Kenia Hayes POV

I dragged myself away from the villa, the raucous sounds of their celebration still drifting from the upstairs windows like a cruel taunt.

My ankle was twisted, throbbing in time with my heartbeat.

My dignity was in shreds.

I reached the main road just as the sun began to set, bruising the horizon in violent shades of purple and black.

I had one card left to play.

A card I had sworn never to touch.

Approaching a payphone outside a closed gas station, my fingers trembled as I punched in the number burned into my memory from three years ago.

It rang once.

"Speak."

The voice was low. Raspy. Laced with dormant violence.

"It's Kenia Hayes," I whispered, clutching the receiver like a lifeline. "I'm calling in the debt."

There was a silence on the other end.

Heavy. Thick. Suffocating.

"Where are you?"

"Route 9, near the Dalton cliffs."

"Stay in the shadows. Do not move. If a car passes, hide."

The line went dead.

Gael Simpson.

The Don of the Simpson Syndicate.

The rival family.

He was the monster under the bed that Holden had always told me to fear.

But Holden was the one who had just thrown me off a cliff for a laugh.

Twenty minutes later, a black SUV rolled up, headlights cut.

The back door opened.

I barely registered the shadow of a driver in the front.

I just saw him.

Gael.

He was sitting in the back, dressed in a suit that cost more than my entire life.

He didn't smile.

He didn't offer a hand.

He just looked at me with eyes like burnished steel.

"Get in," he commanded.

I climbed in, wincing as I pulled my injured leg inside.

The interior smelled of rich leather and expensive scotch.

"He broke you," Gael stated.

It wasn't a question.

"Yes," I said, my voice hollow.

"Then the contract begins," he said, his tone finalizing my fate. "Three months. You belong to me."

"I know."

My head spun. The adrenaline was fading, leaving behind a cold, shaking shock.

"I need... I need a hospital," I mumbled, vision blurring.

"Arthur," Gael said to the silhouette in the driver's seat. "St. Jude's. The private wing."

The darkness took me before we even hit the highway.

*

I woke up in a white room.

The steady *beep-beep-beep* of a monitor was the only sound.

A TV was mounted on the wall, playing the news on mute.

I blinked, trying to focus through the haze of medication.

I saw Holden’s face on the screen.

He was standing at a podium, looking solemn.

Estella was beside him, dabbing at dry eyes with a handkerchief.

I fumbled for the remote on the side table and unmuted it.

"...tragic misunderstanding," Holden was saying, his voice smooth as poisoned honey. "Kenia was unstable. She was jealous of my engagement to Estella. She threw herself off the balcony in a bid for attention. We are just grateful she survived."

Liar.

"We are praying for her recovery," Estella added, her voice trembling with practiced grief. "She needs help."

The door to my hospital room opened.

Holden walked in.

He was wearing the same suit from the press conference, fresh from his performance.

He held a bouquet of lilies.

"You're awake," he said, closing the door with a soft click.

He tossed the flowers onto the end of the bed.

"Lilies," I rasped, my throat tightening. "I'm allergic to lilies."

Holden paused.

He frowned, genuine confusion knitting his brow.

"Are you?" he asked. "I didn't know that."

Three years.

He didn't know I was allergic to lilies.

He didn't know anything about me.

"Get out," I said.

"Don't be like that, baby," he cooed, stepping closer. "The press ate it up. You're the tragic ex. I'm the benevolent savior. It's good for the stock price."

He reached out to touch my face.

I flinched violently.

"Don't touch me."

"You're still mine, Kenia," he whispered, his eyes darkening into two pits of obsession. "You live in my city. You breathe my air. Don't think for a second you can leave."

He didn't know who had brought me here.

He thought his men had found me.

He didn't know the wolf was already inside the house.

Kenia Hayes POV

Two weeks later, he didn't just ask me to attend the Art Center Charity Gala; he commanded it.

"It's for Mr. Evans," Holden had said, dangling my mentor's name before me like bait. "He's receiving the Lifetime Achievement Award. You wouldn't want to miss that, would you?"

I wore the dress he picked out.

Black.

Backless.

A collar of diamonds fastened tight around my throat—a decoration that felt far less like jewelry and far more like a leash.

The gala was in full swing when we arrived.

Crystal chandeliers dripped light from the ceiling.

Champagne towers shimmered like liquid gold.

The elite of the underworld were mingling with high-court judges and politicians, a seamless blend of crime and legality.

Holden gripped my elbow, his fingers acting as a vice, steering me through the crowd.

Estella was already there, holding court near the main stage.

She was wearing white.

Of course.

"And here is the artist behind the restoration of the chapel," the announcer boomed over the speakers.

I looked up.

My work.

The frescos I had spent six months painstakingly restoring, breathing life back into fading pigment.

High-definition images of them flashed on the giant screen behind the podium.

"Please welcome, Estella Duncan!"

Applause thundered.

I froze.

Estella walked up the stairs, waving with practiced grace.

"Thank you," she gushed into the microphone, feigning humility. "It was a labor of love."

I felt the blood drain from my face until I was cold all over.

She hadn't touched a brush.

She didn't know the difference between tempera and oil, between a glaze and a scumble.

I looked at Holden.

He was clapping.

"You gave her my work," I said.

My voice was quiet, but it carried the weight of a collapsing building.

"She needs the good press, Kenia," Holden said without glancing down at me. "You're a nobody. No one cares if you restored a ceiling. But a Mafia Princess doing charity work? That's a headline."

Something snapped.

It wasn't a loud snap.

It was the sound of the last thread binding me to sanity finally breaking.

