Her Father’s Debt, His Bride

Chapter 2: No Goodbye

Aria barely had time to blink before she was shoved into the black car.

“No!” she screamed, trying to push her father away. “Papa—wait! Let me—”

Her father reached for her, eyes wide with panic, but Lorenzo’s hand was on her shoulder, immovable, and the men flanking the car moved like walls.

“No time for goodbyes,” Lorenzo said calmly, as if reading her thoughts. “We have other matters to attend to.”

Aria struggled, kicking, twisting, even trying to claw at the door. “You can’t do this! This is illegal!”

Lorenzo didn’t answer. He simply leaned back in his seat, eyes dark and unreadable, watching her as one would watch a child stubbornly refusing medicine.

The city lights blurred past as the car moved. Aria’s chest heaved. Her stomach twisted in rage, disbelief, and fear—but she refused to cry.

“I will not—” she began, but he cut her off.

“You will obey the rules of this arrangement,” he said, voice smooth but sharp enough to make her pause. “Not because I asked. Because if you do not… there are consequences.”

Aria glared at him. “I’m not afraid of consequences! I’ll scream! I’ll—”

“You won’t get the chance,” he interrupted coldly.

Her fists clenched. She turned her face away, trying to gather herself, refusing to give him the satisfaction of seeing her shaken. “You can’t own me!”

“I don’t own you,” he said softly. “Not yet.”

The words were a whisper, but they cut deeper than any shout.

Hours passed in tense silence. Aria tried everything: talking, arguing, even pretending to faint in hope that one of the men would intervene. Nothing worked. Lorenzo didn’t speak unless necessary, didn’t give orders beyond the unavoidable. But his presence was inescapable—looming, quiet, and sharp as a blade.

When they finally arrived at his estate, it was like stepping into another world. Marble floors gleamed coldly under dim lights. Expensive art stared down at her, indifferent. Guards lined the corridors like statues. She realized quickly there would be no escape tonight.

“You will sleep in the east wing,” Lorenzo said, finally breaking the silence as he gestured toward a door. “Your room is prepared.”

Aria stiffened. “Prepared? You mean locked me in!”

“Room,” he corrected. His tone left no room for argument.

Aria huffed. “This isn’t over. You can’t keep me here! I’ll—”

“You’ll do nothing,” he said, and for the first time, he stepped closer. Just close enough that she could feel the quiet weight of him without touch. “Tomorrow, we start the contract. Until then, I suggest you rest. You’ll need it.”

Aria glared at him, chest tight, fury simmering. “I don’t need your advice, and I don’t take orders from you!”

“Good,” he murmured. “I like stubborn.”

She froze, confusion twisting her anger. That small remark—it didn’t encourage, didn’t charm, and yet it… unnerved her.

Aria kicked the door open and stormed in. She flung herself onto the bed—not to cry, not to hide, but to think. Her mind raced:

This isn’t happening. He can’t do this. My father—I’ll find a way to get back. I have to. I will.

Outside the window, the night was still. But inside, the storm had only begun.

And Aria knew something very clear: she would not give in quietly.