Chapter 1
My wedding veil was ripped from my face. Three men in black surrounded the altar. My fiancé ran. And my father just stood there — watching.
"What the hell is happening?!" I screamed as two iron-grip hands clamped around my arms.
The guests scattered like roaches under light. Chairs toppled. My mother's portrait — the one I'd placed by the aisle because she couldn't be here — crashed to the ground, glass shattering across the marble floor.
"Dad!" I shrieked, thrashing against the men dragging me backward. "Dad, do something!"
My father, Richard Sinclair, the man who raised me, who walked me halfway down the aisle fifteen minutes ago, did not move. He stood frozen with his hands in his pockets and his jaw tight.
No shock. No horror.
He knew.
"I'm sorry, Vivian," he said. Just that. No explanation. No fight.
I felt my blood turn to ice.
"Let go of me!" I kicked one of the men, my heel connecting with his shin. He grunted but didn't release me.
Then the church doors opened and light flooded in, silhouetting a figure that made every person in that room stop breathing.
He was tall. Devastatingly so. Dark suit, darker eyes, a face carved from cold marble. He walked in like he owned the ground beneath him — like he owned everything.
Including me.
His gaze swept the chaos, then landed on me. Something flickered in those black eyes. Not warmth. Not pity. Possession.
"That's her?" His voice was low, controlled, the kind that didn't need volume to command a room.
"Yes, Mr. Blackwell," one of the men confirmed.
The man — Blackwell — tilted his head slightly, studying me the way one examines a purchase.
"Good." He turned to my father. "The debt is settled."
Debt?
"What debt?!" I screamed, still fighting. "Dad, what is he talking about?!"
My father finally looked away. That was his answer.
Damien Blackwell stepped closer to me, and I could smell him — dark cologne, smoke, danger. He leaned in until his lips nearly brushed my ear.
"Your father sold you to me, Vivian. You belong to me now."
Before I could respond, something pressed against my neck — a needle — and the world tilted sideways.
The last thing I saw was my father turning his back.
He didn't even watch them take me.
"What the hell is happening?!" I screamed as two iron-grip hands clamped around my arms.
The guests scattered like roaches under light. Chairs toppled. My mother's portrait — the one I'd placed by the aisle because she couldn't be here — crashed to the ground, glass shattering across the marble floor.
"Dad!" I shrieked, thrashing against the men dragging me backward. "Dad, do something!"
My father, Richard Sinclair, the man who raised me, who walked me halfway down the aisle fifteen minutes ago, did not move. He stood frozen with his hands in his pockets and his jaw tight.
No shock. No horror.
He knew.
"I'm sorry, Vivian," he said. Just that. No explanation. No fight.
I felt my blood turn to ice.
"Let go of me!" I kicked one of the men, my heel connecting with his shin. He grunted but didn't release me.
Then the church doors opened and light flooded in, silhouetting a figure that made every person in that room stop breathing.
He was tall. Devastatingly so. Dark suit, darker eyes, a face carved from cold marble. He walked in like he owned the ground beneath him — like he owned everything.
Including me.
His gaze swept the chaos, then landed on me. Something flickered in those black eyes. Not warmth. Not pity. Possession.
"That's her?" His voice was low, controlled, the kind that didn't need volume to command a room.
"Yes, Mr. Blackwell," one of the men confirmed.
The man — Blackwell — tilted his head slightly, studying me the way one examines a purchase.
"Good." He turned to my father. "The debt is settled."
Debt?
"What debt?!" I screamed, still fighting. "Dad, what is he talking about?!"
My father finally looked away. That was his answer.
Damien Blackwell stepped closer to me, and I could smell him — dark cologne, smoke, danger. He leaned in until his lips nearly brushed my ear.
"Your father sold you to me, Vivian. You belong to me now."
Before I could respond, something pressed against my neck — a needle — and the world tilted sideways.
The last thing I saw was my father turning his back.
He didn't even watch them take me.