He left me alone to pack, but I could hear him downstairs, his voice low and threatening as he spoke to my father. 

I couldn't make out the words. Didn't need to. My father's whimpering responses told me everything.

I sat on my bed, the pen Killian had given me still clutched in my hand, staring at a blank piece of paper.

Dear Lila,

What did you say to your fifteen year old sister when you were being sold to a monster? How did you explain that you were leaving and never coming back? That every choice you'd ever made, every time you'd protected her, had led to this moment?

I have to go away for a while.

My hand was shaking so badly the letters came out jagged.

It's not your fault. It was never your fault. You are the best thing in my life, and I need you to be strong now. Study hard. Be smart. Don't trust Dad. Don't end up like me.

Tears blurred my vision. I blinked them back furiously. Crying wouldn't change anything.

I love you more than anything in this world. Remember that.

Cassia

I folded the letter, left it on my pillow where she'd find it, and threw some clothes into a bag. He said I didn't need much. That everything would be provided. Like I was a doll he was dressing up.

I caught my reflection in the mirror. Nineteen years old. Dark hair, sharp cheekbones, eyes that had seen too much too soon. Beautiful, everyone said. My father's most valuable asset.

I looked at myself and made a promise.

Killian Thorne thought he'd won. Thought he'd broken me with one threat, bent me to his will with fear for my sister.

He had no idea what he'd just brought into his home.

The Mercedes was even more obscene up close. Black leather interior, tinted windows, the kind of car that cost more than most people made in a year. 

A driver stood by the door, expressionless, opening it for me like I was royalty instead of cargo.

I slid inside.

Killian was already there, legs crossed, checking something on his phone. 

He didn't look up as I settled into the seat as far from him as possible.

"Your father cried," he said casually. "Begged me to reconsider."

"Did you?"

"No." He glanced at me. "He didn't cry for you, Cassia. He cried because he's afraid of what happens now that he can't use you anymore."

I said nothing. He was right, and we both knew it.

The car pulled away from the only home I'd ever known. I didn't look back. What was the point?

"You'll have your own room," Killian said after a few minutes of silence. "Your own space. I'm not a barbarian."

"Just a man who threatens fifteen year old girls."

His jaw tightened. "I wouldn't have touched her."

"But you would have taken her."

"If necessary." He shifted in his seat, and suddenly he was closer, invading my space. "Let's establish some ground rules, Cassia. I don't tolerate disobedience. I don't tolerate disrespect. And I certainly don't tolerate lies. You belong to me now. The sooner you accept that, the easier this will be."

I turned to face him fully, let him see that I wasn't afraid. Even though I was. Even though my heart was racing so fast I thought it might explode.

"Let me establish something too," I said quietly. "You can threaten me. You can lock me up. You can do whatever you want to me. But you will never, ever own me. Not really. I'll play your game, Mr. Thorne. I'll be your perfect little wife. But don't mistake compliance for surrender."

For a moment, I thought he might hit me. His hand twitched, his eyes darkened with something dangerous.

Then he laughed.

Actually laughed, low and rough, like I'd just told the best joke he'd heard in years.

"God," he breathed, leaning back. "You're perfect."

"I'm your worst nightmare," I corrected.

"Same thing." He was looking at me like I was a puzzle he couldn't wait to solve, a challenge he'd been craving. 

"The others... they broke too easily. Cried, begged, tried to run. Boring. Predictable." 

His eyes roamed over my face, hungry and possessive. "But you... you're going to fight me every step of the way, aren't you?"

"Count on it."

"Good." He reached out, and I forced myself not to flinch as his fingers brushed my cheek. "I like a challenge."

The mansion appeared through the trees like something out of a gothic novel. 

Massive, sprawling, with tall windows that looked like eyes watching our approach. 

The grounds were immaculate, gardens perfectly manicured, a fountain in the circular driveway that probably cost more than my entire neighborhood.

This was going to be my prison.

"Welcome home," Killian said as the car stopped.

Home. The word felt like a slap.

The driver opened my door, and I stepped out onto marble pavers, my cheap shoes looking pathetic against the grandeur. 

Staff appeared from nowhere, taking my pathetic bag, bowing slightly to Killian.

And then I saw them.

The other wives.

