LOVE BEYOND REALMS

A HEART IN REVOLT

Chapter 10

The words clung to Alexa’s ears long after she rose from the table, echoing through her chest with each uneven heartbeat.

You will marry Lucas Blackwood in two weeks’ time. That is final.

Her father’s decree followed her down the hall like a ghost, pressing against her ribs until she could scarcely breathe. She kept her chin high as she walked away from the dining room, unwilling to give Emily or Mirabel the satisfaction of seeing her break, but her steps betrayed her—stiff, halting, as though every muscle had turned to stone.

The mansion’s corridors seemed endless tonight. Normally they were only cold, lifeless stretches of marble and muted rugs, but now they loomed over her, oppressive and foreign. The oil paintings lining the walls—former Andersons with sharp eyes and self-satisfied smirks—seemed to watch her pass with silent judgment. Alexa swore their gazes burned into her, as if mocking her helplessness.

She quickened her pace, refusing to let herself fall apart until she reached the sanctuary of her room.

When at last the heavy door shut behind her, Alexa sagged against it, her back pressed hard to the wood. For a long moment, she could not move. The tremor in her hands betrayed her carefully maintained composure. She had kept her face neutral in front of them—calm, unreadable—but here, alone, she no longer had the strength.

Her knees gave way, and she slid to the floor. The tears she had fought so hard to contain spilled freely, tracing hot paths down her cheeks. She covered her face with her hands, her shoulders shaking in the silence.

It wasn’t only the marriage. It was the cruelty of it.

Her father had looked at her for the first time in years, and for a fleeting, fragile second, she had thought—hoped—that he cared. When he asked if she had been feeding well, she had clung to the possibility that somewhere in his heart, there was concern for her. But it had only been a cruel setup, a moment of false tenderness before he threw her into the fire.

Brooks Anderson didn’t see a daughter. He saw leverage.

The memory of Emily’s smirk flickered across her mind, sharp and gleeful. Mirabel’s thin smile, her eyes glittering with vindictive satisfaction. They had wanted her gone for years. Tonight, their wish had been granted.

Alexa wiped her cheeks with the heel of her palm and forced herself to stand. She wouldn’t cry on the floor like a beaten child. Not for them.

Her reflection in the tall mirror across the room stopped her. She almost didn’t recognize the woman staring back—red-rimmed eyes, trembling lips, pale skin drained of color. She looked fragile, small. Exactly how they wanted her to look.

“No,” Alexa whispered to her reflection, her voice raw. She shook her head violently, curls falling loose around her face. “No. I won’t let them decide who I am.”

Her gaze hardened, though tears still streaked her cheeks. I am not cattle to be bartered. I am not a coin to be traded.

She moved toward the window and pushed it open. The night air rushed in, cool and damp, carrying with it the scent of rain. Beyond the manicured gardens and towering walls of the Anderson estate, the world stretched dark and vast. Somewhere out there lay the Blackwood domain—an empire built on ruthless ambition, led by Kendrick Blackwood, a man whose name alone could make seasoned businessmen tremble.

“Lucas Blackwood…” She said the name softly, testing the sound of it, though the syllables tasted like iron on her tongue. Rumors about him had always traveled in whispers. Five years ago, a ghastly accident had shattered his life. Some claimed he was little more than a corpse kept breathing by machines. Others swore he still lingered in his family’s mansion, alive but silent, trapped in his own body.

To be married to such a man… to bind her youth and freedom to someone who could not speak or move—was that even a life? Or had her father just condemned her to a living death alongside him?

The thought made her stomach twist violently. She pressed her forehead against the cool glass of the window, her breath fogging the pane.

“Why me?” she whispered. “Why not Mirabel? Why not anyone else?”

But she knew the answer before the words even left her lips. To Emily, she had always been the thorn. To Mirabel, the rival. To her father, the unwanted reminder of a past he’d rather forget. She was expendable, and now she had been discarded like a pawn on a chessboard.

Anger flared, hot and bright, cutting through the despair like a blade.

Her fingernails dug crescent marks into her palms. No. They may have chosen this fate for me, but I will not go quietly.

Alexa crossed the room, her eyes catching on the small bookshelf by her bed. Once, she had dreamed of leaving this house—not by marriage, but by her own will. She had dreamed of travel, of work, of creating a life shaped by her choices. She had even hidden away brochures and maps, relics of the freedom she longed for. Those dreams had been her escape, her silent rebellion.

Now, her father meant to rip even that away.

Alexa pulled one of the maps from the shelf, her fingers trembling. It was worn from use, edges frayed from the number of times she had unfolded it, traced it, imagined herself following its lines. Her tears fell onto the paper, blurring the ink.

“I won’t let you steal this from me,” she whispered fiercely to the room.

Lightning split the sky outside, followed by the c***k of thunder. The storm had broken, rain pelting the windows in heavy sheets. The sound filled her room, drowning out the silence.

Alexa closed the map and set it back on the shelf with care. She wiped her face once more, and when she looked into the mirror again, her reflection had changed. She still looked fragile, but there was something else now—a glint in her eyes, a spark no amount of cruelty could extinguish.

“They can't drag me to the altar,” she said under her breath, her voice steadying, “ I won’t surrender. I’ll find a way out. I swear I will.”

The words hung in the air, carried by the thunder outside.

For the first time that night, Alexa felt a sliver of power return to her. Small, fragile, but hers. And that was enough.