His Prisoner Bride

Chapter 3

Lucy's P.O.V.

Dad arrived at 7:14 a.m.

I knew the exact time because I'd been watching the clock since 5:30, when the night nurse did her final rounds and gave me a look that said you should really get some sleep, the same look every nurse had been giving me for eleven days. I'd stopped taking it personally around day four.

Lisa was still asleep, her small hand curled loosely around mine. Sometime during the night, she'd shifted closer, her head now resting in my lap. My legs had long since gone numb, but I didn't dare move. Not when she was finally resting peacefully. Not when this was the most peaceful I'd seen her in weeks.

The door opened with a soft click. Dad slipped inside like he was trying not to wake a sleeping giant, but the moment I saw his face, I knew something was different. Wrong.

He looked older than he had yesterday. His salt-and-pepper hair, the same hair Lisa had inherited, wild and curly, was disheveled, like he'd been running his hands through it all night. His shirt was wrinkled in a way that suggested he hadn't changed before coming back. And his eyes… his eyes held something I hadn't seen since Mom died.

Resignation.

"Hey, sweetheart," he whispered, crossing to the small sofa I'd abandoned hours ago. He sat down heavily, the springs groaning beneath him. "How is she?"

"Better. She woke up around three. We watched cartoons."

A ghost of a smile crossed his face. "She loves Bugs Bunny."

"I know."

Silence stretched between us. The kind of silence that used to be comfortable, before Mom got sick, before the hospital bills started piling up, before Dad started disappearing for hours at a time and coming back with that haunted look in his eyes. Now the silence felt like a held breath. Like we were both waiting for the other to speak first.

I looked down at Lisa's sleeping face. Her lashes were dark against her pale cheeks, her lips slightly parted. She looked so small. So fragile. Like a doll someone had played with too roughly.

"She asked me if she was going to die."

The words came out before I could stop them. Dad flinched like I'd struck him.

"What did you tell her?"

"That she was going to be fine."

He nodded slowly, but he didn't look relieved. If anything, the guilt on his face deepened. He stared at the floor, at his hands, anywhere but at me.

"Dad." My voice was steady, but barely. "What did you want to talk about?"

He didn't answer. Instead, he pulled something from his jacket pocket, a folded piece of paper, creased and worn like he'd been carrying it around for days. Maybe weeks. He stared at it without opening it, his jaw tight.

"There's a man," he finally said. "A… businessman. He came to see me a few days ago."

Something cold slithered down my spine. "What kind of businessman?"

Dad's hands trembled as he unfolded the paper. "His name is Victor Blackwood."

The name meant nothing to me. Just words. But my body knew. My body understood before my mind could catch up, because my heart started racing and my palms went slick with sweat.

"What does he want?"

"He knows about Lisa." Dad's voice cracked. "He knows about the treatments, the, the costs. He came to me with an offer."

"An offer."

He finally looked at me. And I wished he hadn't. Because what I saw in his eyes was shame. Deep, bone-deep shame, mixed with something that looked almost like relief. Like a man who'd been drowning and had just been thrown a life raft, even if that life raft was made of something rotten.

"The doctors said the experimental treatment is her best chance," he said slowly, carefully, like he was reading from a script. "But our insurance won't cover it. And we're already drowning in debt, Lucy. You know that. You've seen the bills."

I had. I'd seen the numbers that kept climbing no matter how many shifts I picked up at the diner, no matter how many of my own dreams I sold to keep the lights on. I'd seen the way Dad's hands shook when he opened the mail. I'd seen the collection notices piling up on the kitchen counter like snow.

"I know," I whispered.

"This treatment, it could save her. It would save her, the doctors think. But it costs more than we could ever…" He stopped, swallowing hard. "Mr. Blackwood has offered to pay for everything. The treatment, the hospital, all of it. He'll take care of everything."

Hope, dangerous, fragile hope, flared in my chest. "That's… that's amazing, Dad. That's…"

"There's a condition."