They stood on the front steps like a receiving line, five women of varying ages and appearances, all watching me with expressions ranging from curiosity to outright hostility.

"Ladies," Killian said, his hand possessive on the small of my back. "Meet Cassia. My sixth bride."

The beautiful one in front, dark hair swept up elegantly, eyes sharp as knives, smiled at me.

It was the kind of smile that promised blood.

The mansion smelled like money. Polished wood, fresh flowers, something expensive burning in a fireplace somewhere. It made my stomach turn.

The five women stood perfectly still, like they'd been positioned there. Arranged. I wondered if Killian had called ahead, told them to line up and look pretty for his newest acquisition.

The one in front stepped forward first. She was stunning in that effortless way that came from good genes and better surgeries. Mid thirties maybe, with dark hair that fell in perfect waves and eyes that assessed me like I was something she might buy at an auction.

"Cassia," she said, my name rolling off her tongue with just enough condescension to sting. "How... young you are."

"Isla," Killian's voice held a warning. "Play nice."

So this was Isla. The kind of woman who smiled while planning your destruction.

"I'm always nice," Isla said sweetly, but her eyes stayed cold. "Welcome to the family, darling."

Family. Right.

The second woman was younger, maybe late twenties, with blonde hair cut short and sharp. She looked me up and down with open disdain, then turned to Killian.

"Really?" she said flatly. "Another one?"

"Nessa." Killian's tone was sharp now. Harder.

Nessa. The rebel. I could see it in the way she stood, arms crossed, jaw set. She wasn't afraid of him, or she was too angry to care anymore.

"What?" Nessa challenged. "We're supposed to pretend this is normal? That bringing home a teenager is..."

"I'm nineteen," I cut in. All eyes snapped to me. "And I can speak for myself, thanks."

Nessa's eyebrows shot up. Then, unexpectedly, she grinned. "Oh, I like this one."

"Don't get attached," the third woman said quietly. She was beautiful in a faded sort of way, like a painting left too long in the sun. Thirtyish, with auburn hair and tired eyes. "They never last."

The indifferent one, I realized. The one who'd checked out emotionally.

"Vera," Killian said, and there was something almost gentle in his voice. Pity, maybe. "That's enough."

Vera shrugged, already losing interest, staring past us at nothing.

The fourth woman hadn't moved from her position on the steps. She was small, delicate, with dark skin and careful eyes. She watched everything, said nothing, and I recognized the look immediately.

The survivor. Calculator. Schemer.

She met my gaze and smiled slightly, like we were sharing a private joke. I didn't smile back.

The last woman finally stepped forward, and something in her expression was different from the others. Softer. Almost kind.

"I'm Thalia," she said, her voice warm. "I know this must be overwhelming. If you need anything, anything at all, please don't hesitate to ask."

The ally who shouldn't be trusted.

"How generous of you," I said, keeping my tone neutral.

Thalia's smile didn't waver, but something flickered in her eyes. Good. She knew I wasn't buying it.

"Elena will show you to your room," Killian said, gesturing to an older woman in a crisp uniform who'd appeared silently beside us. A housekeeper, I assumed. "Dinner is at eight. Don't be late."

He started to walk away, then paused, turning back to look at me with an expression I couldn't quite read.

"Oh, and Cassia?" His voice dropped lower, intimate despite the audience. "Wear something beautiful. I want to look at you."

Heat flushed my cheeks. From anger, I told myself. Only anger.

The wives watched him go, then turned back to me with varying expressions of pity, amusement, and calculation.

"Well," Isla said, smoothing her already perfect hair. "This should be entertaining."

Elena led me through a maze of hallways, each more obscenely decorated than the last. Marble floors, crystal chandeliers, artwork that probably belonged in museums. Every surface gleamed. Every corner was perfect.

It felt like a mausoleum.

"Here," Elena said, opening a door at the end of a long corridor.

I stepped inside and stopped.

The room was enormous. Bigger than my entire house had been. A massive four poster bed dominated the space, draped in silk that probably cost more than a car. Floor to ceiling windows looked out over manicured gardens. There was a sitting area, a desk, a door that led to what I assumed was a bathroom.

And roses. Dozens of white roses in crystal vases, their scent overwhelming.

"Mr. Thorne had these brought in for you," Elena said. "He thought you'd like them."

