Chapter 3

Discharge from the hospital felt less like a release and more like an eviction. They sent me home with my arm encased in a heavy plaster cast, a sling cutting into my neck, and a bottle of painkillers that did little to numb the throbbing ache in my bones or the gaping void where my future used to be. Every jostle of the taxi ride back to my-to *our*-apartment sent a fresh wave of agony up my arm. The cheap fabric of my hospital-issued sweatpants felt rough against my skin, a constant reminder of my new, diminished reality.

The grim prognosis from Dr. Evans played on a loop in my head: *significant, permanent loss of fine motor control.* The words were a death knell for the artist, the architect, the dreamer in me. My hands were my life, my language. Without the ability to hold a pen, to sketch a design, to bring an idea to life on paper, who was I?

The taxi pulled up to the curb of my familiar apartment building. The rain had stopped, leaving the air smelling of wet pavement and damp earth. I paid the driver with my left hand, a clumsy, awkward fumbling of bills that felt like a pathetic preview of my new life. As I walked up the path, I saw it.

A pile of black trash bags, slumped by the overflowing bins near the side of the building. My portfolio case was sticking out of one, its leather corner scuffed. My favorite worn armchair, the one I'd found at a flea market and lovingly restored, was sitting beside them, its floral upholstery stained with grime. My box of architectural books, my drafting tools, my clothes. My life. Piled up like garbage.

A cold, sick dread washed over me. I stumbled to the front door of the apartment I had shared with Mark for five years, the home I had paid for, and slid my key into the lock. It wouldn't turn. I tried again, jiggling it, my heart beginning to pound a frantic, panicked rhythm. Nothing.

The locks had been changed.

He had promised me a clean break. Instead, he had cut me out like a cancer, throwing away every piece of me he could find while I was lying in a hospital bed. I leaned my forehead against the cold wood of the door, the finality of it all crashing down on me. I had lost my love, my home, my career, and my physical ability to create, all in the space of two days. I was at rock bottom, and the ground was cold, hard, and unforgiving.

I spent that night on the sofa of my only real friend in Veridia, Sophie. She took one look at my face, my cast, and the single, pathetic bag of salvaged belongings I'd managed to drag from the trash, and enveloped me in a hug that smelled of lavender and fierce, unwavering loyalty. I told her everything, the words spilling out in a torrent of grief and rage until I was just a sobbing, broken mess in her arms.

The next morning, as I was nursing a cup of coffee, trying to figure out what my first step would be, there was a sharp knock at Sophie's door. A man in a crisp suit stood on the doorstep. He didn't smile.

"Clara Evans?" he asked, his voice devoid of emotion.

"Yes?"

He handed me a thick manila envelope. "You've been served."

I stared at him, uncomprehending, as he turned and walked away. My hands trembled as I tore open the envelope. Inside was a lawsuit. The plaintiff: Julian Thorne. The defendant: Clara Evans. The amount he was suing me for was staggering, a figure with so many zeros it looked like a typo. It was for damages, for loss of potential earnings, for the "criminal negligence" that had resulted in the injury to his brother, Daniel Thorne.

Attached to the back was a signed witness statement. It was from Mark.

I sank onto Sophie's sofa, the papers fluttering from my numb fingers. I read his words, his carefully crafted lies. He claimed I had been driving erratically, that I had been emotionally distraught and yelling at him just before the crash. He painted me as unstable, reckless, and solely responsible for the accident. He had twisted our final, awful moments together into a weapon to destroy me.

Julian Thorne was not just going to make me pay. He was going to annihilate me. With Mark's testimony, with the full weight of Thorne Industries' legal team, I didn't stand a chance. I had no money, no home, no allies. I was completely and utterly cornered. There was no going back. There was no going forward. There was only the crushing, suffocating power of Julian Thorne.

Two days later, a summons arrived. Not from a court, but from the man himself. I was to present myself at the headquarters of Thorne Industries at 3:00 PM sharp. Failure to appear would, the letter implied in cold, legalistic terms, have immediate and severe consequences.

The Thorne Industries building was a monument of glass and steel that pierced the Veridia skyline, a testament to the family's wealth and influence. The lobby was a cavern of polished marble and hushed reverence. The air smelled of money-a sterile, clean scent mixed with the faint aroma of expensive leather from the minimalist furniture. A severe-looking receptionist with a perfectly coiled bun directed me to the top floor with a dismissive glance at my worn coat and the sling supporting my arm.

The elevator ride was a silent, stomach-churning ascent. I felt like a peasant being led to the gallows. Julian Thorne's office was larger than my entire apartment. One entire wall was a floor-to-ceiling window offering a god-like view of the city-*my* city, the one I had dreamed of shaping.

He was standing by the window when I was shown in, a dark silhouette against the bright afternoon sky. He didn't turn around immediately, letting the silence stretch, letting me feel the full weight of his power and my own insignificance. Finally, he turned. His face was as cold and impassive as it had been in the hospital.

"Ms. Evans," he said, his voice a low rumble. "Thank you for coming."

He gestured to one of the two chairs in front of his massive mahogany desk. I sat, my back ramrod straight, my heart hammering against my ribs. I felt like a mouse being studied by a hawk.

He sat down opposite me, the vast expanse of polished wood between us feeling like a chasm. He slid a single, thick document across the desk towards me. It stopped a few inches from my hand.

I stared at it. The top page read: *Prenuptial and Marriage Agreement.*

My head snapped up, my eyes meeting his. Confusion warred with fear. This had to be a mistake. A cruel, twisted joke.

"I don't understand," I whispered, my voice hoarse.

"It's quite simple," Julian said, his tone chillingly matter-of-fact. He steepled his fingers, his cold blue eyes never leaving my face. "My family has certain... expectations. A pressing need for a marriage has arisen due to a stipulation in my grandfather's will that affects control of the company. A stable, traditional image is required. Immediately."

He paused, letting the words sink in. "You, Ms. Evans, have found yourself in a position of considerable debt to my family. You were the driver in an accident that has potentially ruined my brother's promising musical career. You have no assets, no prospects, and thanks to your ex-boyfriend's sworn statement, no legal defense."

Every word was a hammer blow, methodically demolishing what little hope I had left.

"You have ruined one future for my family," he continued, his voice dropping to a deadly quiet. "So you will provide another. A convenient one."

He tapped a perfectly manicured finger on the document. "This is a marriage contract. You will marry me. You will live in my home, attend functions by my side, and present the perfect image of a devoted wife for a period of one year. In return, I will do two things. First, I will drop the lawsuit that would otherwise see you bankrupted and likely imprisoned. Second, I will use my resources to ensure that Mark, the man who betrayed you, is financially and professionally ruined. He will never work in this city again."

The air left my lungs in a rush. I stared at him, at the contract, my mind reeling. This was insane. It was barbaric. It was a choice between two prisons: one with literal bars, and one with gilded ones.

"And if I refuse?" I managed to choke out.

A flicker of something-not quite a smile, but a cold, sharp tightening of his lips-appeared on his face. "If you refuse," he said softly, "I will not only proceed with the lawsuit, but I will personally ensure that the district attorney pursues criminal charges. I will use every ounce of my influence to see you convicted. I will ensure you spend the rest of your miserable life paying for what you did."

He leaned back in his chair, the picture of calm, predatory power. "The choice is yours, Ms. Evans. Ruin and prison... or marriage and revenge."

I stared at the contract on the desk. The thick, creamy paper, the crisp black font. It was a lifeline and a noose, all in one. My entire world had been reduced to this single, impossible choice, presented by the cold-eyed devil sitting across from me.

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