—What are you saying, Dad? —I asked, digging my nails into the palm of my hand.
The family office, once full of elegance and power, now smelled of despair. Wrinkled papers on the table, cold coffee cups in the corners, and a father with slumped shoulders in front of me.
—It's the only option we have left, Isabella —he said, avoiding my gaze—. The deal with Blackwood can save us. But there's a condition...
I laughed.
—A condition? And I guess it's me? The sacrificial daughter?
—Don't talk like that! —he raised his voice, weakly—. This isn't what I wanted. But if we don't do this... we'll lose everything.
—Maybe that's what you deserve! —I spat, hurt—. You gambled away everyone's future!
—Isabella, please! Just listen to me...
I stood up before he could finish, grabbed my bag and left the house without looking back. I didn't want to hear excuses, didn't want to hear numbers. I just wanted to breathe.
The wind outside was freezing, but I didn't care. I walked aimlessly through streets I knew by heart, until my feet led me to the usual little café. "Blue Corner," said the worn wooden sign.
I went in. Soft music played, and the scent of freshly ground coffee filled the air. The place was almost empty, just a couple in the corner and a girl typing on her laptop.
I sat by the window, like I used to when I dreamed of having my own art gallery, when I believed the world was mine if I worked hard enough. That "someday" now felt as far as it was impossible.
A waitress came over, smiling.
—The usual?
—A latte, please... and add cream. I need it today.
While I waited, I pulled out my phone to distract myself. Bad idea.
Notifications.
Tweets.
Headlines.
Rumors.
Videos.
"Blackwood breaks negotiations with Rivera Group."
"Isabella Rivera, daughter of the fallen businessman."
"The Rivera fortune could vanish in a matter of weeks."
And then, a photo of me. I was walking down the stairs at home, visibly upset.
Were the media already following me?
The knot in my stomach grew. My heart pounded. Tears welled up in my eyes without permission.
I took the coffee the waitress had left on the table and hugged it as if it could protect me from the cold in my chest. A drop fell on the rim of the cup.
—Are you okay? —the waitress asked as she passed by.
I nodded, voiceless to lie. She walked away, and I kept staring out the window. The city lights were still on, indifferent to my misery.
My phone buzzed again. A message from my father.
Dad: I know it's not fair. But I believe in you. You've always been strong.
How convenient to believe in me now, when the only thing I have left to offer is my life as currency.
But... what if I didn't do it? What would happen to my mother, to my little sister still in college? To the employees who had worked their whole lives for us?
They weren't selling me, they were pushing me to choose between my future... and everyone else's.
I took a deep breath, wiped my face with the back of my coat, and dialed my father's number.
—Isabella? —my father answered on the second ring.
—I'll do it. I'll marry him.
There was a long silence.
—Are you sure?
—No. But I'll do it anyway.
—Thank you, sweetheart. You don't know how much...
I hung up. I didn't want to hear his gratitude. Not now.
I stayed a few more minutes in the café, looking at my blurry reflection in the glass. I thought about my dreams, my freedom, my dignity. All packed up to be handed over to a stranger named Ethan Blackwood.
A CEO I had never seen. All I knew was that he was rich, influential... and, according to the rumors, a complete arrogant man.
The name already burned on my tongue. Ethan Blackwood. My future husband.
And I... his future prisoner.
-----
While Isabella made her final decision in that café, miles away, another scene unfolded.
The private elevator of the Blackwood Empire Tower opened on the 47th floor.
Ethan Blackwood walked straight to his office with calculated steps and an unchanging expression, as every morning. Black suit, Swiss watch, impenetrable look.
—Good morning, Mr. Blackwood —his personal assistant, Olivia, greeted without looking directly at him.
—What's on the agenda? —he asked while reviewing the documents in his hand.
—Meeting with investors at nine. The new contract with Rivera Group still has no response. And... —she hesitated for a second— the lawyer called. He says the girl hasn't accepted yet.
Ethan stopped. He looked up for the first time the entire way.
—Still?
—No, sir. But... she's likely to decline. According to the media, she's left her house and hasn't contacted her family.
Ethan clenched his jaw and walked to the office window. From there he could see the whole city: tiny cars, invisible people, power in motion. And still... everything depended on a single decision.
—She can't refuse —he said, more to himself than to Olivia.
—What would you like me to do? Should we apply pressure?
—No —he replied after a few seconds—. She'll accept. That's what loyal daughters do, right?
Olivia looked at him with a hint of compassion but said nothing.
Ethan poured a glass of whiskey from the hidden bar in his black wooden cabinet. It wasn't even nine in the morning. He took a small sip, then watched the ice spin slowly in the glass.
—This isn't about her —he murmured—. It's about what she represents.
On the desk, his phone vibrated.
New message.
"She has accepted."
Ethan set the glass on the table and slowly turned. A barely perceptible smile curved his lips.
—Get ready, Olivia. Call the lawyers. The contract will be signed tomorrow.
—Do you want to meet her first?
Ethan shook his head.
—No need. I know everything I need to know.
And as he looked out the window again, he thought of the irony:
Marriage was a game of power.
And this time, he would make sure to win.