Chapter1
The rain fell in sheets, soft and relentless, as if the sky itself mourned what was about to happen. Xochi Gerald stood by the cracked windowpane of their small apartment, her fingers tracing circles on the foggy glass. Below, the streets shimmered under the glow of dim streetlights, water pooling in potholes and gutters. Inside, silence ruled—heavy, tense, and loud in its own way.
Her twin sisters, Zeenah and Meena, were huddled under a blanket on the couch, whispering about nothing and everything, pretending not to notice the tension that suffocated the air.
It wasn’t working.
She knew it. They knew it.
Their father’s latest mistake had finally caught up with them. And this time, there would be no escaping it.
“Xochi,” Meena whispered. “You should sit.”
She didn’t respond.
Instead, she closed her eyes and tried to silence the memory of her father’s last words before he stumbled out earlier that night: “It’s all taken care of. Your uncle...he fixed it.”
But Xochi knew better. Uncle Richard never fixed anything unless it came at a steep price. And her gut told her the price this time would be her.
She didn’t have to wait long.
The knock came quietly. No urgency. No warning. Just a soft, precise knock on the door that made the hairs on her arms rise.
Zeenah stiffened. Meena’s face drained of color.
Xochi moved first.
She stepped toward the door, heart thudding as if warning her to turn back, but she didn’t.
She opened it.
A man in a black suit stood in the hallway, face neutral, posture perfect. He looked like the kind of man who delivered bad news for a living.
“Miss Gerald?” he asked.
“Yes.”
He held out a slim envelope, wax-sealed and marked with Uncle Richard’s insignia.
“From your uncle. You’re expected to read and sign.”
She stared at the envelope like it might explode.
“I’m just a messenger,” he added, as if that would ease the weight of what he’d brought.
Xochi took the envelope, slowly shutting the door after him. The walls seemed to close in as she walked back to the center of the living room.
The silence returned.
Meena sat up. “Is that...?”
“Yes.”
Zeenah reached for her hand. “Don’t open it.”
But she already was.
Inside was a short note and a contract—neatly typed, disgustingly cold.
Her eyes scanned the words. She didn’t need to read much to understand.
Marriage. To Chris Moreau. In exchange for the full payment of her father’s debts.
Uncle Richard had made good on his promise. He had “fixed it.” And she was the solution.
The note said she had until the next morning to sign.
“Xochi, no,” Meena whispered.
“What choice do I have?” Xochi asked, voice breaking.
Zeenah rose from the couch. “There has to be another way.”
“There’s not.” Her voice was quieter now. “He’s signed me away.”
Her father had made the decision already. In a drunken haze, he had gambled away their safety—and now sold her future.
The clock on the wall ticked louder, slower, like time was dragging itself toward something ugly.
“I won’t let you do it,” Zeenah said, her voice fierce.
“You won’t have a say,” Xochi whispered.
Her hands trembled as she picked up the pen from the table and hovered it over the signature line. She could hear her father’s voice slurring in her head, “It’s all taken care of.”
It wasn’t.
She signed.
The pen scratched across the page, sealing her fate with a flick of ink.
Tears blurred her vision, but she blinked them away. Weakness wouldn’t save her now.
She looked over at her sisters. “I need you two to stay strong, okay? Just until I figure something out.”
Zeenah shook her head in disbelief. “There’s nothing to figure out. You’re throwing yourself into the fire.”
“I’m protecting you,” Xochi said, her voice small. “Someone has to.”
Meena clutched her hand. “Will you come back?”
Xochi hesitated. “I don’t know.”
The envelope was gone by morning.
And so was Xochi.
A long, black car waited outside, engine running. A man held the door open, face shadowed by the rain.
“Mademoiselle Xochi,” he said. “Your husband awaits.”
She didn’t respond. She just slid into the car, the door clicking shut behind her like the sealing of a tomb.
The rain followed them, drumming steadily against the windows as the city blurred into shadows. Xochi stared out, one hand pressed against the cold glass. Her stomach churned, her throat dry. Every second that passed pulled her farther from the only life she’d ever known.
Her new life awaited her.
And it wore the name Chris Moreau.
