ELLA

I stare at the tiny human like she just crawled out of a horror movie. My breath catches.

“I need to call my father,” I mumble, already backing away. “Being a stepmom wasn’t a part of this deal!”

The cute, cheeky child lights up, completely oblivious, eyes wide as though she’s drunk on sugar. “Hi!” she chirps, skipping toward me. “Who are you?”

My mouth opens, then closes, then opens again. “Someone who doesn’t answer tiny strangers,” I say under my breath, “Don’t you have… I don’t know, cartoons to watch?”

She gasps, “Are you a real-life princess?!”

“No,” I snap, but she’s already touching my hair with sticky little fingers that probably built castles out of jelly.

“I like your hair!” she gushes, tugging a strand. “It’s shiny!”

I freeze. Actual contact.

“Oh my God, I’m being touched. Agnes, tell her to stop. Tell her this is not Disneyland.

Her grin widens, revealing a missing front tooth. “Are you my new mummy? My daddy said-”

“No. Absolutely not. I only answer to Mommy in very specific, adult-rated circumstances, and you, small person, do not qualify.”

Agnes, bless her delusional heart, gasps and crosses herself. “Miss Ella!”

Beatrice beams. “I think you are funny.”

For a moment, I almost falter. “Please,” I sigh, facing Agnes. “Get me Darren’s contact. I’m calling him right now.”

But before Agnes can answer, a deep, reverberating sound cuts through the mansion that the earth rumbles between my feet.

An earthquake now? Great.

The windows tremble, walls rattle and curtains sway harder. Little Beatrice squeals, clapping her hands.

“Helicopters!” she cries, running to the balcony.

Agnes’ face goes pale, immobile just like the other maids. The room holds its breath in a way that tugs the question out of me.

“What? What’s happening? Do the Fords get Amazon Prime deliveries by air now?”

Agnes’ wandering eyes dart toward the sky, then to me. Her voice is barely above a whisper. “Trouble is about to take place, Miss Ella. Big Mr Ford is come.”

“Darren and Devlin’s father?”

“Yes. Fight, chaos.”

She swiftly grabs Beatrice’s hand all while muttering something in another language. “Beatrice, come now.”

“Trouble? What kind of trouble?”

Agnes is too busy running away to respond. “Maybe someone sane finally walked into this asylum. I need to have a nice, civilized conversation with Daddy Ford about how his son keeps collecting women like trading cards, and why the other has a kid I wasn’t informed about.”

I don’t wait for permission. My heels clatter against the marble as I head in the direction of the roaring blades.

The wind outside hits like a slap, almost strangling me with my own hair. The sky is carved open by the descending helicopter, flattening the grass under its force.

I look ahead and see someone. It’s Devlin.

He stands in the open field with his head tilted back, wearing the smirk of a man who’s either immortal or suicidal.

The wind claws through his dark hair, rusting his half-unbuttoned, white shirt.

His muscular arms stretch out wide as he bellows, “Father! Oh, I have waited for this day!”

I squint against the wind, trying to keep my shirt down with one hand and my patience with the other. “Oh, for the love of Prada, what now?”

The helicopter door opens.

Marshall Ford descends like the god of Olympus, donning a tailored suit and sunglasses, which makes the metallic golf club trapped in his gloved grip a weird choice of accessory.

He looks every inch the patriarch who’d sign empires into existence before breakfast.

Something in my gut twists. His energy isn’t at all fatherly. If anything, it’s volcanic— an eruption waiting to spill.

“Devlin Ford,” Marshall says, his deep voice slicing through the roaring wind as he stalks toward Devlin.

His grip around the club tightens. And it dawns on me that it isn’t an accessory.

I don’t want to believe my thoughts are true, not until Marshall Ford takes a calculated swing at Devlin and the club connects right in his jaw.

The sound of metal slapping flesh cracks across the field, tearing a gasp from the depths of my throat.

Devlin crumpled to the ground, the smile instantly wiped off his face.

“Holy shit!” I breathe, clasping my hand over my mouth.

Marshall swings again, relentlessly, blinded. The iron lands wet, sticky on Devlin’s arched back and he barks a groan, his fingers digging into the grass.

Yet Devlin doesn’t move a muscle. Doesn’t fight back or shield himself. Doesn’t run away, almost as if he’s caught exactly where he wants to be.

“You filthy bastard!” Marshall roars, hitting repeatedly. “You think you can shame this family again?!”

“Wait—what the actual—STOP!” I scream, sprinting forward before my brain can vote against it.

My heels sink into the grass, my hair whipping my face wildly. “What are you doing, you psychopath?!”

Marshall doesn’t stop, he barely even notices my presence. He brings the club down again, and again, this time, Devlin lets out a low, cruel laugh.

“Is that all you’ve got, old man?” he taunts, spitting blood into the dirt. “Come on!”

I throw myself between them, dropping to my knees and covering Devlin’s body with mine.

My heart hammers in my chest, my hands shaking, knees trembling. “Stop it! Are you insane?!” I scream, squeezing my eyes shut in anticipation of the next, brutal hit.

It doesn’t come.

The metal stops an inch from my face when my eyes tear open, and I let out a broken breath.

Marshall’s breathing slows.

“What the hell is wrong with you?!” I spit. Rage, fear, concern— they crash into me intensely. My head is a mess. “Are you trying to kill him? He’s your son!”

