Chapter one
The lace of the wedding dress was a lie. It was intricate, hand-stitched by Parisian seamstresses, and cost more than Sarah’s father, Dawson had earned in the last three years but to Sarah, it felt like a shroud. It was too white, too pure for a transaction this cold.
"Stand still, Sarah. You’re wrinkling the silk," her father, Dawson, snapped. He was pacing the small dressing room of the courthouse, his hands trembling as he adjusted his cufflinks. He didn't look like a proud father of the bride; he looked like a man who had just seen the hangman’s noose loosen from around his own neck.
"Is he here?" Sarah’s voice was a ghost of a sound.
"He is. And don't you dare look like you're going to a funeral," Dawson hissed, finally stopping to look at her. For a second, a flicker of guilt crossed his face, but it was quickly extinguished by the greed of survival. "You’re saving us, Sarah. The Voidmere debt… It’s gone the moment you sign that paper. You’ll be the richest woman in the city. You should be thanking me."
Sarah turned back to the mirror. At twenty, her face still held the soft bloom of youth, she was someone who still had a thousand dreams ahead of her. She had always dreamt of marrying early, at least by twenty-five, she should be a married woman.
What she never saw coming was this marriage to Mr. Voidmere because of a debt her father accumulated and Mr. Voidmere had stepped in to save her father with a condition; that she become his wife and a stepmother to his three sons.
How could she? She has only known a simple life around the small city of Ohio, but this...
"I’m ready," she whispered, though every cell in her body urged her to jump through the window and run until her lungs burst.
The ceremony was not held in a cathedral. There were no flowers, no music, and no guests. It took place in the private, mahogany-row chambers of a high-end judge.
When the doors opened, the air in the room seemed to drop ten degrees.
Standing by the window was Bardulf Voidmere.
The rumors hadn't done him justice. At forty-eight, he was a mountain of a man, his presence so massive it felt as if the walls were leaning inward to accommodate him. He wore a charcoal suit that looked like armor. His salt-and-pepper hair and streaked with premature silver at the temples, was slicked back with military precision. He didn't turn when she entered. He simply stared out at the city he practically owned, his large hands clasped behind his back.
"Mr. Voidmere," the judge said breathlessly. "The bride has arrived."
Bardulf turned.
His eyes were the color of a winter sea, cold, gray, and impossibly deep. He didn't smile. He didn't offer a greeting. He looked at Sarah with a clinical, terrifying intensity. He scanned her from her trembling veil down to her white silk shoes, as if he were inspecting a piece of property he had bought at an auction.
"Sign," was the only word he spoke. His voice was a low, gravelly rumble that vibrated in Sarah’s chest.
The papers were pushed toward her. Her father’s hand was on her shoulder, pushing her down into the chair. Sarah’s fingers shook so violently she almost dropped the pen. She looked at the line: Sarah Dawson. With one stroke of ink, she became Sarah Voidmere.
Bardulf signed next. His signature was sharp, jagged, and authoritative. He didn't look at Dawson. He didn't shake his hand. He simply tucked his fountain pen into his breast pocket and looked at Sarah.
"Let’s go."
"Wait.. ." Sarah gasped. "I haven't even said goodbye to my father."
Bardulf’s gaze flicked to Dawson. It was a look of such profound disgust that Dawson actually recoiled. "You sold her," Bardulf said, his voice a lethal silk. "Our business is finished. She belongs to the Voidmere name now."
Sarah wasn't even given the right to protest or fight for a right she had already lost when her fingers ran through that paper coldly right under his gaze. And he was simply walking away.
He didn't wait for her, his stride long and purposeful. Sarah had no choice but to follow, her heavy train rustling against the cold marble floor like a dying breath.
They got into the car quietly, each taking the far end of the space, Sarah looking out the dark car window, counting her own breath. Who's she going to meet? Who's she going to meet? She wasn't even allowed a minute to protest.
Bardulf sat next to her like a statue. He didn't touch her. He didn't even look at her. He spent the entire forty-minute drive staring at a tablet, reviewing stock tickers and legal briefs.
Sarah stared out the window as the city lights faded into the dark, jagged silhouettes of the pine forest. When the iron gates of Voidmere Manor finally swung open, her heart hammered against her ribs.
The house was a brutalist masterpiece of dark stone, glass, and shadows. It sat on a cliffside, overlooking a churning gray lake. It looked like a fortress designed to keep the world out or to keep something dangerous in.
"The boys are home for the holidays," Bardulf said suddenly, his first full sentence since they had met. "You will be respected. If they cross a line, you come to me."
"The... the boys?" Sarah asked, her voice cracking. She knew he had children, but she hadn't realized they were already home. She actually saw the news stating that the boys won't be home for the holidays, they're travelling on vacation or what was the news all about again?
"My sons. Kael, Jeff, and Riven." He listed them off on his fingers, "They're your sons now." He said it like he just landed a heavy responsibility on her shoulders, her small frail self shrinking deeper into herself that very minute.
The car stopped. The massive oak doors of the manor were already open. Standing under the portico were three young men. Even from a distance, Sarah could feel the heat of their gaze.
As she stepped out of the car, the wind caught her veil, whipping it around her face. She felt exposed, a splash of white against the black stone of the house.
Bardulf walked to her side. He didn't take her hand; he simply placed a heavy, proprietary palm on the small of her back. He steered her toward the stairs.
The three sons didn't move. They stood like a firing squad.
Kael, the eldest, looked exactly like a younger, sharper version of his father. He was twenty-three, dressed in an expensive black turtleneck, his arms crossed over a broad chest. His eyes were analytical, stripping Sarah of any dignity she had left.
Jeff, twenty-one, was leaning against a stone pillar, a cruel, mocking smirk playing on his lips. He was handsome in a way that felt dangerous, like a jagged piece of glass.
And then there was Riven. He was her age, twenty. He looked the most like his father, but his eyes were full of a burning, volatile resentment.
"So," Jeff broke the silence, his voice dripping with sarcasm. "The fourth sacrifice has arrived. Tell me, Father, did this one come with a warranty? The last three broke so easily."
Sarah flinched. The rumors about the previous wives, the beatings, the cruelty, the screams that echoed through these halls, rushed back into her mind. Was she going to be subjected to this sort of treatment too? Fear rose from her chest.
