Love above all

Crushed dreams

The wedding was a spectacle of white lilies and champagne, a high-society blur that felt more like a corporate merger than a union of hearts. To eighteen-year-old Zara, it was a dizzying dream. She had stood in a gown that cost more than the Apex’s family home, her hand trembling in Harrison’s as they exchanged vows under a canopy of orchids. For a few months, the dream held. Harrison swept her away to the Maldives, to Paris, to Santorini, showering her with gifts and affection. But as the tan from the honeymoon faded and the reality of life within the limestone walls of the Gates estate set in, the colors began to bleed out of the fairy tale.

The shift was subtle at first. A sharp word here, a cold silence there. It started on a Tuesday morning, six months into the marriage. Zara had been in the sun-drenched breakfast nook, sketching a dress design on a pad she’d brought from her old life.

"What is that?"

The voice wasn't Harrison’s usual morning murmur. It was clipped. Zara looked up to see her husband standing in the doorway, his silk tie half-knotted. He wasn't looking at her with the "golden eyes" gaze anymore; he was looking at the sketchbook as if it were a piece of trash left on his pristine table.

"Just a design, Harry," she said, her smile faltering. "I was thinking of maybe taking some classes at the fashion institute this fall. You remember I told you how much I—"

"No." He walked over, picked up the sketchbook, and tossed it toward the far end of the table. "You aren't a student anymore, Zara. You aren't a barista. You are Mrs. Harrison Gates. Your 'job' is to manage this household and prepare yourself for the responsibilities of this family. My mother is coming over today with a specialist. I expect you to be ready."

"A specialist?" Zara’s heart did a nervous little flip. "For what? I’m perfectly healthy."

Harrison didn't answer. He just tightened his tie until his face went a slight shade of red, grabbed his briefcase, and left without a kiss.

By noon, Kate Gates arrived. She didn't ring the bell; she had her own key. She walked into the sitting room where Zara was waiting, followed by a man in a clinical grey suit carrying a heavy briefcase. Kate looked Zara up and down, her eyes lingering on Zara’s flat stomach with a hunger that made Zara feel exposed.

"You look thin, Zara," Kate remarked, her voice like a velvet glove over a fist of iron. "Are you eating the supplements I sent over? The Dior family’s youngest daughter just announced her third pregnancy. The Sterling girl is expecting twins. And yet, here we are, half a year in, and your womb is as quiet as a grave."

"Kate, it’s only been six months," Zara said, her voice small. "We’re young. We have time."

"The Gates lineage does not have 'time,'" Kate snapped, the mask of the loving mother-in-law finally cracking. "We have expectations. This is Dr. Aris. He’s here to run a full panel. Bloodwork, hormones, everything. We need to ensure the soil is fertile before we waste any more of my son’s... energy."

The afternoon was a nightmare of cold needles and invasive questions. Zara felt like a biological specimen under a microscope. When the doctor finally left, Kate stayed, sipping tea while Zara sat on the edge of the sofa, feeling bruised and humiliated.

"Don't look so tragic, girl," Kate said, setting her cup down with a sharp clack. "You were a waitress in a floral apron when I found you. I plucked you from obscurity. I gave you a name. I gave you the clothes on your back. In exchange, you give us an heir. That was the contract. Did you think you were here because of your personality?"

Zara felt a coldness spread through her limbs. "Harrison loves me."

Kate let out a short, bark-like laugh. "Harrison loves what I tell him to love. He’s a Gates. He needs a legacy. If you can't provide that, you're just an expensive ornament. And ornaments can be replaced."

When Harrison returned home that evening, Zara ran to him, desperate for the man who had knelt in the rose garden. She told him about the doctor, about Kate’s words, expecting him to be outraged. Instead, he poured himself a double scotch and sat in his leather armchair, not even looking at her.

"Mother is just anxious, Zara," he said, his voice flat.

"She called me a contract, Harrison! She said I’m replaceable!"

Harrison finally looked at her, but the blue eyes that had once looked like the summer sky were now as cold as a glacier. "Well? Are you? If the tests come back and there's a problem, what do you expect me to do? Keep you around as a hobby?"

"Harrison!" Zara gasped, stepping back as if he’d slapped her. "I’m your wife!"

"Then act like one," he growled, standing up. He moved toward her, his stature suddenly looming and predatory. He gripped her upper arm—not with the gentle squeeze of the cafe days, but with a force that would surely leave a mark by morning. "Stop whining. Stop sketching. And start giving me what I paid for."

He shoved her aside and walked out to the veranda to smoke.

Zara stood alone in the dark dining room, the silence of the mansion pressing in on her like a physical weight. She looked down at the massive diamond on her finger. It didn't look like a promise anymore; it looked like a handcuff. She thought of calling Blue, or her mother, Cherry. But how could she? She had told them she was living a dream. She had insisted Harrison was different. To admit the truth was to admit she had walked into a trap of her own making.

Weeks turned into months, and the atmosphere in the house grew increasingly toxic. The test results had been "inconclusive," which in Kate’s mind meant Zara was failing on purpose. The maltreatment became a daily ritual. If dinner was a minute late, Harrison would sweep the plates off the table in a rage. If Zara spent too long on the phone with Rita, Kate would cut off her credit cards for a week "to teach her focus."

One rainy evening, Zara found herself in the kitchen, trying to find a glass of water in the dark. She heard voices coming from Harrison’s study. The door was ajar.

"The board is asking questions, Harrison," she heard Kate’s sharp tone. "A CEO with an unstable home life and no successor looks weak. We need to make a move."

"I’m tired of her, Mother," Harrison’s voice sounded weary, but also cruel. "She’s always crying. She’s not the girl from the cafe anymore. That one was fun. This one is... burdensome."

"Then we begin the process," Kate said. "We don't need a divorce yet—that’s messy. We make her so miserable she begs to leave with nothing. In the meantime, I’ve been talking to Angela Bricks. Her daughter, Susy, is... very accommodating. And she’s already proven she can carry a child."

Zara gripped the doorframe, her knuckles turning white. Her breath hitched in her throat, a small, involuntary sound.

Inside the room, the voices stopped.

"Zara?" Harrison’s voice was a low, dangerous warning. "Is that you lurking in the hall?"

Zara turned to run, her heart hammering against her ribs like a trapped bird. She scrambled toward the stairs, but she knew she couldn't outrun the walls of this house. As she reached the landing, she looked back and saw the shadows of her husband and his mother lengthening across the marble floor, following her like ghosts.

She locked her bedroom door, her hands shaking so hard she could barely turn the key. She leaned against the wood, gasping for air. She was a Gates, but she had never felt more like a prisoner. She thought of the Apex house, the smell of burnt croissants, and the simple, honest love she had traded for this gilded nightmare.

But as she heard Harrison’s heavy footsteps approaching the door, a new thought pierced through her terror—a thought that felt like a spark of the old Zara, the girl who didn't take anything lying down.

If they were already planning her replacement, how far were they willing to go to get rid of her?