I persisted. "There is a provision, one I learned about only after the funeral. Should I not be married before my twenty-third birthday, my whole inheritance, the firm, the estate, everything else, passes to my lawful husband. The method my uncle uses to cage me.
His glance sharpened rather than softened. Not out of sympathy, but rather curiosity, he slightly leaned forward.
"I stayed under their roof for two years, voice breaking," I said. "They grabbed everything. Plan to sell me off, they polished me like a nasty pawn and covered me in pearls.
And Dawson? he questioned, voice low.
"Very violent. possessed, possessive He only values power, not me. Wealth. Use.
Now the room seemed to be cooler. Every thing I had never stated before felt like a vice pushing into my ribcage.
I listened in front of them. The participation came across as a setup. Should I fail to comply, they intended to... eradicate the issue.
Charles never interrupted.
And I ran, I said sharply, bitterly. "Forged documents, false name, whatever I needed to disappear with."
Silence.
He backed off gently, crossing one leg over the other. " Interesting."
That is all.
No reaction. There is no consolation. Just simple computation.
His eyes darted to the fireplace, as though he were sprinting through a thousand conceivable results. I saw it, his thoughts whirling silently behind that glossy surface like machinery.
I exposed myself in the center of the room.
Down to the bone, stripped down.
Still, he looked at me not like I was delicate.
He treated me as though I were a bit of information.
Changeable.
an opportunity for risk.
You stated everything, he said, almost to himself. Still, something seems to be lacking.
Charles reached for his phone and hardly spoke.
His motions were exact, effective, nearly surgical. There was no hesitancy or wasted movement. With quick deliberation, his fingers glided across the screen phoning a number he must have memorized long ago.
"George," he answered squarely.
His voice lost even its pretended warmth and dropped a pitch.
"I need a complete John Astor data sweep. Legal flags, contracts, and financials. All.
From across the room, I watched him pulse climb and breath caught halfway between hope and fear. My legs stayed stationary, but my head was flying around.
George's voice rang weakly through the speaker, distorted words, unclear queries.
"No," Charles said, more precisely now. "I have no interest in what is public." I want asset traces, offshore records, buried rot, shell corporations. political affiliations, if any.
pause.
And cross-reference using the federal watchlist.
He hung up before George could answer.
The hush that followed was thick, as though the room had inhaled and was still breathing.
"You do this frequently?" I asked gently.
His eyes stayed still. Only when the stakes call for it.
My hands curled on my lap. And with what stake this time? Me myself?
No, he answered without missing a beat. "The fire you're dragging into my house.".
Again, his phone buzzed faster than I could have predicted. Mid-vibration he caught it, eyes narrowing as he read the arriving file. His countenance changed subtly, not horror, nor satisfaction, but only confirmation.
He said, "Your uncle," turning the screen toward me, "is filthier than even you realize."
I moved gently across the room, checking myself.
John Astor's ongoing tier two risk surveillance classification comes first in the report.
Benevolent underlie: fraud. Tax dishonesty. unregistered foreign accounts. Suspicion about laundering using real estate properties. Most likely connections to political favors.
It sounded like a file on a cartel boss.
Though the words failed me, "this cannot be real" I said.
Charles added, "It's real." And most likely only a small portion of what he buried.
From my body, the heat vanished. Though my knees quicked somewhat, I did not fall.
"He presented his front using my father's legacy," I whispered. "All these years and no one saw it."
Charles responded coolly, "They saw it." They simply said nothing. Eating helps you find silence more easily.
He moved across the room, unbuttoning his shirt's cuffs as the conversation hadn't just exploded before us.
I turned back to fix on the screen. So I was only a barrier, never his family.
"You were not meant to survive this long," he continued. "That was the actual error."
Stunned, I turned to face him.
Then there came the quiet blow.
"There is just one move left."
He looked at me hard, unreadable.
Running does not help you defeat guys like him. You surpass them.
I exhaled.
"And just how precisely do I do that?"
His response came out without stopping.
"You marinate me."
The words fell like a dagger; they did not echo.
I fixed him in the eye. Not making a blink. Not breathing:
He showed no flinch.
With hands clasped behind his back, Charles stood there, posture imperial, like he had just suggested a merger instead of a marriage.
"I'm sorry; what exactly?" At the brink, my voice cracked brittle and too thin to cover the incredulity underlying it.
"You marry me," he said, composed as worn-out stone. "a contract marriage." Restricted time. Restricted words.
I was unsure whether he was sincere or just too accustomed to others nodding in agreement.
"This is not some corporate acquisition," I said.
He tipped his head slowly. Still, it's Your life now seems to be one. You're surrounded. Others crave the power you possess. Molly, you are the asset here. And I am providing you coverage.
I drew back.
