The dining table stretched the length of a runway, drowning under polished silverware, crystal glasses, and plates stacked with food arranged. I grew up around tables like this, and yet… this somehow felt suffocating. Maybe because this wasn’t home. Not that I had much of a home.

At the head of the table sat Jordan Pierson. Impeccable as always. Fresh suit, tie straight, posture perfect. The man could probably survive the apocalypse and still look like he belonged on the cover of a “ten hottest bachelor “magazine.

Beside him, Sophia hunched in her chair, chin resting on her hand, eyes fixed on her plate. The little traitor had been given a mountain of fruit and pancakes cut into shapes. I got toast.

“Good morning,” I said as brightly as I could manage, sliding into a chair halfway down the table. My heels clicked too loudly against marble, and even though I knew which fork to use, I felt like an intruder anyway.

Jordan’s eyes flicked up, meeting mine briefly. “Morning.”

His tone was smooth, charming even.

Sophia didn’t even look at me. She stabbed a strawberry like it had insulted her.

I poured myself coffee. “So, Sophia. Any plans today?”

She glanced up then, her green eyes—his eyes—burning with more contempt than a seven-year-old should know how to carry. “Yes. Pretending you’re not here.”

The coffee nearly slipped out of my hand. I forced a smile. “That sounds exhausting. You’ll need a nap after.”

Her lips twisted. “You don’t belong at this table.”

Jordan didn’t react. He never did. He let her words hang, sharp as knives, while he sipped his own coffee like we were discussing the weather.

I pressed my toast flat against the plate to hide the tremor in my hand. “Maybe not. But I’m here anyway.”

Sophia’s little fists tightened around her fork. “You can’t just come in and sit where Mom sat.”

The words hit harder than I expected. I knew what it was like to lose a mum, , but still, it felt like someone cracked glass inside my chest.

“I’m not trying to take her place,” I said softly, more to myself than to her.

Sophia’s glare deepened, but her eyes glistened with something that looked suspiciously like grief. She slammed her fork down and pushed her plate away. “Fake,” she hissed, before hopping down and storming out of the room.

Her footsteps echoed down the hall until silence swallowed us again.

I set my toast aside, appetite gone.

“She hates me,” I muttered, staring into my coffee.

“She doesn’t hate you,” Jordan said calmly. “She hates the idea of you.”

I looked up sharply. “Comforting.”

“She’ll adjust.” He returned to his plate as though nothing monumental had just happened. “You both will.”

…

The stables sat behind the mansion, framed by rolling pastures and fences so white they nearly blinded me in the sun. It was beautiful in the way all of this was beautiful—his architect honestly did a wonderful job.

Sophia was already on her horse when I arrived, her back stiff, her tiny hands gripping the reins. She spared me a single glance before muttering, “Why are you following me?”

“Because your father said I should,” I said, walking up to the fence. “Don’t look so happy about it.”

Her little nose wrinkled. “You’re just trying to steal his attention. That’s what people like you do.”

I blinked. People like me. The words shouldn’t have stung, but they did.

“I’m not trying to steal anything,” I said.

“You are!” She tugged the reins hard, the horse shifting under her. “You’re just pretending to be nice so he’ll like you more than Mom.”

I swallowed, hard. “Sophia, listen to me.”

Her glare was unwavering.

“I’m not your mom. I’ll never try to be. No one could ever replace her.”

Her jaw trembled, but she clamped her lips shut, refusing to show weakness.

“But I can care about you,” I added gently. “Even if you don’t want me to.”

For a moment, something flickered in her eyes. A crack in the armor. But then she turned her face away, muttering, “Fake,” again, before nudging the horse forward and trotting off across the paddock.

I let her go. Sometimes chasing made it worse.

Still, I stood there for a long time, staring after her, the weight of her words pressing heavy on my chest.

…

On my way back to the mansion, my phone buzzed with a message from Samantha. I haven’t heard from her in days which was weird for us.

Sam: Tell me you’re joking about this engagement thing.

Sam: Please tell me this is some scheme for revenge I don’t know about.

Sam: Because if you’re actually marrying Jordan Pierson, I’m staging an intervention.

I sank onto the edge of my bed, clutching the phone like it might anchor me. A second later, she was calling.

“Christiana?” Her voice was a mix of worry and excitement. “What the hell is going on? Every site I’ve opened today is plastered with your face next to his. Headlines, gossip, memes—girl, you’re trending.”

My throat tightened. “Don’t remind me.”

“You should’ve called me first. You should’ve called me the second it happened.”

“I didn’t exactly have time between being paraded like a prize horse and shoved into this mansion,” I snapped, then immediately regretted the bite. “Sorry. I just… I can’t talk about it.”

“Is he forcing you?” Samantha asked quietly. “Because if he is, I swear—”

“No,” I said quickly. Too quickly. “It’s complicated.”

“Complicated is code for you’re in trouble and don’t want to admit it.”

I closed my eyes, fighting back the sting of tears. “I’ll figure it out.”

“You don’t have to figure it out alone,” she whispered.

I hung up before she could convince me to let her murder him.

…

“Wandering again?”

I jumped. Jordan stood in the doorway of the hall, his hands in his pockets, watching me with those unreadable green eyes.

“I wasn’t wandering,” I said, tucking my phone away. “I was… existing.”

“In my house,” he corrected. “And in my house, there are rules.”

I crossed my arms. “What is this, Pierson? A prison?”

“A fortress,” he said evenly. “And fortresses keep people alive.”

I stepped closer, anger heating my skin. “You mean fortresses keep people under your control.”

His lips curved faintly. “Same thing.”

The air between us pulsed, heavy, charged. For one terrifying second, I thought I might actually step closer instead of away.

Instead, I spun on my heel and stormed off, muttering, “Control freak.”

“Survivor,” he called after me.

The word followed me all the way down the hall.

…

Around midnight I got a text from him. More like a summon.

Diablo: come to my study.

The room glowed with firelight, shadows stretching across bookshelves that probably hadn’t been touched in years. He gestured to the chair opposite his desk.

“Sit.”

I didn’t move. “What now? Another spectacle? Another reminder that you own me?”

His eyes locked on mine, steady, unyielding. “Logistics. Engagement details. The world is watching, Christiana. If you want to survive it, you’ll stand beside me.”

“I’d rather stand alone.”

“Then you’ll fall alone.”

My breath caught. Damn him for always sounding like he was right.

I leaned on the desk instead of sitting, folding my arms. “You think this is about protection, but it’s not. It’s about control. You don’t know how to live without it.”

He leaned forward, his voice low. “And you don’t know how to survive without me.”

Heat rose up my neck, traitorous and infuriating.

For a heartbeat, the silence stretched.

“Why so many books? Do you actually read?”

“Goodnight Christiana.”

His eyes burned into mine, and I hated the way my chest tightened, the way my pulse stumbled.

I straightened abruptly. “Goodnight, Pierson.”

I left him in the firelit room, his shadow stretching across the floor, and told myself the tremor in my chest was just rage.

But in the hollow of my heart, I wasn’t sure I believed it.