothing the silk of her dress. "I wish... I wish you could have found something like this. Real love." She squeezed Coleton's bicep. "But don't worry. I'll light a candle for you every Sunday. I'll pray the Monster doesn't hurt you too badly."

I kept my face blank, a perfect mask of resignation. "You are too kind, sister."

*Go,* I thought. *Go to your cardboard life and your coward husband.*

"We should leave, my love," Coleton whispered, urging her toward the door. He wanted to escape before Jerrold changed his mind or remembered exactly whose blood ran in Coleton's veins.

As the front door clicked shut behind them, the silence rushed back in, colder than before.

"Good riddance," Father muttered. He turned his glare on me. "Now. The real work begins."

My stepmother, a woman whose beauty had hardened into something brittle and sharp over the years, finally stepped forward. She had been watching me with narrowed eyes, likely calculating how much money they had just saved on a wedding.

"Come here, girl," she commanded, beckoning me to the low table in the center of the room.

I approached slowly, keeping my head bowed.

She reached behind the sofa and pulled out a small, scuffed velvet box. It wasn't the mahogany chest where the family heirlooms were kept. It was the box she used for charity donations.

"Since you are going to the Griffith estate," she said, her voice dripping with false sweetness, "you will need to look presentable. We cannot have you looking like the bastard you are."

She flipped the lid open. Inside lay a tangle of costume jewelry-glass beads pretending to be pearls, a gold-plated chain that was already tarnishing, and a pair of clip-on earrings I recognized from a discount store.

"Emmalee doesn't need these anymore," she said, pushing the box toward me. "They should be enough for a girl of your... station. The Don won't be looking at your neck anyway. He'll be looking at what's between your legs."

Father snorted into his glass. "Listen to your mother. Do whatever he says. If he wants to cut you, you bleed quietly. If he wants to fuck you, you spread wide. Just keep him happy enough to sign the alliance papers."

I looked at the trash in the box. It was an insult. A final slap in the face. They were sending me into the lion's den dressed as a beggar.

If I went to Damian Griffith like this-penniless, adorned in glass and rust-he wouldn't just kill me. He would laugh at me first. In our world, a bride without a *Dote*-a dowry-was nothing more than a whore with a contract.

I couldn't let that happen.

I reached out and touched the cold, fake pearls, letting my hand tremble visibly. I forced my breathing to hitch, summoning the performance of a lifetime.

"Father..." I whispered, my voice quivering with carefully curated fear.

"What is it?" he snapped. "Don't tell me you're getting cold feet now."

I looked up at him, widening my eyes until they were wet with unshed tears. "No, Father. I will do my duty. But..." I paused, biting my lip. "I am terrified for *you*."

Jerrold froze. "For me?"

"I have heard stories about Don Griffith," I said, my voice dropping to a conspiratorial hush. "They say he is a man of immense pride. Arrogant. He views everything as a test of respect."

I picked up the tarnished gold chain, letting it dangle from my finger like a dead worm.

"If I arrive at his gates wearing this... if I arrive with nothing..." I swallowed hard. "Will he not think the Talley family is mocking him? Will he not think you are sending him a beggar because you believe he is not worth a true Talley bride's *Dote*?"

The room went deathly still.

My stepmother's face flushed red. "You ungrateful little-"

"Hush!" Father barked, cutting her off. He set his glass down, the liquid sloshing over the rim. His eyes were fixed on the cheap necklace in my hand, his pupils dilating as the implication sank in.

"He might take it as an insult," I continued softly, driving the knife in deeper. "He might think you are laughing at him. And if the Don feels insulted... surely he will not just send me back. He will come for the man who sent me."

I looked at my father, letting the silence stretch, letting his own cowardice do the work for me. I didn't ask for the money. I didn't ask for the jewels. I simply pointed out the gun pointed at his head.

"I only want to protect the family, Father," I said. "I don't want him to start a war because he thinks we are cheap."

Jerrold's face paled, the ruddy flush of alcohol draining away to leave a sickly grey. He looked from the trash on the table to me, and for the first time, I saw something new in his eyes. Not love. Not respect. But fear.

He realized I was right.

"Damn it," he whispered.