Vows for vengeance

The air was too still.

Amira Donovan stood outside the towering iron gates of the Blackthorne estate, her fingers curled around the worn strap of her purse. The gravel beneath her heels crunched with each cautious step, but her heart made more noise-thudding against her ribs like it wanted to escape more than she did.

The sky overhead was painted in heavy greys, threatening rain, as though the heavens themselves were mourning her fate.

She was about to marry a man she barely knew. Not out of love, not out of choice-but necessity.

No, desperation.

Her brother, Liam , had gone missing six weeks ago. No ransom, no clue, just... gone. Then came the call. A calm voice offering a solution that made no sense. Marry Elias Blackthorne-New York's elusive billionaire-and Liam would be returned unharmed. No negotiation.

She'd thought it a joke. Until she saw the photos. Liam bruised. Tied up. Alive.

So here she was.

Amira took a slow breath and stepped through the gate as it creaked open, as if pulled by invisible hands. Her fingers trembled, but she straightened her back. She wouldn't cry. Not here.

The mansion rose like something out of a fairytale and a nightmare merged. Grand stone arches, towering windows, and ivy clinging to its bones like secrets long buried. A man in a crisp suit opened the front doors before she even reached them.

"Miss Donovan," he greeted with a nod, "Mr. Blackthorne is expecting you."

He said it like Elias was receiving a guest-not a bride.

Amira walked in.

The foyer stretched endlessly, marble floors and modern art lining the walls. A chandelier glittered like frost above her. Everything was too clean, too quiet. She felt like an ink stain on a white page.

And then he appeared.

Elias Blackthorne.

He stood at the base of a grand staircase, dressed in a charcoal suit that looked like it was tailored to his soul-sharp and immaculate. His dark hair was combed back with precision, not a strand out of place. His face was all angles: a square jaw, high cheekbones, and piercing grey eyes that didn't warm even when they landed on her.

He didn't smile. He simply looked.

As if studying a puzzle.

"Miss Donovan," he said. "You're early."

"Would it have made a difference if I were late?"

"No."

She hated the way her skin prickled under his gaze. Elias had the kind of presence that made silence feel like a question. A threat. A promise.

"You understand the terms?" he asked, moving toward her with slow, measured steps. "You agree to the marriage. You agree to live here. No interference. No questions. In return, your brother will be kept safe. Eventually released."

"Eventually?" she echoed, the word hitting her throat like a stone.

"Cooperation earns speed," he said simply.

"You're insane," she whispered.

"No," he said, "I'm thorough."

There was no apology in his voice. Only certainty.

Amira wanted to scream, wanted to run, but her brother's face-the bruises, the pleading eyes-kept her feet rooted to the floor.

"I want proof," she said. "Of life. I'm not saying another word until I see him."

Elias raised an eyebrow, then gestured to the suited man who brought in a tablet. A video played-a new one.

Liam. In the same room. Eyes alert this time.

"She's coming," he whispered. "Don't hate me, Mira. Please. Just-just stay safe."

Her breath caught. Tears welled up before she could stop them. She clutched the strap of her purse like it could hold her together.

"I'll do it," she said.

Elias studied her for a long moment. Then, without so much as a flicker of triumph, he nodded.

"Good. The ceremony is tomorrow. You'll be fitted for a dress this evening. Your room is upstairs, third door to the left. Dinner is at eight. I don't expect you to be late."

With that, he turned and walked away, leaving her standing in the center of his palace-his prisoner.

**

The room was bigger than her entire apartment.

Silk curtains, a queen-sized bed, ornate lamps, and a balcony that opened to a view of a garden too perfectly trimmed to be real. It was beautiful. Cold.

Like him.

Amira sat at the edge of the bed, staring at her shaking hands. She had agreed to this-sold herself to a stranger to save her only family. But now that she was here, she couldn't ignore the weight of it.

A knock at the door broke her thoughts.

A woman entered with long legs, dark curls, and sharp eyes. "You must be the new Mrs. Blackthorne," she said, her tone dry.

"I'm not-yet," Amira muttered.

"Well, I'm Lissa. I handle all Mr. Blackthorne's household arrangements, including inconvenient new wives."

Amira blinked. "Excuse me?"

"I'm kidding." A smile played at Lissa's lips. "Kind of."

She wheeled in a rack of dresses. "You're to pick one for tomorrow. It's all very tasteful. Expensive. Dramatic. Like a funeral, but with cake."

Despite herself, Amira let out a breath of laughter. A short, surprised sound.

"There," Lissa said. "That's the first real thing you've done since you walked in."

Amira looked at her. "Do you know why I'm here?"

Lissa's expression softened, just slightly. "I know enough. And I know Mr. Blackthorne isn't as heartless as he acts. But he is ruthless. Whatever this is... he thinks he has a reason."

"Well, so do I."

Lissa's gaze lingered. "Then maybe you're exactly what he deserves."

**

That night, Amira stood by the balcony, watching the moon rise over the gardens. Somewhere in this mansion, Elias Blackthorne slept-wrapped in wealth, in secrets, in something she couldn't name.

She didn't know who he truly was or why he wanted her.

But one thing was certain.

If this was war, she wouldn't go down quietly.

Not now. Not ever.