The dining room in the main house was a mausoleum of cold marble and silence.

Morning light streamed through the floor-to-ceiling windows, but it offered no warmth. Eveline sat at the far end of the long mahogany table, her hands folded in her lap to hide their shaking. She wore a high-collared silk blouse, the fabric a soft cage against her skin, deliberately chosen to cover the faint, blossoming bruise Fulton had left on her neck.

Alistair Horn sat at the head of the table. The patriarch. He didn't look up from his Wall Street Journal. The snap of the pages turning was the only sound in the room.

"The roses are lovely, Alistair," Hessie chirped from across the table. Her voice was too high, too desperate.

Alistair didn't blink. "They are for Janiya. Only the lady of the house deserves the best blooms."

Hessie's smile faltered. Eveline stared at her empty plate.

Footsteps echoed in the hallway.

Fulton walked in. He wore a charcoal three-piece suit that fit him like armor. Janiya was right behind him, looking fresh and rested, her hand tucked possessively into the crook of his elbow.

Eveline's breath hitched.

Fulton didn't look at her. He pulled out a chair for Janiya, then took his seat on Alistair's right. Vance appeared from nowhere, pouring black coffee into Fulton's cup.

"I heard you made a scene last night," Alistair said, finally lowering the newspaper. His eyes were hard, like flint. "Disgraceful."

"I apologize, Sir," Eveline said quietly. "I wasn't feeling well."

"Weak constitution," Alistair sneered. "Just like your father. You're a stain on this family's reputation."

"Actually," Hessie interrupted, her voice trembling slightly. "We were thinking... perhaps it's time Eveline settled down. With someone respectable."

Fulton's knife scraped against his china plate. It was a harsh, screeching sound that made everyone wince.

He continued cutting his bacon, his face impassive.

"Oh?" Janiya laughed, reaching for a strawberry. "Who would take her? The pool boy?"

"Bryson Montgomery," Hessie said.

The silence that followed was heavy.

Fulton stopped eating. He didn't look up, but the air around him seemed to thicken.

" Montgomery?" Alistair mused. "Old money. Good stock. If you can offload her to the Montgomerys, Hessie, I might actually be impressed."

He turned to Fulton. "You're the executor, Fulton. What do you think? Should we approve a courtship?"

Eveline held her breath. Her heart hammered against her ribs. Say no, she thought. Please, say no. And then, a split second later: Say yes. Let me go.

Fulton wiped his mouth with a linen napkin. He placed it on the table, deliberate and slow.

He finally looked at Eveline. His grey eyes were unreadable, devoid of any emotion save for a cold, clinical assessment.

"Bryson is of age," Fulton said smoothly. "And he is looking for a wife."

Eveline felt the blood drain from her face. He was agreeing? He was actually going to let her go?

"However," Fulton continued, his voice dropping an octave. "The Montgomerys are notoriously particular about... health. And lineage."

He leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms.

"If we are to present Eveline as a viable candidate, we need to ensure the merchandise is sound."

Merchandise.

The word hung in the air, ugly and dehumanizing.

"A full medical examination," Fulton declared. "Today."

Hessie dropped her fork. It clattered loudly against her plate. "A... medical exam?"

"Everything," Fulton said, his eyes locking onto Eveline's. He knew. She could see it in the depths of his gaze. He smelled the secret on her. "Blood work. Scans. We need to make sure she is... fit for breeding."

Janiya giggled. "God, Fulton, you make it sound like you're selling a horse."

"It's due diligence," Fulton said simply.

Eveline stood up so abruptly her chair screeched backward.

"I'm not a horse," she said, her voice shaking with rage and humiliation. "And I'm not merchandise."

"Sit down," Alistair barked.

"I'm done eating." Eveline turned and fled the room.

She heard Alistair muttering about her lack of manners, but she didn't stop until she reached the front door.

She pushed it open, gasping for fresh air.

But escape wasn't an option.

Vance was standing by the black SUV at the bottom of the steps. He opened the rear door as she appeared.

"Miss Delacruz," he said, his tone devoid of pity. "The appointment is set. Dr. Aris is waiting."

Eveline looked back at the house. Through the window, she could see Fulton sipping his coffee, watching her.

He hadn't agreed to the marriage. He had just found a legal way to force her into a clinic.

The private clinic smelled of expensive lavender and antiseptic. It was quiet, the kind of quiet that money bought to hide its sins.

Eveline sat on the crinkly paper of the exam table. The room was freezing.

Dr. Aris, a woman with a face as sharp as her needles, snapped on a pair of latex gloves.

Vance stood by the door, arms crossed. A sentinel.

"What are we testing for?" Eveline asked, her voice small.

"Standard panel," Dr. Aris said, tying a rubber tourniquet around Eveline's upper arm. "Lipids, iron, liver function. And Beta-hCG."

The pregnancy hormone.

Eveline tried to pull her arm back. "I have the right to refuse."

"Actually," Vance spoke up from the door. "Under the terms of the Horn Family Trust, Article 4, Section C: The beneficiary must maintain 'optimal physical health' to receive stipends. Refusal to comply with medical directives issued by the Trustee constitutes a breach of contract."

He recited it like a robot.

"It means," Vance clarified, "you refuse the test, you lose the money. Your mother loses the house."

Eveline slumped. The fight drained out of her.

She watched the dark red blood fill the vial. It looked like life leaving her body.

He's going to find out. And then he's going to make me get rid of it.

"Lie back," Dr. Aris commanded.

