The traitors bride800k

The metal door slammed behind her, and everywhere smelled like smoke and blood. Her hands were bruised from the tight rope, her lips dry, but she didn’t lower her head. She just stood there, staring at the man they said would decide if she lived or died. He didn’t smile. He didn’t even blink. He just looked at her like she was nothing. Then he spoke, voice calm but cold: “You either marry me, or you die tonight.” She stared at him, her heart was beating fast, but her face didn’t show it. She had been through enough in the past two days to know begging was useless. If death had come for her, let it come. But then the man standing in front of her was putting on black, his hands were in his pockets like her life was a small matter. He didn’t look like death. He looked worse. “You think this is a joke?” she asked, with a hoarse voice. He walked closer, slow and quiet, until he stood right in front of her. No smile. No pity. “I don’t joke,” he said. “Your father is gone. The people he betrayed wants blood. If I don’t take you, they will.” She swallowed hard. She wanted to scream. To ask why. To ask how her life ended up here, daughter of a respected man, now offered like meat to a wolf. But she kept quiet. “What do you want from me?” she asked. He tilted his head slightly. “Your name. Your silence, and a ring on your finger that says you belong to me.” “For how long?" “Until I say otherwise.” She looked him dead in the eyes. “Then you better kill me now.” He raised a brow. For the first time, something close to amusement touched his face. But it vanished just as fast. “You’re brave,” he said. “Bravery gets people killed.” She didn’t flinch. “So does trusting the wrong people.” He gave a short, dry laugh. No humor in it. “You talk too much for someone standing on the edge of a grave.” “And you think you’re a god because you hold the shovel?” she replied. His eyes darkened, but he didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his coat, pulled out a folded piece of paper, and threw it on the table between them. Her eyes dropped to it. Marriage certificate. Already signed by him. “You’re serious,” she said quietly. “I don’t have time to play.” His voice dropped. “Your name is Amara Jonathan. Your father was Colonel Clifford Jonathan. You should’ve been buried beside him. But I offered you a way out. Not because I care—but because your last name is useful. At least for now.” Her throat tightened at the mention of her father. Colonel Jonathan. Once a national hero, now accused of leaking government intelligence to foreign arms dealers. Executed in silence, without trial. She’d barely had time to cry before the manhunt turned on her. She looked up at him. “And you… what’s your name?” He paused, then he said it like a warning. “Darius Kane.” She’d heard it before. Everybody had. Some know him for drugs, guns, money, fear, while others said he ran Ravencrest like a king. Others said even kings bowed to him. “So, this is what it means to survive now?” Amara said. “Being owned by a monster.” Darius stepped closer again, eyes locked on hers. “No, Amara. Surviving means knowing which monster to stand behind… when the others comes for your throat.” “So I should just say yes?” she asked. “Marry a man I don’t know, a man people fear like death itself?” He didn’t blink. “It’s either me or the firing squad. I don’t think you need a pastor to tell you which one is worse.” “May the lord punish you,” she muttered under her breath. He smirked. “He already did.” The silence that followed sat like lead between them. Outside, thunder rumbled low, Ravencrest rain threatening to fall again. Inside the concrete room, the air was thick, not with heat, but something heavier. Pressure. Fear. Pride. Amara stepped back, just slightly, needing space to think. All her life, her father had trained her to be strong. “Don’t ever let fear make your decisions for you,” he used to say. But look where courage got him. Labeled a traitor. Killed in secret. Buried like a common thief. No trial. No justice. Just silence. She shut her eyes for a second, trying not to cry. She hadn't cried since they dragged her out of their house in Moonhaven. Since they burnt everything her father had worked for. Since her name became dirt. When she opened her eyes, Darius was already at the door. “You have till midnight,” he said, turning his back. “If I don’t get an answer by then, I’ll assume you’ve picked death.” “I’m not afraid of dying,” she said, louder this time. He paused, hand on the door handle. “But are you ready for it?” Before she could answer, the door opened and shut behind him. Two of his men remained silent, armed, watching her like she was some wild animal locked in a cage. She turned slowly and sat on the only chair in the room. It was metal, cold, already stained. Her fingers trembled a little, but she clenched them into fists. She wouldn’t let Darius Kane break her, not today. But the truth was, she didn’t have many cards left. The certificate was still on the table. Her name already typed. The pen beside it called her like temptation. She hated it. Marry him, and maybe live long enough to clear her father’s name. Refuse, and die a traitor’s daughter. Neither felt like winning. The clock on the wall ticked too loud. She leaned back in the chair, staring up at the ceiling, her mind chasing itself in circles. She thought of her father and how he used to play chess every Sunday, always saying, “You win when you think five moves ahead.” But even he hadn’t seen this coming. “Papa,” she whispered. “What do I do now?” One of the guards coughed. She glanced at him. Big chest, dead eyes. The kind of man who followed orders without asking questions. If Darius said shoot, he would shoot. Her stomach growled quietly. She hadn’t eaten since yesterday. They hadn’t offered her anything except water and threats. But hunger was the least of her worries. She stood, picked up the certificate, and held it in her hands. Her name was there—Amara Jonathan. Underneath it, Darius Kane’s signature stared back like a warning. Bold, final. She could still rip it. Tear it to pieces. Spit on it. But then what? She’d seen what they did to her father’s body after the execution. She saw the footage. No funeral. No honour. Just a nameless grave in a forgotten bush. She wouldn’t let them bury her like that. She refused. By the time the door opened again, the clock was close to midnight. A man in a suit entered, carrying a box. He dropped it on the table without speaking. Inside was a dress. White. Plain but clean. And beside it, a small box with a silver ring. Amara stared at it, then looked up at the guard. “What’s this?” she asked. He didn’t answer. But she knew. Her choice had been made for her.