Marshall Ford just stares at me, his eyes narrowing. “Who are you?”

“I’m his wife, you sicko!” I yell, pushing to my feet, my body still shaking with adrenaline.

Recognition flickers across Marshall’s expression. “Isabella DiLaurentis,” he breathes. His chest heaves and falls like it’s hard to let the club go.

I snatch the ‘almost-murder’ weapon from him. Devlin rasps, laughing again with blood streaking his teeth. I hit the ground hard before I could comprehend that I was shoved by Devlin.

“Stay out of this,” he snarls. Hardened gaze, fire in his eyes. He doesn’t give a care in the world. He wants this. “This is between me and him.”

I scramble up, feeling my elbows burning with a bruise. My eyes sting with tears. Can’t tell if it’s from the injury or getting pushed by a man I just tried to take a hit for.

“Next time I’ll just let your father bludgeon you into early retirement, you sick bastard. Have at him, Mr Ford!” I yell.

“You don’t know what you’re married to, Miss DiLaurantis,” Marshall says, calm this time.

“Excuse me?”

He turns his gaze to Devlin, and there’s something in it that chills me.

“That thing you’re protecting,” he says softly, “is not a monster I’ve spent half my life trying to keep buried. I am not here to punish him, I am here to contain him.”

***

I shouldn’t be here.

If there’s any justice left in the universe, I should be sipping wine, getting a manicure, and getting railed in a good Japanese strip club.

Instead, I’m seated in an office, across from a bloodied Devlin Ford—who somehow maintains an unholy level of sexiness even with his bloodied lips and torn shirt, and his pacing, angry father.

“You dare,” Marshall says, almost whispering, “to marry your brother’s wife? You dare to ruin my plans, my name?”

Devlin leans back in his chair. Blood trickles down his temple, a grin carved into his face like he’s proud of every bruise.

“Can you blame me?” he says lazily, glancing at me with that infuriating sparkle in his eyes. “She’s a snack. I was hungry.”

“Excuse me?!” I blurt.

He smirks. His eyes drag over me like a touch, long enough to make my skin burn and my fists itch. “What? You are.”

This same man acted allergic to my presence just an hour ago.

“Insane,” I mutter. “You’re deeply, clinically, write-a-book-about-it insane.”

The temperature in the room drops when Marshall slams his fist on the desk and hurls a priceless vase against the wall.

I flinch.

He doesn’t stop there, sweeping his hand across the desk and scattering documents, pens, and a glass of whiskey that explodes against the floorboards.

I take one careful step back, half-raising my hand in mock surrender. “So, this is what family therapy looks like with the Fords. Maybe try signing up for an underground boxing league instead of destroying furniture.”

Marshall’s head jerks toward me, and his glare pins me to the spot.

My lungs forget how to function. The weight of that look alone could crush an empire.

He takes a slow step closer. “You think this is a game, Miss DiLaurantis.”

I swallow. Hard. I can’t let him intimidate me. “I think I just walked into one. Mrs Ford, by the way, thank you.”

“The media expects public appearances. This marriage was supposed to be a clean and strategic transaction. Your father gets his profits, I get an alliance, my son gets a leash.”

I blink at his words. They settle like shards of glass in my chest. “So… I’m a pawn.”

“Exactly,” he says without hesitation. “But my bastard son decided to ruin it.”

“Bastard is getting a little outdated, Father,” Devlin echoes, chuckling darkly.

Marshall’s eyes burn into him. “You were sent away for a reason, but even the military couldn’t fix you. I should have kept you there.”

Devlin smirk widens, his tongue flicking over the blood on his lip. “But you missed me.”

The tension is so thick I feel it funnel itself into the back of my throat.

I sit there, too wired to move, too horrified to look away. Marshall’s hand grips the nearest object, a sleek phone and he hurls it across the room.

It hits Devlin square in the chest with a loud thud. He groans.

I gasp. “What the hell is wrong with you people?!”

Devlin’s laughter is unholy. “You’ve got a good aim. Been practicing?”

Marshall Ford looks like he’s about to suffer an aneurysm.

He ignores Devlin completely, turning his laser focus on me. “If this marriage collapses, I lose billions and when I lose, Ella, your father loses everything too. His company. His assets. His freedom, if I so choose.”

My throat tightens. “You wouldn’t—”

“I would.”

Marshall Ford doesn’t bluff. My pulse spikes. “Then what do you want me to do?”

His lips curl into something that might be a smile but feels more like a death sentence. “A lot,” he says simply. “Starting tomorrow night.”

He turns, pacing behind the desk like a man plotting a chess match. “There’s a charity gala, press, investors, diplomats. You and Devlin will attend. You’ll smile, you’ll hold hands, and you’ll make the world believe this marriage is the best thing to ever happen to this family.”

“You want me to pretend to be in love with him?!”

Devlin gives a low whistle. “Try not to sound too disgusted, sweetheart.”

I shoot him a look that could curdle milk.

Marshall ignores us both. “Until I find a solution to this mess. Darren is your husband on paper, but Devlin is who the world must see you with. You will show up as the happiest couple on earth,” he says flatly, “and when it’s done…”

He stops. Looks straight at Devlin. The pause stretches and takes my breath with it.

“…then I’ll decide whether or not I let you live.”