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.

Dallas Cole POV:

"Smile," Antone whispered against the shell of my ear, his breath hot and moist. "You look like you're marching to the gallows."

"I am," I muttered, keeping my gaze fixed on the pavement.

His hand clamped harder around my waist, fingers biting into the delicate silk of the dress he had purchased for me only an hour ago. We were walking down Fifth Avenue, the sun glaring off the shop windows with the harsh, unforgiving intensity of an interrogation lamp.

"Chelsea is watching from the car," he said, his voice dropping to that low, charming pitch that used to make me feel safe. Now, it merely made my skin crawl.

"If you look miserable, she'll think you're still in love with Desmond. And if she thinks that, she might call off the wedding. And if she calls off the wedding, Father will not be pleased with you."

He stopped abruptly and turned me toward him, brushing a stray hair from my forehead with a tenderness that was entirely performative. To anyone passing by, we looked like the picture of young love.

"Do you want to be punished, Dallas?"

"No," I whispered.

"Then kiss me on the cheek."

I hesitated, my stomach churning with nausea.

He squeezed my waist. Hard enough to bruise.

I leaned up on tiptoes and pressed my lips to his jaw. He smelled of expensive cologne masking something rotten-a scent of moral decay.

"Perfect," a voice called out.

I pulled back as if burned. Desmond and Chelsea were stepping out of a black SUV at the curb. Chelsea was beaming, looking like a vision in cream chiffon, while Desmond looked like a thunderhead about to break.

"I told you they were cute together!" Chelsea squealed, linking her arm through Desmond's. She dragged him toward us.

Desmond didn't look at Antone. His dark eyes were locked on the spot where Antone's hand possessed my hip. A muscle in his jaw ticked violently.

"Shopping?" Chelsea asked, eyeing my bags.

"Antone is spoiling me," I lied, the words tasting like ash on my tongue.

"We should go together," Chelsea decided instantly. She looked up at Desmond, batting her lashes. "Babe, you promised to help me pick out the reception dress. Dallas can model the bridesmaid options."

"No," Desmond said sharply.

"Why not?" Chelsea pouted, tilting her head. "Unless... it bothers you?"

She let the question hang in the humid air. It was a trap. If Desmond refused, he admitted he still cared. If he agreed, he had to watch his brother touch me.

Desmond's eyes went flat, devoid of light. He adjusted his cufflinks with precise, jerky movements.

"Fine," he said. "Let's go."

We entered the bridal salon like a funeral procession. The staff fluttered around Chelsea, offering crystal flutes of champagne and hollow compliments. I was directed to a rack of shapeless pastel dresses in the back, banished from the spotlight.

"Actually," Chelsea called out from the velvet podium, stopping the salesgirl. "Put Dallas in the A-line. The white one. I want to see how the fabric moves on a body before I try it."

The salesgirl hesitated, glancing between us. "The bridal gown?"

"Yes," Chelsea said, her smile not quite reaching her eyes. "She's the same size as me. Roughly."

I looked at Desmond. He was sitting on a tufted leather couch, swirling a glass of scotch, staring into the amber liquid. He didn't stop her.

"Do it," Antone whispered, nudging me toward the dressing room with a sharp prod. "Be a good doll."

Ten minutes later, I stepped out.

The dress was magnificent. Lace sleeves, a plunging back, and a train that pooled around my feet like spilled liquid moonlight. I stood on the pedestal, the overhead lights blinding me.

I looked in the mirror. I looked like a bride.

I just wasn't theirs.

Antone walked up to the pedestal. He wasn't looking at my face, though. He was holding his phone low, angling it so he could snap a photo of my body. I followed his gaze. He wasn't photographing me; he was photographing the dress, imagining Chelsea inside it.

"Beautiful," Antone murmured, his voice thick with a perverse sort of appreciation.

"It is," Chelsea agreed, sipping her champagne. "Although, it might be a bit tight in the hips for her. She has... wider proportions."

Desmond stood abruptly.

The crystal tumbler in his hand didn't just break; it shattered under the crushing force of his grip.

The sound silenced the room instantly. Amber liquid mixed with bright red blood dripped from his hand onto the pristine white carpet.

"Get it off her," Desmond said. His voice was a low, dangerous growl.

"Desmond, you're bleeding!" Chelsea gasped, rushing to him.

He ignored her completely. He walked toward me, stepping heedlessly onto the train of the dress. He looked at Antone, then up at me. His eyes were wild, filled with a terrifying, intoxicating mix of rage and hunger.

"Take it off," he commanded, the order leaving no room for argument. "Now."