Dallas Cole POV:

The garden felt like a cage, the air too thin to fill my lungs. Desperate, I fled toward the only other person in this fortress of stone and blood who had ever shown me a shred of kindness.

Antone.

Desmond's younger brother. The Enforcer. The chaotic element in a rigid world.

He had always been the softer landing. When Desmond was cold, Antone was charming. When the Don was cruel, Antone brought me chocolate.

I shoved open the heavy oak door to his suite, bypassing the courtesy of a knock.

Hot, humiliating tears blurred my vision, warping the room into soft, indistinct shapes.

"Antone?" I called out.

The room was empty. The shower was running in the adjacent bathroom, steam curling out from under the door like a creeping fog.

I sank onto the edge of his bed, burying my face in my hands. I needed a friend. I needed someone to tell me I wasn't just collateral damage.

A soft chime pinged from the desk.

It was his laptop. The screen was glowing eerie blue in the dim room.

I glanced over, intending to ignore it, but my name caught my eye.

The Charity Case.

My breath hitched. I stood up and walked to the desk. It was an encrypted chat window with his crew.

Soldier: Did Des drop the bomb on the girl yet?

Antone: Tonight. It's hilarious. She actually thinks she has a shot at the throne.

Soldier: You gonna comfort her?

Antone: Obviously. I need to get close to Chelsea. The best way to the new Queen is through the pathetic little sister.

My blood ran cold.

I scrolled up, my stomach churning.

There were photos. Not of me. Of Chelsea.

Hundreds of them. Chelsea walking her dog. Chelsea at a gala. Chelsea unaware she was being watched.

Antone wasn't my friend. He was a stalker obsessed with his brother's fiancée. He was using me as nothing more than a bridge to get to her.

The bathroom door clicked open.

Antone stepped out, a towel slung low around his waist. Steam clung to his skin. He saw me standing by the desk. He saw where I was looking.

The charming smile evaporated instantly.

"You shouldn't snoop, Dallas," he said. His voice lacked its usual warmth. It was hollow, stripped of all pretense.

"You're sick," I whispered, backing away. "You don't care about me. You never did."

He laughed. It was a dry, ugly sound. He walked toward me, water dripping from his hair onto the carpet.

"Care about you?" He looked at me with open disdain. "You're a stray, Dallas. We feed you so you don't bite. But you have your uses."

He cornered me against the wardrobe. The smell of his soap was overpowering, cloying and sharp.

"Desmond broke you tonight," Antone said, his eyes glazing over. He looked at me, but he wasn't seeing me. He was seeing a blonde heiress.

"You're vulnerable. You need comfort."

"Get away from me," I warned, my voice trembling.

"You're wearing white," he murmured, reaching out. "Just like she will."

He grabbed my arm. His grip was bruising.

"Let go!" I screamed.

"Pretend I'm him," he slurred, suddenly sounding drunk on his own madness. "Pretend I'm Desmond. Or I can pretend you're Chelsea. The math works either way."

He yanked me forward. The fabric of my dress tore at the shoulder.

Panic spiked in my chest. This wasn't the brother I knew. This was a predator who had been hiding in plain sight all along.

I didn't think. Instinct hijacked my limbs.

I swung my hand and slapped him across the face with every ounce of strength I possessed. The sound was like a gunshot.

Antone stumbled back, shock replacing the lust in his eyes.

He touched his cheek. He looked at me, and for a second, the mask of the charming brother tried to slide back into place.

"Dallas, I-"

"Don't," I spat, clutching my torn dress. "Don't you dare lie to me again."

I saw him then. Really saw him. He wasn't a savior. He was just another monster hiding inside a tailored suit.

Dallas Cole POV:

I didn't sleep. I couldn't. I spent the night dissecting the digital ghost of my life.

I guessed Antone's phone passcode on the third try. It wasn't his birthday, and it certainly wasn't mine. It was Chelsea's.

The gallery was a shrine. There were hundreds of them. Photos of her zoomed in from across streets, captured through bedroom windows. And in the notes app, I found the scripts. Drafts of messages to me-step-by-step guides on how to make me trust him so he could be near her.

