Signed away by my step father

CHAPTER 8

8

The word marriage echoed through the cramped hallway like a gunshot.

Richard’s mouth fell open, his eyes darting between Valerian and me as if he couldn't quite process how his desperate bartering had just escalated. My mother let out another faint, breathless gasp, but true to form, she didn't step forward. She stayed glued to the couch, watching her only daughter get signed away like an unwanted piece of property.

One of the guards returned from the luxury sedan outside, holding a thick, cream-colored document folder. Valerian didn't offer a table. He simply laid the folder flat against the hallway wall, pulling a sleek, heavy gold fountain pen from his breast pocket.

"A standard debt-clearing marriage contract," Valerian stated, his voice smooth and entirely mechanical, as if he were reading a merger agreement. "The Vance Group absorbs the remaining one hundred and fifty thousand dollars of your liability. In exchange, Sylvia enters a legally binding civil union with me for a designated duration. Her labor, residency, and legal guardianship are transferred entirely to my estate. Sign here, Mr. Bristo."

"M-Marriage?" Richard swallowed hard, his greedy eyes scanning the text. "But... what about the bistro's remaining equity? What about my credit rating?"

"Sign," Valerian repeated, his silver eyes flashing with a sudden, razor-sharp edge. "Or my legal team files the fraud charges before the banks close at four today. The choice is yours."

Richard didn't hesitate for another second. He snatched the gold pen from Valerian’s hand and scribbled his signature across the bottom line, the metal nib scratching aggressively against the expensive paper. He handed the pen back with a trembling, pathetic grin. "She's all yours, Mr. Vance. The debt is clear."

Valerian took the pen, carefully wiping the tip with a silk handkerchief before sliding it back into his pocket. He didn't look at Richard again. He turned his full attention to me.

"You have five minutes," Valerian said, his tone dropping into a quiet, unyielding command. "Pack what you need. My drivers do not like to wait."

My legs felt like hollow tubes, but the sudden, overwhelming realization that I was actually leaving this house lent me a desperate burst of energy. I turned and ran up the stairs, my bare feet slapping against the wood.

My bedroom was exactly as I had left it. I grabbed an old, frayed duffel bag from the bottom of my closet. I didn't pack much. I didn't want the cheap, faded clothes Helen had bought me as afterthoughts. I packed my school uniform, my few personal undergarments, a worn photograph of my biological father, and—most importantly—the thick, leather-bound notebook where I had hand-written every single recipe, culinary ratio, and flavor profile I had ever memorized. It was my only real possession. The only part of Sylvia that mattered.

When I walked back down the stairs four minutes later, the living room was empty. Richard and my mother had already retreated into the kitchen, likely too cowardly to watch me walk out the door. They didn't even say goodbye.

Valerian was waiting by the open front door. He glanced at my battered duffel bag, his expression unreadable, before turning and walking out onto the porch. "Let’s go."

The walk down the concrete driveway felt like crossing a border into a different universe. One of the guards immediately stepped forward, taking the heavy duffel bag from my hand with an unexpected, silent courtesy, while the other held open the rear door of a massive, pristine black luxury sedan.

I slid onto the leather seat, the interior smelling intensely of expensive leather and polished wood. A second later, Valerian slid in beside me. The door closed with a heavy, pressurized thud, completely cutting off the ambient noise of the neighborhood.

As the car pulled smoothly away from the curb, I pressed my forehead against the cool, tinted glass, watching the peeling paint of my childhood home shrink into the distance until it disappeared around the corner. I was free from Richard. I was free from Helen. But as I glanced sideways at the cold, aristocratic profile of the man sitting next to me, a fresh wave of panic fluttered in my chest.

I had traded a cage of iron for a cage of gold.

We drove in absolute silence for nearly forty minutes, leaving the low-income suburbs behind and climbing high into the affluent, gated hills overlooking the city skyline. The houses up here weren't houses; they were sprawling architectural marvels made of glass, steel, and stone, hidden behind massive security gates and manicured hedges.

The sedan finally slowed, turning down a long, winding cobblestone driveway lined with towering weeping willows. At the end of the path sat the Vance Estate. It was an breathtakingly beautiful, minimalist mansion constructed from dark gray slate and floor-to-ceiling glass panels, reflecting the bright morning sun like a diamond.

The car stopped under a massive stone portico. The guard opened my door, and I stepped out onto the polished granite ground, my chest tightening as the sheer scale of the place washed over me.

"Follow me," Valerian said, stepping past me without waiting.

I scrambled to keep up with his long, effortless strides as he led me through a set of towering glass double doors and into the main foyer. The interior was vast, cold, and blindingly clean. Polished white marble stretched out in every direction, and a massive, minimalist floating staircase curved up to the second floor.

An elderly man in a flawless, traditional butler’s suit was waiting for us, his posture perfectly rigid.

"Welcome home, Mr. Vance," the butler said, bowing his head slightly before looking at me with a polite, completely neutral expression. "And this must be the young lady."

"This is Sylvia," Valerian said, unbuttoning his suit jacket as he walked toward a set of frosted glass doors off the main hall. "Take her bag to the east wing guest suite. She is to be given standard residential access, but she is restricted from the private study and the executive wing."

"Understood, sir."

Valerian stopped, his hand resting on the handle of the glass door. He turned his head, his piercing silver-gray eyes locking onto my face with an intense, clinical focus that made my breath catch.

"You will be given a set of rules and an allowance for a proper wardrobe later this afternoon," Valerian murmured, his low voice echoing slightly in the vast marble space. "For now, rest. You look like you are about to collapse. And Sylvia?"

"Y-Yes, Mr. Vance?" I whispered, clutching the strap of my school uniform bag.

"In this house, we do not tolerate weakness," he said, his tone entirely devoid of warmth. "Your past ends at the front gates. Act accordingly."

With that, he pushed the glass door open and disappeared into his office, leaving me standing alone on the cold marble floor.