Chapter 2

Cynthia pushed open the heavy, carved wooden doors of the Bowers estate in Long Island. The air inside felt stagnant, thick with the smell of old money and impending death.

Brenda, a maid in a crisp uniform, was dusting a massive porcelain vase in the foyer. She saw Cynthia walk in, rolled her eyes, and pointed a lazy finger toward the second-floor staircase.

Cynthia ignored the blatant disrespect. She walked straight up the grand staircase, the thick carpet swallowing the sound of her cheap sneakers. She pushed open the door to her uncle Almon's bedroom.

The stench of antiseptic hit her nose. Almon lay in the center of a massive bed, an oxygen mask strapped to his pale face. He slowly lifted a frail, trembling hand toward her.

"Cynthia..." his voice was a wet, rattling wheeze through the mask. "You have to... marry well. It's the only way... you survive in this house."

A sharp ache bloomed in Cynthia's chest. She stepped forward, grasping his cold, bony fingers in both of hers. "Don't worry about me, Uncle Almon. I'm fine."

The bedroom door clicked open. Inger, her aunt, strolled into the room. She held a porcelain teacup on a saucer, her posture perfectly rigid. She dabbed at her dry eyes with a silk handkerchief, a grotesque performance of grief.

Inger stepped up to the bed and tossed a glossy folder onto the mattress next to Cynthia. "It's settled," Inger said, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. "You will marry Julian Astor."

Cynthia didn't touch the folder. She looked at the photo of the man on the cover. "Julian Astor has the mental capacity of a six-year-old. This isn't a marriage, Inger. You're selling me."

Inger's fake smile vanished. Her face hardened into a mask of pure cruelty. "The Bowers family does not feed useless mouths. You are a high school dropout from the mountains. You bring nothing to this table."

Cynthia stood up, her fists clenching at her sides. "I won't do it."

"Then I will pull the plug," Inger stated flatly.

Cynthia froze. Her blood turned to ice water in her veins.

"Almon's intensive care costs thousands of dollars a day," Inger continued, taking a slow sip of her tea. "If you refuse the Astor boy, I will cut off the funding tomorrow morning. Let's see how long he breathes without those machines."

The heart monitor beside the bed began to beep rapidly. Almon's chest heaved as panic set in.

Cynthia immediately placed her hand on her uncle's chest, pressing down gently to steady his breathing. She turned her head, fixing Inger with a stare so venomous it could kill.

Her fingernails dug into her own palms until the skin nearly broke. "Give me three days," Cynthia said, her voice dropping to a terrifyingly calm whisper. "Three days to think about it."

Inger scoffed, turning on her heel. "Three days. Not a minute more." She walked out, leaving Cynthia trapped in a nightmare.

Miles away, in the glass-and-steel fortress of the Church Group headquarters in Manhattan, Dominic sat behind a massive mahogany desk. The city sprawled out beneath him through the floor-to-ceiling windows.

He rolled the broken silver bracelet between his long fingers, the metal catching the harsh office light.

The heavy double doors of his office banged open. Eleonora, his grandmother, marched in. Her heels clicked furiously against the hardwood floor. She wore a pristine Chanel suit and a look of absolute fury.

Leo followed closely behind her, looking completely helpless. No one stopped the matriarch of the Church family.

Eleonora slammed a thick stack of dossiers onto Dominic's desk. The glossy photos of wealthy socialites spilled across the wood.

"You do nothing but work!" Eleonora shouted, her voice echoing in the cavernous room. "Pick one. Today. You are getting engaged."

Dominic didn't even glance at the photos. His jaw tightened. "I am not participating in a meaningless corporate breeding program, Grandmother."

Eleonora's hands shook with rage. "If you don't pick a wife, I will freeze every private trust fund in your name by midnight."

Dominic leaned back in his leather chair, his expression entirely deadpan. "Do it. I can live on my salary."

Seeing her threat fail, Eleonora gasped loudly. She clutched the fabric over her chest, her face contorting in fake agony, and collapsed onto the leather sofa. "Oh, my heart! You are killing me, Dominic! You want me dead!"

Dominic pinched the bridge of his nose. A sharp headache pulsed behind his eyes. He hated this theatrical manipulation, but her actual heart condition made it impossible to completely ignore.

To shut down the performance, Dominic tossed the silver bracelet onto the center of the desk. It landed with a soft clink.

"I will only marry the woman who owns this," Dominic said, his voice cold and final.

Eleonora stopped wailing instantly. She sat up straight, her eyes locking onto the jewelry. She snatched it off the desk, examining the delicate links.

Dominic looked past her, his eyes locking onto his bodyguard. "Leo. You have three days to find the buyer of this limited-edition piece. Tear the city apart if you have to."

Leo nodded sharply and practically ran out of the room. The net was cast.