Chapter Thirteen - Suzy
Two weeks.
The number claws at me from the inside, a drumbeat I can’t silence no matter how I try. Two weeks until I’m Suzy Sharov, until the world changes for good.
I whisper it to myself while standing under brutal studio lights, letting stylists pin fabric and brush powder across my cheekbones.
I pose, angle, turn, let the camera flash, but every muscle in my body is tight, every smile rehearsed. I’m here, but I’m not—the real me is stuck in a waiting room inside my own skull, counting down the days until I walk down an aisle toward a man I can’t escape.
Outfit change. Laughter, banter. My hands shake when I button up the next dress, but I hide it well. I hear snippets of conversation—who’s booking Paris, who’s landing the next campaign.
I should care, but nothing seems real. My phone buzzes during a break, shattering the rhythm. It’s an international number. My heart seizes before I even answer.
My mother’s voice hits, clipped and tight, the accent sharper than usual.
She doesn’t ask how I am. She wants to know what’s going on, why there are whispers about a wedding, why I look exhausted in every photo that leaks online.
I try to explain, words tripping over themselves—I didn’t choose this; it’s an arrangement; it’s about family; it’s not what you think—but she cuts me off, tone colder than a winter wind.
“You always wanted your father’s world. Now you have it. Don’t cry about monsters, Suzy, when you insisted on dancing with them.”
The line clicks dead. I stare at the phone until my eyes burn, but I won’t let myself cry. Not here. Not with a room full of models watching, not with my makeup still perfect.
Elara finds me in the dressing room, all mischief and big-sister energy, but she drops the act as soon as she sees my face.
“Hey. What’s going on?” she asks, voice low, genuine in a way that guts me.
I can’t tell her the truth—can’t say I was collared, caged, traded. So I give her half of it. “It’s arranged. Two weeks. I don’t have a choice.” The words taste bitter, like surrender.
Elara sighs, eyebrows drawn. She studies me for a beat, then snaps her fingers, smile snapping back in place.
“Then tonight we raise hell,” she declares.
“Bachelorette blowout. My treat.” The other girls catch the vibe instantly, hungry for any excuse to forget the grind.
Drinks, shots, cheers—they swarm me, painting me in lipstick and glitter, laughing too loud.
I want to disappear, but I need this too.
I need the noise to drown out the panic that chews at my heart.
We end up at a club tucked away in a labyrinth of alleys—a velvet-draped maze of neon and perfume, red-lit corners pulsing with possibility.
Elara leads the charge. “No press or creeps. Just us,” she promises. I almost believe her.
Inside, I’m swept along—laughing at nothing, knocking back vodka like water. The music is so loud it rattles my teeth, the floor sticky beneath my heels. I think maybe, for a minute, I can forget what’s coming. The curtains part, and then the real surprise hits: dancers.
Men, beautiful and oiled and nearly naked, moving through haze and colored lights. My jaw drops. Elara howls with laughter at my expression.
“This is insane,” I shout, shaking my head, half mortified. “I shouldn’t be here—”
“You’re the bride,” one of the girls teases, draping a plastic tiara across my hair. “You’re the queen tonight.”
It’s chaos, and for the first time in weeks, I let myself get swept away.
I cheer when the others cheer, blush when one dancer twirls me, let the wildness crack through my shell.
It’s not real life—it’s theater, a fever dream—but it’s better than the numbness.
For a breathless moment, I am just Suzy, laughing and a little drunk, surrounded by people who only want to celebrate.
A dancer leans in—too close, too bold—and I jerk back, mouth open to protest…
Everything stops.
The music slams dead. Lights flicker. A silence as heavy as concrete fills the room. And there he is: Leon, standing in the doorway, backlit, suit sharp, eyes burning. His men spill in behind him—deadly, efficient, blank-faced.
Dancers scatter, the girls squealing and shrinking away, clutching purses and shoes and drinks. In less than a minute, the place is empty except for the two of us.
Leon walks toward me, slow and certain, not raising his voice. His gaze pins me where I stand. When he reaches me, his fingers slide to my throat, finding the bare skin where the necklace used to be—not squeezing, not threatening, just claiming. My breath stutters, the world shrinks to his touch.
“You’re mine,” he says, quiet enough that only I can hear. His thumb traces my pulse. “Your body. I don’t share.”
His other hand ghosts along my jaw. He leans in, mouth close to my ear, voice dropping lower still. “You want wild? I’ll show you wild, but you don’t run from me. Not tonight. Not ever.”
His words are velvet and steel—an order, a promise, a threat. I shiver, wanting to slap him and kiss him in the same breath.
He steps back, the spell broken.
“Come,” he says, louder now.
I glance around—the girls are peeking through the curtain, scared, whispering my name. I could make a scene. I could fight, ruin everything, but I know the headlines that would follow. I know the power he holds, the way even now my life isn’t my own.
So I follow, head high, pride burning in my chest like a fuse. The night air outside is sharp, the limo waiting.
