COLLATERAL BRIDE

THE TRADE

The walls of my studio apartment had never felt so suffocating. It was supposed to be my escape—a place I had clawed into existence after years of living under my parents’ thumb. Four plain walls, a narrow bed, a desk shoved into the corner. Nothing about it was grand, but it was mine. Or at least, it had been.

Now, as I sat curled up on the edge of my bed, I couldn’t stop replaying the morning in my mind. Lucian. That’s what he had called himself. Smooth, confident, as if even his name bent to his will. I remembered the way he had leaned back in his chair, the way his eyes had studied me with too much intensity while I rambled over breakfast.

What had possessed me to tell him about my family? About the Montagues? It wasn’t like me to speak so freely, especially to a stranger. Yet something about him had unraveled my defenses. Maybe it was the calmness in his tone. Maybe it was the way he didn’t flinch at the mention of the Montagues, when most people would have whispered or recoiled.

But when I left his place, clutching the coat he had loaned me, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Lucian wasn’t exactly who he said he was.

I stared at my reflection in the tiny mirror above my desk. My hair was a tangled mess, my makeup smudged beneath tired eyes. I looked like a girl who’d made reckless choices, who had drowned her sorrow in a bar and stumbled into the arms of someone far too dangerous to be casual.

Still, for the first time in years, I’d felt… seen. And that terrified me.

The knock at my door shattered the fragile quiet. Sharp. Commanding. My stomach dropped. No one visited me. Ever.

I hesitated, praying it was a mistake, but the knock came again—harder this time. With trembling hands, I pulled the door open.

And there he stood.

My father.

He filled the doorway like a shadow I could never outrun, his cold eyes sweeping over me in disgust. The last time I had seen him, I had walked out of their house with fire in my chest, defiance in my voice. Now, that flame flickered, smothered by the reality of his presence.

“Where were you last night?” His voice was sharp enough to cut through bone. No greeting. No pretense. Just accusation.

I swallowed, trying to steady myself. “Out,” I said, my voice low.

“Out?” His mouth twisted as though the word itself offended him. “Do you think you can behave like some reckless child while carrying our name?”

Our name. The words tasted bitter. They had never truly claimed me as theirs, not in love, not in belonging—only in ownership.

“I don’t carry your name,” I whispered before I could stop myself.

His hand slammed against the doorframe, making me flinch. “You ungrateful girl. Do you forget everything we have given you? A roof. Food. A life when no one else wanted you."

I closed my eyes, the words slicing deeper because I had heard them too many times before. They were the anthem of my existence, a constant reminder that I was never a daughter—only a debt waiting to be collected.

“I’m not your property,” I said, though my voice trembled.

His laughter was cruel, humorless. “Not my property? Then explain why the Montagues are waiting for you. Do you think your little tantrum changes anything? You will do as you’re told. Look...this is the only opportunity you have to be an asset. You should be glad the Montagues wants you, who knows you might finally have the chance to start a family which I strongly doubt.... I mean someone that was rejected by her own what would she know about a family."

The air left my lungs in a rush. I wanted to shout. To cry our. To throw him out. Through things out him. Tell him I'm not a property but.... all I could manage to mutter was.... “What?”

“Get ready,” he ordered, stepping inside as though the apartment belonged to him. “We meet them in an hour. You will dress appropriately, and you will keep your mouth shut. Do you understand?”

I shook my head, my hands trembling at my sides. “No. I’m not— I won’t—”

“You will.” His tone was final, a verdict carved in stone. “Your selfishness ends here. We carried you when no one else would. Now you repay that debt. It is the least you can do for this family.”

The word family burned in my ears, hollow and cruel. My chest ached, my throat tightening with unshed tears. I wanted to scream at him, to tell him I wasn’t theirs to barter, that I deserved more than this endless cycle of chains disguised as obligation.

But his stare pinned me where I stood, and I remembered too well what defiance had cost me before.

I turned away, unable to meet his eyes. My body shook with the weight of my rage and despair, but I forced myself upright.

An hour. That was all I had.

An hour to prepare myself to walk into the lion’s den. To stand before the Montagues—the very name that carried power like poison—and be presented as though I were nothing more than a pawn on a board I never chose to play.

Behind me, my father’s voice rang out, each word striking like a lash. “Remember, Aria. You owe us everything. And tonight, you will prove it.”

"This is not fair." I muttered

"Not just not fair, It is also finally. You have less than an hour." With that, he stormed out leaving the door open.

My reflection in the mirror stared back at me, pale and hollow-eyed. But beneath the terror, beneath the exhaustion, something simmered.

Hate.

And the fragile, dangerous spark of resolve.