Tell the orphan she looks pretty. Touch her shoulder. Make her feel safe.

I felt dirty. I felt used down to the marrow.

I packed one bag. Just the essentials. No jewelry Desmond gave me. No clothes Antone bought me. Just the things that were irrevocably mine.

A sharp knock on the door interrupted me.

"The Don wants to see you," a guard said from the hallway. He didn't wait for an answer.

I walked to the study. My legs felt like lead, but my spine was steel. I had nothing left to lose.

Mr. and Mrs. Morgan were sitting behind the massive mahogany desk. Desmond was there, staring out the window, refusing to look at me. Antone was leaning against the bookshelf, nursing a fresh bruise on his cheek.

"Sit," The Don commanded.

I remained standing.

"We have a situation," the Matriarch said. She was a cold woman who looked at me like I was a stain on her expensive Persian carpet. "Your parents' accident... left us with certain liabilities. And with Desmond's engagement, your presence here is becoming... complicated."

"Complicated," I repeated, my voice hollow. "Is that what you call sleeping with your son for two years?"

Desmond stiffened but didn't turn around.

"Watch your mouth!" The Don slammed his hand on the desk. "You are a ward of this family. You are property."

"We found a solution," the Matriarch interrupted smoothly. She slid a black folder across the desk.

I looked down.

Marriage Contract.

Groom: Kennedy Simmons.

My breath hitched. Kennedy Simmons. The Don of the West Coast. The man they called the Wounded King.

He was a myth and a nightmare. A tech genius who ran the entire cyber-crime network west of the Mississippi. Rumor said a car bomb took his legs five years ago. Rumor said he was a recluse who flayed his enemies alive.

"He needs a wife to secure his East Coast expansion," The Don said, his tone dismissive. "We need his servers for our operation. It's a trade."

"You're selling me," I said. It wasn't a question.

"We are securing your future," the Matriarch corrected. "He is wealthy. You will be taken care of. And you will be far away from here."

Away from Desmond. Away from Antone.

"I'll take it," I said.

Desmond spun around. "What?"

"I accept," I said, looking straight at the Don.

"No!" Antone pushed off the bookshelf. "She stays. We can't send her to that cripple. She's... she's family."

It was a performance. He didn't want to lose his pawn. He didn't want to lose his access to Chelsea through me.

"Silence, Antone," his mother snapped. "It is done."

Antone looked at me, his eyes wide with fake panic. "Dallas, tell them no. Tell them you want to stay with me. I'll protect you."

I looked at the bruise on his face, then at the lies hidden behind his eyes.

"I would rather marry a monster I don't know," I said softly, "than live with the ones I do."

Desmond stepped forward, his jaw tight. "You're doing this to spite me."

"I'm doing this," I said, picking up the pen, "to survive you."

The hallway narrowed around me, feeling less like a corridor and more like a tunnel closing in.

I walked out of the office, the ink on the contract barely dry. I had just signed my life away to a stranger in Seattle, yet for the first time in years, the air tasted clean.

Antone was right on my heels. He snatched my wrist.

"Let go," I warned. My voice was low, vibrating with danger.

"You can't go to him," Antone whispered urgently, panic lacing his tone. "Simmons is a machine. He doesn't feel anything. Stay here. Be my... be my assistant. We can figure this out."

I yanked my arm back, breaking his hold.

We spilled into the main foyer now. Chelsea was descending the stairs, looking immaculate in baby blue. Desmond stood framed in the doorway of the study.

"Assistant?" I laughed, and the sound tore from my throat, sharp and jagged. "Is that what you call a shield now? Someone to hide behind while you stare at her?"

I pointed an accusing finger at Chelsea.

Chelsea paused on the stairs, hand hovering over the railing. "Excuse me?"

"Tell them, Antone," I challenged him. "Tell your brother why you really want me to stay."

Antone's face drained of color.

"She's hysterical," he said quickly, pivoting to Desmond. "She's just upset about the marriage."

