Chapter 4

The next twenty-four hours were a blur of coordinated cruelty. Liam's people descended upon me like vultures. A sleek black car picked me up from the hospital, giving me no time to even process the trap that had snapped shut around me. I was taken to a luxury hotel suite that felt more like a gilded cage.

A team of stylists arrived, women with plastic smiles and cold eyes. They held up outrageously expensive dresses, chattering about what would be "appropriate for the Maxwell bride." They treated me like a doll, turning me this way and that, their hands impersonal and rough.

"The Maxwells are old money," one of them said, holding a pearl-white dress against my body. "This says elegance, not desperation." She looked me up and down, a flicker of disdain in her eyes. It was clear Liam had briefed them on my "situation."

I felt a surge of humiliation. To them, I wasn't Chloe Davis, the once-promising architect. I was just a commodity, bought and paid for, a substitute bride being prepped for delivery. I said nothing, letting them poke and prod me, my silence my only armor.

Later, a lawyer came, a man with a face like a clenched fist. He laid out the marriage contract on a glass table. It was thick, full of clauses and sub-clauses that basically signed away my life. I was to be Mrs. Maxwell in name only, confined to the estate, with no claims to the Maxwell fortune. My life in exchange for my father's continued, minimal care.

"Sign here," he said, tapping a pen on the last page. His tone was bored, as if he did this every day. Maybe he did.

I signed my name, my hand trembling slightly. Chloe Davis. It felt like I was signing my own death certificate.

As the lawyer left, Liam called. I saw his name on the screen of the phone they'd provided me and my stomach clenched. I let it ring. He called again. And again. Finally, I answered, unable to bear the incessant noise.

"I trust the arrangements are to your satisfaction," he said, his voice smooth and mocking.

I didn't reply.

"Silence? Good. You're learning your place," he continued. "I just wanted to remind you of the stakes. Your father had a comfortable night. The doctors are preparing him for the initial procedure tomorrow morning, right after your wedding. But schedules can change. A signature on a piece of paper, a phone call from me... things can go wrong very quickly. Do you understand?"

"I understand," I choked out, the words feeling like poison.

"Good girl," he purred. "Don't do anything stupid, Chloe. Don't try to run. Don't try to contact anyone. My people are watching you. They are watching the hospital. Just be the beautiful, broken bride I paid for, and your father might just live to see another month."

He hung up. I threw the phone across the room where it clattered against the wall and fell to the thick carpet. I sank onto the floor, wrapping my arms around myself. The city lights twinkled outside the window, a beautiful, indifferent audience to my private hell.

The night was long and sleepless. I stared at the ceiling, thinking of my father, lying alone in that hospital bed. Was he scared? Did he know how much I loved him? My sacrifice felt both monumental and meaningless. I was saving him, but I was also walking into a life of misery, a prisoner to a man I' d never met and a monster I had once loved.

The next morning, they came for me. The white dress felt like a shroud. They did my hair and makeup, painting a serene mask on my face that did nothing to hide the terror in my eyes.

As I was being led out of the hotel, my path was blocked. It was Sarah. She was dressed in a simple, elegant dress, looking like the picture of innocence.

"Chloe," she said, her voice soft. "I just wanted to wish you well."

I stared at her, my mind flashing back to the conversation I'd overheard. The sweet facade, the calculating coldness beneath.

"Get out of my way, Sarah," I said, my voice flat and dead.

Her eyes filled with crocodile tears. "I know this is hard. I feel so guilty. I should be the one doing this, but I'm just not strong enough." She reached out to touch my arm.

This time, I couldn't stop myself. I flinched back as if she had burned me. The movement was sharp and sudden. I stumbled backward, my heel catching on the carpet. For a moment I teetered on the edge of balance.

One of Liam's bodyguards, a mountain of a man in a black suit, shot forward. He didn't try to catch me. He grabbed my upper arm, his fingers digging in like steel clamps, and hauled me upright. The grip was brutal, punishing. It was a clear message: I was property. I was not allowed to cause a scene.

"Be careful, Ms. Davis," he said, his voice a low rumble. "We wouldn't want any accidents before the ceremony."

The pain in my arm was sharp, but the humiliation was sharper. Sarah watched, a tiny, almost imperceptible smile touching her lips before she replaced it with a look of concern. She had done that on purpose, provoked me to get a reaction, to put me in my place.

I looked from her triumphant face to the bodyguard's cold eyes. This was my life now. Surrounded by enemies, controlled at every turn, my every move monitored. I was completely and utterly alone. With a dead heart, I let them lead me to the car that would take me to my wedding, to my prison.