Chapter 3

The next morning, Dallas woke before dawn. Antone was sprawled on the bed, sleeping off the alcohol. His phone lay on the nightstand.

A cold certainty settled over her. She needed to see. She needed to know everything.

She picked up the phone. It was locked. She hesitated for only a second before typing in a password.

C-H-E-L-S-E-A.

The phone unlocked.

Her heart didn't break. It just felt heavy, a dead weight in her chest.

She opened his photo gallery. It was a shrine. Hundreds of pictures of Chelsea. Candid shots from family gatherings, screenshots from social media, photos he must have taken when no one was looking. Chelsea laughing, Chelsea talking, Chelsea just existing.

There were only three photos of Dallas. All of them were group shots where she happened to be standing near Chelsea.

Then she found the notes app. It was a diary. A logbook of his obsession.

"Her favorite flower is a white lily."

"She hates coffee but loves Earl Grey tea."

"Today she wore a yellow dress. She looked like the sun. Desmond is the luckiest man in the world. I hate him."

It went on for pages, a meticulous catalog of another woman's life, interspersed with his own agonizing entries about loving her from afar.

As she stood there, absorbing the full, pathetic scope of his delusion, she heard the front door open downstairs. Mr. and Mrs. Morgan were back from their weekend trip.

She couldn't breathe. She dropped the phone and fled the room, a silent scream trapped in her throat.

Back in her own room, the one that had always felt borrowed, she finally let the dam break. She sank to the floor, her body wracked with silent, tearless sobs. It wasn't just heartbreak. It was a deep, cellular humiliation that made her skin crawl.

When the storm passed, she was left with a cold, hard calm.

She stood up and began to pack.

She was methodical. She pulled out a suitcase and started filling it with the few things that were truly hers. Her parents' old photographs. A worn copy of her favorite book. The simple, functional clothes she'd bought with her own small allowance.

Everything the Morgans had ever given her-the designer dresses, the jewelry, the expensive shoes-she gathered into a large pile in the middle of the room. She found the star chart Antone had given her at the observatory and tossed it on top. Then she added the dried flower he'd given her on their first "date."

She was purging her life of their influence, piece by piece.

Just then, a knock came at her door. It was Mrs. Morgan.

"Dallas," she said, her voice crisp and business-like, her eyes sweeping over the pile of discarded luxury goods with distaste. "Stop this foolishness. Your father and I have something to discuss with you. In the study. Now."

She didn't ask why Dallas's eyes were red. She didn't care.

Dallas quickly wiped her face, the familiar mask of composure falling back into place.

"Of course," she said.

In the formal study, with its priceless art and suffocating silence, Mr. Morgan got straight to the point.

"We have arranged a marriage for you."

Dallas stared at him, uncomprehending.

"To Kennedy Simmons," he continued, as if discussing a stock transaction. "The tech mogul from Seattle. A brilliant man. It's a very advantageous match for the family."

"But... why?" Dallas asked, her voice a small, broken thing.

"He's a paraplegic," Mrs. Morgan added, a hint of distaste in her voice. "A car accident a few years ago. But his company is on the verge of a major breakthrough, and a partnership would be invaluable to Morgan Enterprises' tech division."

They weren't just using her emotions anymore. They were selling her. Body and soul.

"You are our adopted daughter, Dallas," Mr. Morgan said, his eyes like chips of ice. "You have a duty to this family. We took you in when you had nothing."

She remembered the day they adopted her. A calculated PR move after her parents, two brilliant scientists, died in a lab explosion caused by faulty Morgan-supplied equipment. The Morgans had silenced the story, adopted the orphaned daughter, and painted themselves as saviors. Her entire life had been a transaction.

She looked from Mr. Morgan's cold face to Mrs. Morgan's dismissive one. Then she thought of Desmond, who chose a merger over her, and Antone, who used her as a placeholder for another woman.

There was nothing left for her here. No love. No family. Just a series of betrayals.

"When is the wedding?" she asked, her voice devoid of any emotion.

Mrs. Morgan looked surprised, then pleased by her quick compliance. "Next week. We've already made the arrangements. You'll fly to Seattle tomorrow."

It was a sentence. A life sentence. And Dallas, with nothing left to lose, accepted it. This was the price of their charity.

Suddenly, Antone burst into the room, his hair still damp.

"What are you talking about? A wedding? Dallas is with me!" he declared, grabbing her arm.

"Don't be ridiculous, Antone," his mother snapped. "This is business."

"And this is personal," Antone shot back, his eyes wild. "She loves me!"

He pulled her into the hallway, his grip tight. "Dallas, tell them," he urged, his voice a desperate whisper. "Tell them you won't do it. We can be together."

Dallas looked at his frantic face, the face of a man trying to keep his favorite toy from being taken away. She felt nothing. A part of her, the small, naive part he had so expertly manipulated, was already dead.

The moment the study door clicked shut behind them, he spun her around and pressed his mouth to hers.