"No feeling." No passion. Not involved, he said. "just a paper-bound agreement." You are under legal protection. I project a steady public image.
My mouth closed once more then opened. "You wish for a prop?"
He corrected him: "I want insulation." Since the passing of my father, my board has been attentively observing me. Investors are avultures. Even a phoney wife tells them I'm not spiraling.
I started to swallow hard. "So I play house while you go on believing this is noble?"
"This isn's not noble," he said. "Smart."
He closed space, circling just slightly. Not in menace; only in purpose. "You hang here. You run according to the script. Public gatherings, common address, combined appearances. We avoid each other behind closed doors.
" Until when?" I requested.
"Exactly one year. Enough to safely guard your inheritance. Enough to help me steady my own.
I put my arms around myself and felt the strain coiling inside my spine like a spring wound too tightly.
and then? I softly murmured.
"Then we break down. Quietly. No controversy. Nothing press. Absences of attachments.
And should I deny?
At first he did not reply.
But his eye stayed mine like a vice.
Then your uncle wins, he whispered, still as silence. And you return to be a target rather than a player.
I detested the how rational it sounded.
How pristine?
how chilly?
"How can I be sure you won't use me?
Too? I asked.
His facial expression remained un softened. "I do not need your name. I am king of my own planet. I also avoid betting on damaged alliances.
We paused long, air dense with something not quite hostile but also lacking trust.
I turned to study the hearth's flickering flames.
His universe was ice encased in fire.
I was also standing in the middle of it already.
He got closer, his voice down. Twenty-four hours is what you have.
"To decide?"
"To decide between survival and surrender."
So I flee one prison only to find another? My lips curled and my eyes burned. "Loveable trade."
Charles skipped a blink.
His visage stayed blank, sculpted in apathy. Still, his quiet was more loud than shouting. That quiet let me dare to confront him once more.
I moved aside, moving toward the fireplace, the flames mocking. Pushing a palm against the mantel, I tried to root myself in anything other than false claims and illogical ideas.
You don't even know me, I said softly.
"I don't need to know you," he said, voice level. I only need to guard you.
I spun sharply. Not sure. You have to look for yourself. Your monarchy. Your brand. I'm simply handy.
His mouth closed momentarily. "And yet I'm offering you safety while your own family offers shackles.."
I detested his sound of rightness.
I detested even the little choice I had.
He moved forward, measured but formidable. The fire behind me carved cheekbones, created features, eyes like sharpened frost, shadows across his face. Everything about him seemed controlled but also menacing. But the silence in his words touched more profoundly.
Nobody will touch you as my wife.
Those phrases carried weight. not romantic. Not comforts.
An agreement.
Alternatively a warning.
I fixed him, and for a breath the world contracted to just that, his presence, his words, the lines separating safety from surrender.
His eyes fixed me not for feeling but for agreement. computation; Approach. a closed agreement.
"Why does it sound more like a sentence than a pardon?" I said a quiet whisper.
"Because you still think like someone ready for rescue."
His comments are sharp, no sign of an apology.
You will have protection, he said. "A castle of reputation. Control. Yours won't dare; my adversaries won't come close. You will sleep not looking at the door.
I looked down at my wrist; the marks were faint now but still spoke. Jack's handprint's ghost still tormented my skin.
In this marriage, do I get to breathe? I asked quietly.
"As much as you want," he said.
And if I should try to leave early?
Not you.
I shivered from that assurance in his voice.
He had nothing to be incorrect. I had already become half gone. Now was survival in silk, not a life.
Still, my chest started to flutter with rebellion.
"I'm not your puppet," I said.
He answered, "No." But you will soon be my wife.
Not yet had I touched the document. My eyes kept straying to the text, but the words blurred into blocks, phrases, requirements, binding legislation wrapped in cold letters. And somehow, in spite of everything, it was more horrible than the dangers I had ran from.
He said, "Are you ready?"
"No," I answered truthfully.
His brow raised, just somewhat. Still, you will do it anyhow.
I turned to face him, to the guy whose name was etched on skyscrapers, screamed across boardrooms, terrified in locations I would never visit.
Will I lose myself in this? I queries.
Just if you give yourself away.
His response meant not to calm me. Still, it did in odd ways. With Charles Lightoller, no pretence existed. There are not any gentle lies. Not in delusions. simply terrible clarity.
I took hold of the pen.
I continued, staring him in the eye, "Before I do this, I want to know one thing."
"What?,"
Will I ever matter in this... beyond the contract?
His stop was not very long.
It was instructive, though.
As he added, "you already do."
That chilled me to no end. Not since it seemed so sincere. However, since it did not. That sounded accurate. Like something he had not meant to utter out loud.
I pressed the pen to the paper and signed.