Eveline lay down. The cold ultrasound gel hit her lower abdomen, making her flinch.

She squeezed her eyes shut. She didn't want to see the screen. She didn't want to see the tiny flicker of a heartbeat that would ruin her life.

Dr. Aris moved the wand around in silence. The machine hummed.

"Hmm," the doctor murmured.

Eveline's heart stopped. "What? Is something wrong?"

Before answering, Dr. Aris's gaze flickered to Vance, a microsecond of shared understanding that made the hair on Eveline's arms stand up. The doctor's professional mask was back in place instantly, but the shift had been there. She clicked a few buttons, printing out an image. She wiped the gel off Eveline's stomach with a rough towel.

"Get dressed. Wait in the hall."

The next twenty minutes were an eternity. Eveline sat in the plush waiting room chair, her leg bouncing nervously. She Googled "forced abortion laws New York" on her phone, her fingers numb.

Finally, the door opened.

Vance walked out. He held a manila envelope. His face was a blank slate. He didn't hand her the official-looking folder from the doctor's desk, but a single, crisp sheet of paper that had been folded and tucked into his inner jacket pocket.

Eveline stood up. "Well?"

Vance handed her the single sheet of paper.

Eveline grabbed it. Her eyes scanned the numbers frantically until she found the line labeled hCG.

< 5 mIU/mL.

Negative.

Eveline stared at the number. She blinked. Negative?

But the nausea. The missed period. The intuition.

"I'm... not pregnant?" she whispered.

"Apparently not," Vance said. "Stress can cause similar symptoms. False pregnancy."

A wave of relief crashed over her, so powerful her knees buckled. She wasn't pregnant. She wasn't carrying a child into this war zone.

But then, the relief was washed away by a strange, hollow ache.

And then, fear.

If she wasn't pregnant, she had no leverage. And worse-Fulton had no reason to hold back.

"Mr. Horn is downstairs," Vance said. "Let's go."

Eveline crumpled the paper in her hand. She had survived the medical check. But now she had to face the man who had ordered it.

The interior of the Maybach was a sensory deprivation tank of luxury. Leather, silence, and Fulton.

Eveline slid into the back seat. The air was warm, but she shivered.

Fulton was reading a file. A copy of her lab results lay on the seat between them.

The car pulled away from the curb, merging into the Manhattan traffic.

Fulton closed the file. He turned his head slowly to look at her.

"Disappointed?"

Eveline swallowed. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't you?"

He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small, orange plastic bottle.

Eveline's breath hitched. Her birth control pills.

"Hessie tells me you haven't refilled your prescription in three months," Fulton said, turning the bottle over in his long fingers. The pills rattled.

"I forgot," she lied. "I've been busy."

"You forgot." His voice was flat. "Or maybe you thought a baby would be a nice insurance policy."

"I'm not like my mother!" Eveline snapped.

Fulton popped the cap open. He shook a single white pill into his palm. For a fraction of a second, as the pill rested against his skin, a flicker of something possessive-almost triumphant-flashed in his grey eyes before being extinguished by his usual cold indifference.

"Open your mouth."

Eveline pressed her lips together, glaring at him. "I can take it myself."

"I don't trust you," he said. "Open."

When she didn't move, his hand shot out, gripping her jaw. He squeezed, forcing her mouth open.

He placed the pill on her tongue. His fingers lingered there, invading her space, tasting her submission.

"Swallow."

He handed her a bottle of Evian water. He watched, unblinking, as she drank. He watched her throat work as she swallowed the pill.

"Good girl," he murmured, releasing her.

Eveline wiped her mouth, feeling violated. "Are you happy now? I'm not pregnant. I'm medicated. Can I go?"

"We need to discuss this... engagement," Fulton said, leaning back.

"You agreed to it at breakfast," Eveline reminded him.

"I agreed to a check-up. I didn't agree to let you marry Bryson Montgomery."

"Why not?" Eveline challenged. "He's a good man. He respects me."

Fulton's eyes darkened. The temperature in the car plummeted.

"Respects you?" He laughed, a harsh, cruel sound. "Do you think he'll respect you when he finds out whose bed you've been warming for the last two years?"

"He doesn't care about rumors!"

"They aren't rumors, Eveline. They are facts."

Fulton pressed a button on the armrest. The partition between the front and back seats slid up with a soft whir, sealing them off from Vance.

Eveline's heart began to race. "What are you doing? We're in the car."

"Exactly."

Fulton lunged.

He pinned her against the door, his body heavy and hard against hers. "You want to play the blushing bride for Bryson? You want to wear white?"

He grabbed the collar of her blouse and ripped. Buttons popped, scattering onto the floor mats.

"Fulton, stop!" she cried, trying to push him off.

"You belong to me," he growled against her neck. "Every inch of you. Your trust fund, your house, your body. You don't get to give any of it away."

His hands were everywhere, claiming, possessing. The car hit a pothole, jarring them, but he didn't stop.

"Vance can hear us!" she sobbed, humiliation burning her cheeks.

"Let him hear," Fulton whispered, biting the sensitive skin of her shoulder. "Let him know exactly who owns you."

Eveline stopped fighting. It was useless. She lay there, staring at the ceiling of the car, tears sliding into her hair.

He wasn't making love to her. He was marking his territory.

And as his hands roamed over her, Eveline made a silent vow. She would marry Bryson. She would do whatever it took. Because being owned by Fulton Horn wasn't love. It was a death sentence.