The Billionaire’s Stolen Bride

POV: Lena Moretti

I smiled fourteen times at dinner. I counted. Fourteen perfect smiles aimed at people who were celebrating the fact that my father sold me to pay a debt he was too weak to fight.

The rehearsal dinner was at the Crane estate, a long table set with white flowers and gold flatware and enough candles to burn the whole place down. I thought about that more than once. All those little flames. All that dry linen. One good accident and I could walk away from tomorrow's wedding with a legitimate excuse.

But I didn't burn anything. I sat in my assigned seat next to Julian Crane, my future husband, and I smiled. Fourteen times. His hand rested on my thigh under the table like he already owned me. Technically, I guess he did. The blood debt my father signed made sure of that.

Julian was good at this. The performance. He laughed at the right moments, touched my shoulder when he spoke about our future, called me "my beautiful bride" in his toast. Three hundred people believed every word. His father, Victor, watched from the head of the table with the satisfied expression of a man whose investments were paying off. My father sat at the other end, drinking too much, not meeting my eyes.

I made it through the whole dinner without breaking. Four courses. Six toasts. Two hours of pretending that tomorrow wouldn't be the end of everything I'd ever wanted for myself. I held it together because that's what I do. I hold it together until I can't, and then I hold it together some more.

The guests filtered out slowly. Handshakes and congratulations and women telling me how lucky I was. Lucky. I kept that word in my mouth like a stone. I nodded. I thanked them. I smiled for the fifteenth time when Julian's aunt told me I would make a wonderful Crane wife.

Then the last car pulled away and the house went quiet, and Julian's hand found the small of my back. "Come with me," he said. "I want to show you something."

He steered me through the east corridor to a study on the second floor. Wood paneling. Heavy curtains. He closed the door behind us and the click of the lock was the loudest sound I'd ever heard.

His face changed. It was like watching someone peel off a mask they'd been wearing all night. The warmth left his eyes. The easy smile flattened into something cold and precise. He leaned against the door and looked at me the way you look at something you've already purchased and are deciding where to put.

"Let's talk about expectations," he said.

I didn't say anything. My body already knew something my brain was still catching up to.

"When we're married, you don't speak at events unless I tell you to. You don't leave the house without letting me know where you're going. You don't make friends I haven't approved. You don't argue with me in front of anyone, ever." He said it the way someone reads a grocery list. Flat. Practiced. Like he'd rehearsed this.

"And if I don't agree to any of that?" I kept my voice steady. I'm good at keeping my voice steady.

He pushed off the door and walked toward me. Slow. "Your father owes my family more money than he'll make in ten lifetimes. The debt doesn't disappear because you're difficult. It disappears because you're obedient. Those are the terms, Lena."

"Those weren't the terms I agreed to."

"You didn't agree to anything. Your father agreed for you."

He was close now. Close enough that I could smell his cologne and the whiskey on his breath. I took a step back. He took a step forward.

"Julian. Back up."

He grabbed my arm. Hard. Fingers digging into the skin above my elbow. He spun me and slammed me against the wall and the back of my skull hit wood paneling and the room went white for a second. His body pressed against mine, pinning me. His mouth was at my ear.

"Your family sold you," he whispered. "Nobody is coming to save you. The sooner you understand that, the easier tomorrow will be."

His hand found the neckline of my dress and pulled. The fabric tore. I heard it rip and something inside me ripped with it. Not my courage. My patience.

I drove my knee up. He twisted sideways, caught most of it on his thigh, but his grip loosened for one second. One second was enough. I shoved him hard with both hands and he stumbled back into the desk. I didn't wait to see if he fell. I ran. I yanked the door open, my hands shaking so badly I almost couldn't turn the lock, and then I was in the hallway, moving fast, bare feet on cold marble because I'd kicked off my heels hours ago.

I didn't know where I was going. Just away. Through the east wing, past closed doors and dark rooms. My dress was torn from the collar to the shoulder. My arm was already bruising where he'd grabbed me. I could hear my own breathing, ragged and loud in the empty corridor.

I turned a corner and stopped. A door at the end of the hall was open. Light spilled out. A man stood in the doorway.

Not Julian. Someone taller. Leaner. Darker in a way that had nothing to do with the dim lighting. He wore a black shirt with the sleeves rolled to his forearms and he held a glass of something amber and he looked at me with eyes that missed nothing.

He looked at my torn dress. At the bruise forming on my arm. At the way I was shaking and trying not to.

"Wrong brother," he said.