I walked to the nearest vase, touched a petal. Soft. Perfect. Probably flown in from somewhere exotic.

I hated them.

"Your clothes have been unpacked," Elena continued, gesturing to a walk in closet I hadn't noticed. "Though Mr. Thorne has arranged for a more... suitable wardrobe to be delivered tomorrow."

Of course he had. Can't have his newest prize wearing Target jeans.

"Dinner at eight," Elena reminded me. "The dining room is on the first floor, west wing. Someone will come collect you."

She left, closing the door with a soft click.

I was alone.

I walked to the window, pressed my forehead against the cool glass, and finally let myself breathe.

One hour in this place and I already felt like I was suffocating.

The grounds stretched out below me, beautiful and vast and surrounded by walls. High walls. Topped with security cameras.

A prison, I reminded myself. No matter how pretty.

My eyes caught on movement near the gardens. A figure, too far away to make out clearly, but moving with purpose. Young, from the way they walked. Male, I thought.

He looked up suddenly, like he felt me watching, and even from this distance I could tell he was staring right back.

Then he disappeared into the trees.

I spent the next two hours exploring my cage.

The bathroom was ridiculous. Marble everything, a tub big enough to drown in, a shower with more settings than my father's car had. Luxury soap and shampoo lined the shelves, brands I'd only seen in magazines. There was even a vanity with lights around the mirror, drawers full of makeup and brushes and things I didn't know the names for.

The closet was worse.

Elena had unpacked my pathetic bag, and my few belongings looked lost among the empty hangers and shelves. A note sat on the center island, written in sharp, elegant handwriting.

These will be replaced. K.

I crumpled it and threw it in the corner.

The desk drawers were empty except for expensive stationary and pens. I opened the bedside table and found it stocked with things that made my face burn. Condoms. Lubricant. Other things I recognized from health class and really didn't want to think about.

So that's what he expected.

I slammed the drawer shut and sat on the edge of the bed, trying to steady my breathing.

Think, Cassia. Think like you planned.

Killian wanted me. Obsessed over me. That was my leverage. But the other wives were the real danger. Five women who knew this game better than I did, who'd survived here longer, who saw me as either a threat or entertainment.

I needed to figure out which ones were which.

Isla was the obvious enemy. Smart, calculating, probably ran things among the wives. She'd see me as competition.

Nessa was angry, rebellious. Possible ally if I played it right, but also unpredictable.

Vera had given up. Might be useful, might be dead weight.

The quiet one, the schemer whose name I hadn't caught, was dangerous in a different way. She watched. Waited. Probably knew everyone's secrets.

And Thalia, offering friendship with that warm smile. The most dangerous of all, maybe, because I wanted to believe her.

A knock at the door pulled me from my thoughts.

"Miss Cassia?" A young maid, maybe my age, peeked in nervously. "It's time to dress for dinner. I'm here to help."

"I don't need help."

"Mr. Thorne insists." She stepped inside, carrying a garment bag. "He sent this for you to wear."

Of course he did.

She unzipped the bag and pulled out a dress that made my stomach drop. Deep red, the color of wine or blood, with a neckline that plunged and fabric that would cling to every curve. Beautiful. Expensive. Completely transparent in its purpose.

He wanted to show me off. Stake his claim in front of the others.

"I'm not wearing that."

The maid's face went pale. "But Mr. Thorne..."

"Can kiss my ass," I finished. I walked to my pathetic pile of clothes and pulled out the only dress I owned. Simple, black, modest. I'd worn it to my high school graduation. "I'm wearing this."

"He'll be angry," she whispered.

"Good."

I changed in the bathroom, ignoring the red dress like it didn't exist. The black one fit differently than I remembered, tighter in places I'd filled out since graduation. Not scandalous, but not invisible either.

When I emerged, the maid looked like she might cry.

"It's fine," I told her. "If he's mad, tell him it was my choice."

"He'll know that anyway," she muttered.

Fair point.

She did my hair and makeup despite my protests, keeping it simple like I asked. Natural. When I looked in the mirror, I barely recognized myself. I looked older. Harder.

Ready for war.

The dining room was exactly as obscene as I'd expected.

A table that could seat twenty, set with china and crystal that probably cost more than my college tuition would have. Candles everywhere, casting flickering shadows on walls covered in paintings of dead people.

