Obsession in silk

Nyra’s POV: Nyra Kingston reclined in her chair like royalty grown bored of her court—one heel slung carelessly over the velvet armrest, a crystal wine glass dangling from her fingers. She didn’t sip it. She didn’t need to. Just holding it made her look powerful. Dangerous. Unbothered. But she was far from unbothered. Her eyes swept the room, not searching—just trying to process what she had just heard. Her father’s words still echoed like a bullet ricocheting in her mind. The silence stretched long and suffocating, broken only by the distant tick of the grandfather clock near the fireplace. Her mother sat trembling, fingers clutching the edge of the armrest like it was the only thing keeping her grounded. Nyra’s voice sliced through the tension. “Say it again,” she said coolly. “I think I misheard you.” Her father didn’t blink. His jaw ticked once before he repeated himself, word for word. “You’re getting married. In two weeks.” Nyra let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “To who?” “Jace Taylor.” The name hit like a pebble against glass. Small. Insignificant. But something about it made a crack appear in her composure. “Jace Taylor?” she repeated slowly, tilting her head. The name sounded vaguely familiar—polished, forgettable, the type that belonged to private school valedictorians and polite boys with trust funds and no backbones. “Never heard of him.” “You have,” her mother said softly. “You just don’t remember.” Nyra’s gaze cut to her. “Then clearly, he wasn’t worth remembering.” Her father’s tone darkened. “Enough. This isn’t a discussion, Nyra.” “You’re right,” she said, setting the wine glass down with a soft clink. “It’s a goddamn joke.” Her father stood now, his movements sharp and calculated. “The Kingston name is bleeding. Our accounts are frozen, our assets are under scrutiny, and enemies are circling like vultures. You know what that means.” Nyra didn’t flinch. “It means you’ve finally run out of favors to call in.” He ignored the jab. “The Taylors made an offer. A merger. Through marriage.” “An offer?” She arched a perfectly groomed brow. “You make it sound like a business proposal. Oh wait—it was, wasn’t it?” “You are not a child anymore, Nyra. You know exactly how our world works.” Her nails tapped rhythmically against the armrest. “Yes. I know exactly how you work. But selling your daughter to keep the family name afloat? Even for you, that’s low.” “It’s not selling. It’s survival.” “No,” she said, rising to her feet. “It’s desperation.” The word stung, and she knew it hit its mark by the way her father’s mouth tightened. Her mother reached out as if to soothe her, but Nyra stepped back. “I’m not some pawn you can place on a board whenever your kingdom starts crumbling.” “No,” her father said quietly. “You’re a weapon. That’s why I chose you.” The room seemed to still. Nyra stared at him, emotions warring beneath her skin. He said it like it was a compliment. Like he was proud. But to her, it sounded like a sentence. Her mother’s voice broke through the silence. “Jace is kind, Nyra. He’s… not like the others. He’s always been—” “Stop.” Nyra’s voice was firm. “I don’t care if he sings to orphans or rescues puppies from burning buildings. This isn’t about him. This is about me. My life. My freedom.” “You were never free,” her father said, not unkindly. Just matter-of-fact. She hated that he was right. She hated that she knew this day would come. Not the name. Not the face. But the arrangement. The price of the name she carried. She was born with a leash around her neck. Still, if they thought she would go quietly into a life built on control, they didn’t know her at all. Nyra walked toward the liquor cabinet and poured herself a shot of whiskey. Neat. Her fingers were steady. Her spine straight. “I’ll marry him,” she said, turning back to face them. “But don’t expect a docile bride. I’ll make his life hell.” Her mother flinched, but her father didn’t. He met her gaze, his own expression unreadable. “He already knows what he’s getting into.” Nyra froze. It was the way he said it. Calm. Certain. Not a warning. A setup. Something cold slithered down her spine. She pressed the rim of the glass to her lips, though she didn’t drink it. “Tell me something,” she said, her voice low. “What kind of man agrees to marry a woman who doesn’t even remember him? What kind of man signs a contract without ever speaking to her first?” Her father didn’t answer. Her mother wouldn’t meet her eyes. That was answer enough. Nyra set the glass down slowly. “I want to see the contract.” “It’s already signed,” her father said. “I don’t care. I want to see what you sold me for.” A beat of silence. Then: “It’s in my study. I’ll have it sent to your room.” Nyra didn’t thank him. She turned on her heel and walked out, every step measured and slow. But as soon as she was out of sight, her pace quickened. She needed air. She needed space. She needed answers. Jace Taylor. The name buzzed in her brain like a distant alarm. If he was everything her father said… Why did it feel like she was walking into a trap?