Chapter 31
The tray lands outside my door like it always does—two knocks, then silence. Not a voice, no interaction. Whoever’s assigned to feed the prisoner never lingers. I count the steps as they fade down the hallway. One, two, three...gone. My room is back to being a tomb.
For twenty-four mornings I’ve waited on the other side of this door, the quiet stretching out like a noose. But today, something new is on the tray.
There’s a newspaper folded beneath my untouched breakfast. Not hidden. Deliberately placed for me to see. The bold black-and-white print stares up at me like it’s gloating. I kneel down, cautious, as if it might burn my fingertips.
The inside of the front page is turned open. My breath catches in my throat.
A wedding announcement. Full-page. Anthony Falco and Zara Kavanagh, our names wound together in ornate script, tied with phrases like strategic alliance and two legacies united in loyalty.
But it’s the photo that makes me stagger back like I’ve been slapped.
A doctored image—me, smiling beside Anthony’s smug face.
My body, his arm. Our heads pasted together in a fantasy the world now believes is truth.
No. No, no, no.
A deep, guttural sound builds in my chest. The newspaper crumples in my hands, crushed beneath shaking fingers. I can’t breathe. I can’t think. All I see is tomorrow printed beneath the photo, mocking me.
Without thinking, I hurl the tray across the room. The plate shatters on the far wall, scattering shards of ceramic and half-cooked eggs. The teacup hits the window with a crash, spilling dark liquid like blood across the carpet. But it’s not enough.
I want it all destroyed.
The chair next. Then the lamp. My fists slam into the closet door until the skin splits open, until the pain gives shape to the fury roaring through my body.
How dare they.
How dare he take my face, my name, and reduce it to a headline. A spectacle. A lie.
A scream tears from my throat, raw and shaking the walls. I want every goddamn person in this house to hear me. To know I’m not going quietly. I’m not the broken girl they think they’ve buried behind silk curtains and guarded doors.
The door swings open with a violent snap. My father strides in, flanked by two of his men. His expression is cold, but the twitch in his jaw gives him away. He’s furious.
“What the hell is this?” he snaps, surveying the wreckage.
“What does it look like?” I hiss, breathing hard. “Your circus just made the morning edition.”
He crosses the room in three strides and stops in front of me, his presence casting a shadow over everything. “You’re acting like a child.”
“And you’re acting like a coward,” I spit back. “Selling your daughter to save your throne.”
His hand twitches at his side. He doesn’t hit me. Not yet. But the threat is there, simmering.
“I did what had to be done,” he says through clenched teeth. “We don’t have the numbers. Not anymore. The Marchettis have taken too much. This alliance with Falco—”
“Is a leash,” I snap. “And you’re handing him the collar.”
“You think I care what you want?” he growls, stepping closer. “This family has survived by blood and fear. Not sentiment. Not rebellion.”
“This family died when you killed Declan,” I whisper. His face tightens. A crack in the armor.
“He made his choice,” he says, voice colder now. “You will make yours.”
I laugh—sharp and cruel. “You think this marriage will make you powerful? You’re not building an empire. You’re bargaining with vultures.”
“You’re wrong,” he says, stepping forward. “This will restore our name. Our legacy. And you, Zara, will play your part.”
“You can put me in the dress. Parade me down the aisle. But you’ll never make me one of them.”
“You will smile,” he spits. “You will stand beside Anthony Falco, and you will bear the weight of this alliance. Because if you don’t—if you so much as trip—I will carve that smile onto your face myself.”
I stare into his eyes, chest heaving, and for the first time, I see it. Desperation.
The great Lachlan Kavanagh is losing.
And I am the only chip he has left to bet.
His fingers wrap around my arm with bruising force, yanking me toward him. “Get her under control,” he barks to the guards. “Sedate her if you have to. I won’t have a blushing bride with cuts or bruises in the photos.”
I try to fight, but it’s useless. One of the men produces a syringe from his coat pocket. The other grabs my wrists.
“Don’t fucking touch me!” I scream, struggling against them.
My father watches, unmoved. “This is your destiny, Zara. Dead or alive, you will serve your family.”
The needle sinks into my skin.
The world blurs.
As the room spins and my legs give way, the last thing I see is my father’s face.