Leon’s hand rests at my back—not rough, but firm, guiding. For a moment, as the doors close behind us and the city blurs by, I let myself wonder if he’s furious or afraid. If maybe, just maybe, he wants me for more than what I can do for his empire.
I don’t let myself ask. I just watch the city spin, counting the days. Two weeks. Then, forever.
The car ride home is silent, heavy with the fallout of everything that’s just happened. My head is buzzing, a cocktail of adrenaline and humiliation, resentment and something darker I don’t want to name.
The city rushes past outside the tinted window—too fast, too bright, every familiar street warped by the angle, the darkness, the knowledge that I’m not in control.
I knot my hands in my lap, nails digging hard into my palm to anchor myself, to remind myself I’m real, I’m here, I’m not a puppet on someone else’s stage.
Leon is driving, and I sit curled up in the passenger side seat. When I glance in the rearview mirror, I see two sleek black cars following. Leon’s men.
Fear creeps in, slow and insidious. With every block, every turn, that feeling tightens. I realize I don’t know where we are. I don’t recognize these roads. The route is all wrong, and a cold spike of panic stabs through my gut.
We’re supposed to be heading home, but the city outside is strange, the streetlights flickering over empty lots and unfamiliar corners.
“Where are you taking me?” My voice is tight, raw around the edges. I hate the way it sounds—small, uncertain, a far cry from the defiance I clung to all night.
Leon doesn’t answer. His face is shadowed, unreadable. The only sound is the hum of the engine and the distant pulse of my own blood in my ears.
My heart slams against my ribs, the old terror clawing its way up. I think about locked doors and collars, about the cost of crossing him in public, about how easily he could make me vanish if he wanted.
I don’t know if I’m more angry or afraid. I want to lash out, to demand some sliver of respect or explanation, but he just stares ahead, jaw clenched, eyes on the road like nothing else exists.
Then, just as I start to map out the worst—how to run, how to fight, how to beg—something familiar slides past the window.
A street sign. The glow of a corner bodega I know too well.
Suddenly, impossibly, I’m home. My street.
My building, looming up out of the night, looking almost peaceful in the sodium glow.
Leon pulls to the curb. The car slows, idles. For a heartbeat, I can’t move. The relief is so sharp it hurts.
He opens the door—not a word, not a hand on my arm, not even a glance back over his shoulder. He’s letting me go, at least for tonight.
I slide out, my legs unsteady, the world tilting as my heels touch the pavement. I stand there, the city noise spilling around me, staring back at him through the open door.
For a second, our eyes meet—his, dark and searching, mine, too wide. There’s no anger in his expression. No gloating. Just that same intensity, unreadable, unmovable, like he’s taking in every detail for a reason only he understands.
Then the car pulls away, the taillights flaring red as he disappears into the night. I stand there for a long time, not sure if I’m supposed to be grateful or afraid.
Inside my apartment, the silence feels radioactive. I peel off my shoes, lean against the door, heart hammering. I want to call Elara, to text someone, to spill it all—but I can’t. The words would sound insane, and I can’t risk dragging anyone else into this war.
I walk through the rooms, touching each thing that belongs to me—throw blanket, chipped mug, lipstick on the vanity—as if to reassure myself I’m still here, still myself.
The illusion is thin. The night’s noise echoes in my head, but it can’t drown out the memory of Leon’s hand at my throat, his claim. The cold realization seeps in: He knew. He always knew.
Where I was, who I was with, every move I made tonight. He let me have my night, let me play at freedom, then reminded me how little of it I really have.
I press my palm flat to my chest, counting my breaths. In. Out. In. Out. Trying to beat back the panic, the sense of a net drawing tight around me.
Maybe this is what my life will be now—watched, managed, redirected the second I stray too far from his reach. Maybe the marriage isn’t a partnership or a truce or even a punishment. Maybe it’s just another, prettier cage.
The city sprawls below my window, indifferent and bright. For the first time, I let myself wonder if I’ll ever really be free again, or if all I’ve done is step from one locked room into another.
I tell myself I’m strong enough to outlast him. I tell myself I still have choices. But when I look down and see nothing but empty street and fading headlights, I know something has shifted—something I can’t undo, something that will haunt me every night until the wedding, and maybe long after.
***
I don’t sleep.
I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling as the city hums below, every sound suddenly suspect. A car door. Footsteps. The distant wail of sirens. I catalog them all, instincts flaring whether I want them to or not. I check the locks twice. Then a third time. I hate myself for it.
When I finally close my eyes, Leon is there—uninvited, unrelenting. Not shouting. Not threatening. Just watching. Letting me move. Letting me believe I’m choosing something for myself. That’s the part that twists the knife deepest.
This isn’t about fear anymore. It’s about containment.
He didn’t drag me home. He delivered me.
I roll onto my side, fingers digging into the pillow, jaw tight. Two weeks. I won’t survive them by pretending this is fine. If he thinks proximity equals ownership, if he thinks patience will tame me, he’s made a mistake.