The hope died as quickly as it had come.

"What condition?"

Dad's face crumpled. He looked away, his shoulders shaking with silent sobs. And I knew. Before he said the words, I knew. The way you know a storm is coming before you see the clouds.

"He wants to marry you, Lucy."

The words didn't make sense. They bounced around in my head like foreign objects, refusing to settle into something recognizable. Marry. You. He wants.

"He's… he's old enough to be my father." The words came out flat, disconnected. Like someone else was speaking them.

"He's fifty-three."

"Fifty-three," I repeated. I was twenty-one. Lisa was seven. The math swirled in my head, ugly and wrong.

"I know how it sounds." Dad finally looked at me, his eyes red-rimmed and desperate. "I know. But Lucy, the treatment, without it, the doctors don't think she'll make it to her next birthday. You heard what they said. Aggressive. That's the word they used. And aggressive means expensive, and we don't have…"

"I know what we don't have, Dad."

The sharpness in my voice made Lisa stir. I held my breath until she settled again, then carefully, gently, I lifted her head from my lap and laid her back against the pillow. She made a small sound of protest but didn't wake.

I stood. My legs prickled with pins and needles, but I barely noticed. I walked to the window and stared out at the city, gray and cold under a winter sky.

"Why me?" My voice came out strange. Hollow. "Why would a man like that want someone like me? He could have anyone. Models. Socialites. Women his own age who actually know what they're doing."

"I don't know." Dad's voice was barely a whisper. "He didn't explain his reasons. He just… made the offer. Said he'd give us three days to decide. Said if we agreed, everything would be taken care of. The wedding, the treatment, all of it. He said you'd never want for anything again."

"I don't want things, Dad. I want Lisa to live."

"Then this is how we make that happen."

I turned to face him. "You're asking me to marry a stranger. A man old enough to be my father. You're asking me to give up my entire life…"

"I'm asking you to save your sister's life."

The words hit me like a slap. Because he was right. He was absolutely, terribly right. What was my life compared to Lisa's? What were my dreams, art school, a future, maybe falling in love with someone who'd actually love me back, compared to her next breath? Her next birthday?

I thought about Mom. Her last words. Promise me, Lucy. Take care of Lisa.

I'd promised.

"What happens after?" I asked. "After the wedding. After the treatment. What does he want from me?"

Dad shook his head. "He didn't say. He said he'd explain everything once you agreed."

"That's not…" I stopped myself. That's not how this works, I wanted to scream. You don't agree to marry someone without knowing what they want. But I knew that wasn't true. Not for people like us. Not when we had nothing left to bargain with.

"Can I meet him?" I asked. "Before I decide. I want to meet him."

Dad nodded slowly. "He said you might. He gave me a number to call."

Of course he did. Of course he'd anticipated this. The thought sent another chill down my spine.

I looked back at Lisa. She'd shifted in her sleep, one arm thrown over her face, the way she used to do when she was a baby and didn't want to wake up. So small. So innocent. She didn't know what was happening. She didn't know that her entire future was being decided in hushed voices at her bedside.

She didn't know that her sister was about to sell her soul.

"What's his name again?" I asked, not turning around.

"Victor Blackwood."

I repeated it silently, testing the weight of it on my tongue. It sounded like money. Like power. Like the kind of man who got whatever he wanted.

And apparently, what he wanted was me.

"Call him," I said. "Set up a meeting."

Dad let out a breath, relief, I think, though it might have been sorrow. I couldn't tell anymore. I couldn't tell anything except that my life, the one I'd carefully built from the ruins of my family's grief, was about to shatter.

And I was going to let it.

Because Lisa was sleeping peacefully for the first time in weeks. Because her chest was rising and falling and her hand was still warm from mine. Because if I had to choose between my sister's life and my own freedom, it wasn't a choice at all.

It never had been.