The wives were already seated, arranged along one side of the table like they'd done this a thousand times. They'd all changed for dinner too, each one dressed to kill in their own way.

Isla wore emerald green that matched her calculating eyes. Nessa was in black leather pants and a silk top, somehow making evening wear look rebellious. Vera had chosen something flowing and pale that made her look like a ghost. The quiet schemer wore deep purple that highlighted her dark skin, and Thalia was in soft blue, looking innocent and kind.

They all stopped talking when I entered.

"Oh," Isla said, her eyes raking over my simple dress. "How... quaint."

"I call it 'not trying too hard,'" I replied, taking the empty seat across from her.

Nessa snorted into her wine glass.

"Where's Killian?" I asked, looking at the empty chair at the head of the table.

"He likes to make an entrance," Thalia said gently. "He'll be here soon."

"Must be nice," I said. "Making everyone wait."

"You'll learn," Vera said, her voice hollow. "Everything here is about waiting. Waiting for his attention. Waiting for his mood to shift. Waiting to see which one of us he wants that night."

The temperature in the room dropped about ten degrees.

"Vera," Thalia said softly. "Don't."

"Why not? She should know what she signed up for." Vera lifted her wine glass, and I noticed her hand was shaking slightly. "Welcome to hell, sweetie. The sheets are expensive but they don't make it hurt less."

"That's enough." The quiet woman spoke for the first time, her voice surprisingly strong. "You're scaring her."

"Good," Vera muttered.

"I'm Mira, by the way," the woman continued, turning to me with a small smile. "Since no one properly introduced us."

Mira. The schemer. I nodded acknowledgment.

"So," Isla leaned forward, candlelight making her look even more predatory. "Tell us about yourself, Cassia. What makes you so special that Killian brought you here?"

"My father's debt," I said flatly.

That surprised them. Even Isla's mask slipped for a second.

"You know?" Nessa asked.

"Of course I know. I'm not an idiot."

"Most of the girls he brings home are," Isla said. "They think he loves them. That they're different. Special."

"I know exactly what I am," I said. "Payment. Property. His sixth attempt at whatever sick game he's playing."

"Oh, I really do like her," Nessa said, grinning.

"Don't," Isla warned, her eyes never leaving mine. "She won't last a month."

"Want to bet on it?"

The challenge hung in the air between us, sharp and dangerous.

Then the doors opened, and Killian walked in.

He was dressed in a perfectly tailored suit, dark and expensive, and his eyes went straight to me. I watched his gaze travel over my simple black dress, saw his jaw tighten slightly.

So he'd noticed the rebellion.

"Ladies," he said smoothly, taking his seat at the head of the table. "I see you've all met Cassia."

"We've been getting acquainted," Isla said sweetly. "She's... refreshing."

Killian's eyes were still on me. "She's perfect."

"She's not wearing the dress you sent," Mira observed quietly.

Silence.

Killian's fingers drummed once against the table. "No," he said slowly. "She's not."

Everyone was watching now, waiting to see how this played out. I could feel the tension, thick enough to cut.

I met his gaze steadily. "Red's not my color."

"Everything's your color," he said. "Stand up."

"Excuse me?"

"Stand. Up." Not a request.

I considered refusing. Considered making a scene on my first night. But something in his expression told me that's exactly what he wanted. A reason to punish me in front of the others, establish dominance, show them all who was in control.

So I stood slowly, kept my chin up, my expression bored.

Killian rose too, walked around the table until he was standing in front of me. Close enough that I could smell his cologne again, feel the heat radiating off him.

"Turn around."

I did, slowly, letting him look. Let them all look.

"You're right," he finally said. "Red isn't your color. Black is better. It matches that fire in your eyes." His hand came up, fingers trailing along my shoulder, down my arm. Possessive. "But next time I send you something to wear, you'll wear it. Understood?"

"Or what?" The words were out before I could stop them.

His fingers tightened slightly on my arm. Not painful, but firm. A warning.

Then he leaned in close, his lips nearly brushing my ear. "Or I'll dress you myself. And I promise you won't enjoy it."

He released me and returned to his seat like nothing had happened.

"Sit," he said. "Eat. I want to look at you while I do."