"I'm not upset," I said, addressing the entire room. My voice echoed off the cold marble floors. "I am relieved."

I swept my gaze to Desmond, then to his parents, who had just emerged from the office.

"My only sin," I said, tears finally stinging my eyes, "was loving any of you."

I looked at Desmond. "I loved you, and you treated me like a whore."

I shifted my gaze to Antone. "I trusted you, and you treated me like a tool."

Finally, I turned to the Don. "I respected you, and you sold me like cattle."

"That is enough!" The Don roared. "You will sign the NDA and you will leave."

"I already signed it," I shot back. "I signed it as Dallas Cole. Not a Morgan. I want nothing from you. No trust fund. No clothes. And certainly no name."

I turned to the door.

"Dallas," Desmond called out. There was a crack in his voice. A fissure in the stone.

I didn't turn back.

I reached the heavy front door and shoved it open. The sunlight hit me like a physical blow, blinding and harsh.

My knees buckled.

The adrenaline that had held me upright, that had acted as my spine, vanished. The betrayal, the fear, the absolute exhaustion crashed into me all at once.

I collapsed on the threshold.

The last thing I heard was Chelsea asking, "Is she dead?"

And then, Desmond screaming my name.

Dallas Cole POV

The sharp sting of antiseptic pulled me from the dark.

I was back in the family's private medical wing. My head throbbed in a dull, rhythmic cadence.

"You're awake."

Desmond was sitting in the chair next to the bed. He looked like he hadn't slept in days. His tie was undone, hanging loosely around his neck like a noose.

"Go away," I croaked, my throat dry as sandpaper.

"Who is he?" Desmond asked abruptly.

"What?"

"You said your sin was loving us." His voice dropped, dangerous and low. "But you looked at Antone differently. Did you sleep with him?"

His possessiveness was suffocating, wrapping around my throat like a physical hand. Even now, after selling me, he wanted to know if his toys had been played with by someone else.

"It doesn't matter, Desmond. I'm Mrs. Simmons now. Or I will be in forty-eight hours."

He stood up, looming over the bed, blocking out the harsh overhead light. "If Antone touched you, I will kill him."

"You don't get to be jealous," I whispered, my voice trembling with exhaustion. "You're marrying Chelsea. Go be with your asset."

He clenched his jaw, the muscle feathering beneath the skin, before he turned and stormed out.

I closed my eyes, wishing I could dissolve into the sterile white sheets.

Voices drifted in from the hallway. The door was slightly ajar, carelessly left open in his rage.

"I bought the cream," Antone's voice floated through. "The expensive stuff from Switzerland. For the scar on her forehead where she fell."

"Why bother?" A soldier asked.

"Because Chelsea feels bad for her," Antone replied, his tone light, conversational. "If I play the caring brother, Chelsea thinks I'm sweet. She texted me three times today asking how Dallas is. It's working."

My heart didn't even hurt this time. It just calcified.

The door pushed open a moment later.

Antone walked in, holding a small silver jar. He plastered on a sad smile.

"Hey, kid," he said softly. "I brought you something for the bruise. It's top of the line. No scars."

He held it out like a peace offering. Like love.

I looked at the jar. Then I looked at him.

I could scream. I could expose him. But I was trapped here for two more days. If I fought them, they might hurt me worse. If I fought them, they might cancel the deal and keep me as a prisoner in the basement indefinitely.

I needed to survive.

I took the jar, my fingers brushing against the cold glass.

"Thank you, Antone," I lied. My voice was dead, hollowed out.

"See?" He smiled, patting my hand condescendingly. "We're still family."

"Yeah," I said, gripping the jar until my knuckles turned white. "Family."

I set the cream on the table with a heavy thud.

"I'm not going to use it," I said.

"Why not?"

"Because," I said, fixing my gaze on the ceiling so I wouldn't have to look at his deceitful eyes. "Scars are a lesson. I don't want to forget this one."

I closed my eyes and waited for him to leave, counting the seconds until I could board that plane and burn this entire life to the ground.