…

Three Days Later

The restaurant was called Lumière, and it was the kind of place I'd only ever seen in movies. Crystal chandeliers dripped from the ceiling like frozen waterfalls. Waiters in crisp white shirts moved between tables with the precision of dancers. The silverware gleamed. The menus didn't have prices, at least, not the ones the guests saw.

I'd borrowed a dress from Isobel, a dark green thing that was too tight in some places and too loose in others, but it was the nicest thing I owned. I'd packed my hair carefully, applied more makeup than I usually wore, and told myself I was ready.

I wasn't ready.

Victor Blackwood was waiting at a table in the corner, tucked away from the other diners like he was used to being watched. He rose when I approached, and my first thought was: He's taller than I expected. My second thought was: His eyes are cold.

They were gray, those eyes. The color of storm clouds. The color of tombstones.

"Miss Hayes," he said. His voice was smooth, cultured, with an accent I couldn't quite place. Not quite American. Not quite European. Something in between. "Thank you for coming."

I didn't take his offered hand. I just stood there, frozen, trying to reconcile the man in front of me with the future he was offering. He was handsome, in an austere way. Silver-streaked dark hair. A sharp jaw. A suit that probably cost more than my entire apartment.

But there was something wrong. Something in the way he looked at me, not with desire, not with warmth. With calculation. Like I was a puzzle he was solving. A chess piece he was moving.

"Sit, please." He gestured to the chair across from him. "We have much to discuss."

I sat. My hands were shaking, so I folded them in my lap.

"You know my terms," he said, settling back into his chair. "I pay for your sister's treatment. All of it. The experimental therapy, the hospital bills, everything. In exchange, you become my wife."

The word wife landed like a stone in my chest.

"Why me?"

He smiled. It didn't reach his eyes. "I have my reasons."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only one you're going to get."

The waiter appeared with menus, and Victor waved him away without looking. He kept his eyes on me, those cold, gray eyes that seemed to see straight through my carefully constructed facade.

"You're wondering if I'm a monster," he said, not a question. "The answer is: probably. But not the kind you're imagining. I won't hurt you, Lucy. I won't touch you. Our marriage will be one of convenience, nothing more. You'll have your own room, your own life. All I ask is that you play your part."

"What part?"

"The part of a devoted wife. In public. At events. To my associates." He paused, watching me. "And in return, your sister lives."

It was that simple. That brutal. My life in exchange for Lisa's.

"Will I be able to see her? After the wedding?"

"She'll be taken care of. You'll be free to visit as often as you like."

"Free," I repeated, the word hollow. "You keep using that word. I don't think it means what you think it means."

Something flickered in his eyes, surprise, maybe. Or amusement. The first real emotion I'd seen from him.

"You're clever," he said. "Good. You'll need to be."

I looked down at my hands, at the chipped nail polish and the callouses from years of waitressing. Then I looked back at Victor Blackwood, at his perfectly manicured hands and his perfectly pressed suit and his perfectly empty eyes.

And I made my decision.

"I want the treatment to start immediately," I said. "Before the wedding. I want to see her getting better before I do this."

He nodded slowly. "That can be arranged."

"And I want it in writing. Everything. The payment, the treatment, the terms."

"You don't trust me?"

"Should I?"

He smiled again, a real smile this time, sharp and dangerous. "No," he said. "You shouldn't trust anyone, Lucy. That's the first lesson of the world you're about to enter."

He leaned forward, his voice dropping low.

"Welcome to it."

…

That night, I stood in Lisa's hospital room, watching her sleep. The machines beeped their steady rhythm. The city lights glowed in the distance. Everything was exactly the same as it had been that morning.

Except everything was different.

"I'm going to save you," I whispered, brushing a curl from her forehead. "I promise. Whatever it takes."

She stirred but didn't wake. And as I stood there, I felt something harden inside me, a resolve I didn't know I possessed. I was about to walk into a w

orld I didn't understand, to marry a man I didn't know, to sacrifice everything I'd ever wanted.

But Lisa would live. Lisa would grow up. She'd have a future, even if I didn't.

That was worth any price.

That was worth anything.