I reached into my clutch.

I pulled out the folded piece of paper I had carried with me since the day he proposed.

The marriage license.

He had told me we were married in secret, a private ceremony before the big public one.

I walked onto the stage.

The applause died down into confused murmurs as I approached the microphone.

Estella looked annoyed, her perfect smile faltering.

"What are you doing?" she hissed.

I ignored her.

I held up the paper.

"This," I said into the mic, my voice echoing through the cavernous hall, "is the marriage license Holden Dalton gave me two years ago."

Gasps rippled through the crowd.

Holden started moving toward the stage, his expression shifting from confusion to panic.

"It's a fake," I said, my voice steady. "Just like his honor."

I ripped the paper in half.

Then in quarters.

I threw the confetti of lies into Estella's face.

"I am not your *Comare*," I declared, looking straight at Holden as the paper rained down. "And I am not your property."

The room went silent.

The heads of the Five Families were watching.

Holden’s face turned a shade of red I had never seen.

He lunged onto the stage.

He didn't care about the cameras anymore.

He grabbed my arm, his fingers digging mercilessly into my existing bruise.

"You stupid bitch," he snarled.

He dragged me off the stage.

He hauled me through the kitchen, past stunned staff.

He shoved me out the back exit and threw me into his car.

"Home," he barked at the driver.

He locked the doors.

"You wanted a show?" he asked, unbuckling his belt as the car sped off. "I'll give you a show. You're never leaving the penthouse again. I'm going to board up the windows. You're going to rot in there until you learn your place."

I didn't cry.

I looked out the window at the passing city lights, blurring into streaks of gold and red.

I saw a black car following us.

Gael.

He was watching.

Waiting.

The three months hadn't started yet.

But the clock was ticking.

Kenia Hayes POV

The penthouse was less a home and more a gilded cage.

Holden had taken my phone, my laptop, and even my shoes.

He left me with nothing but the view of the city I couldn't touch, taunting me behind reinforced glass.

Three days into my imprisonment, a maid smuggled in a burner phone.

She was new. Young. And her eyes held a dangerous amount of pity.

"Mr. Evans," she whispered, her hands trembling as she handed me the device wrapped in a linen napkin. "I saw it on the news. I thought... I thought you should know."

I hid in the bathroom, locked the door, and turned it on.

The headline was the first thing I saw, glaring at me in bold black letters.

*Art Curator Found Dead. Heart Attack Suspected.*

Mr. Evans.

My mentor. The only father figure I had ever known.

My breath hitched, turning into a strangled sob. I scrolled down, desperate for it to be a mistake.

There were rumors of an audit. Money laundering charges brought against his gallery by an anonymous tip.

The Dalton family.

They had squeezed him. They had stressed his old heart until it gave out, just to punish me for the scene at the gala.

I sank to the floor, clutching the phone to my chest as if it contained his heartbeat.

A chime echoed through the silent apartment.

A delivery notification.

The elevator doors in the hallway slid open with a soft whoosh.

I walked out, wiping my face.

A courier was standing there, looking out of place in the opulent foyer, holding a box.

"Package for Ms. Hayes," he said nervously, eyes darting around.

I took it. It was a cake box. White, with a satin ribbon.

I opened it.

It was a red velvet cake.

In perfect, looping crimson icing, it read:

*Sorry for your loss. Maybe next time don't flush the heir.*

There was a little fondant baby in the center.

It was headless.

I dry heaved, the bile rising in my throat.

Estella.

She knew about the abortion. She was mocking the death of my child and the death of my mentor in one sweet, sickly gesture.

The elevator dinged again.

Holden walked in, his stride confident and predatory.

He was followed by Estella and an older woman with hair like steel wool.

Annabella Blake.

The Dalton Matriarch. The true power.

"Look at her," Annabella said, her voice like grinding stones. "A mess."

Holden saw the cake. He didn't look shocked. He looked bored.

"Clean that up," he told the maid, dismissing the cruelty as if it were merely a spill.

"We have business," Annabella said, pointing a cane at me like a weapon. "The wedding is in two days. The press is still talking about your little stunt. We need to fix the narrative."

"I'm not doing anything for you," I spat, my voice shaking with rage.

Annabella stepped closer. She smelled of lavender and rot.

"You will," she said. "Or we will dig up Mr. Evans and plant heroin in his coffin. Do you want his legacy to be that of a drug dealer?"

My blood ran cold. The air left my lungs.

They had no bottom. There was no line they wouldn't cross.

"What do you want?" I asked, defeated.

"You will be a bridesmaid," Estella said, smiling a shark's smile. "You will stand next to me at the altar. You will hold my train. And you will smile. You will show the world that we are one big, happy family and that you accept your place as the lesser woman."

I looked at Holden.

He was checking his watch.

"Do it, Kenia," he said, not even glancing at me. "It's just a few hours. Then you can come back here and... rest."

Rest.

He meant rot.

"Fine," I said, my voice hollow.

"Good," Annabella said. "The fitting is in an hour. Don't be late."

They left, taking the air in the room with them.

I stood alone in the silence. I looked at the smashed cake on the floor.

I wasn't going to be a bridesmaid.

I was going to be a ghost.

I went back to the bathroom and pulled out the burner phone. I dialed the number, my fingers trembling.

"I'm ready," I said.

"Tomorrow," Gael's voice answered, steady and calm. "The wedding. Be at the altar. When the priest asks if anyone objects... run."

"Run where?"

"To the fire," he said.

And then the line went dead.

I looked at my reflection in the mirror.

The Caged Canary was dead.

The Thorny Rose was about to bloom.