Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Sophie
Lucian’s ominous statement hangs charged in the air between us while the ballroom’s distant music and laughter feel like they belong to another world entirely.
My father’s shoulders curve inward a little, and he desperately clutches his plaque.
Sweat glistens at his temples under the warm glow of the chandeliers, and the sight of it makes my heart twist.
I look from Lucian’s calm, midnight-blue eyes to the other man, then back again, panic knotting tight behind my ribs.
My father swallows, the motion visible in the column of his throat, his usual easy charm nowhere to be found. “Sophie, sweetheart…” His voice cracks on the endearment, and the sound of it lodges like a splinter under my skin.
He glances at Lucian as if seeking permission, then back to me, the lines around his eyes deepening with a shame I have never seen on his face before. “The…” He clears his throat. “I owe them four point eight million.”
My ears buzz. “Four point eight million.”
How can this be possible?
The number is a cold weight in my stomach, pressing down until I can hardly breathe. I knew the cost of my mother’s treatments was draining him, but he never let on that it was this bad.
My mind races, and I scowl ferociously. “But how? A loan?”
Eyes filled with shame, he looks away.
“Tell her.” Lucian’s voice is almost a growl, filled with force and threat.
Instinctively I reach for my father’s arm. “Whatever they’re holding over you, we’ll figure it out.”
“We’re trapped.”
“What do you mean, trapped?”
“They have everything.”
“Dad…” Desperately I search for answers. “That can’t be possible.”
“Sophie.” His voice is weak and shaky. “Please. It’s…”
I wait.
Finally, looking at the floor, he mumbles, “It’s a gambling debt.”
Unable to comprehend the words, I shake my head.
Lucian’s partner shifts, and the subtle movement draws my attention to him. His dark gaze locks on mine, steady and unyielding, the same predatory focus I remember from the first time we met. “He offered a collateral we found…”
He looks at Lucian.
Then, with a voice edged with steel, he adds, “Satisfactory.”
Collateral.
The word echoes in my head, clinical and wrong in this glittering ballroom where my father just accepted an award for helping people no one else would touch.
My pulse kicks harder against my throat, making me tighten my grip on my father’s arm.
He trembles, and compassion rushes through me.
He’s sacrificed for the woman he loves, and I’ve done what I can—wiring every spare dollar I could from my own accounts, skipping lunch, working twelve-day stretches without complaint—because watching her fight that rare cutaneous T-cell lymphoma taught me early that some battles demand everything.
Lucian takes a step closer, and the scent of him—controlled power—reaches me on the next breath.
Even though I’m terrified, I have to know… “What collateral?” My childhood home? That’s the only thing of value that he personally owns.
My mind reels. Even if they take the house, that won’t begin to cover the cost of the debt.
Or is it that and something else? Properties?
“You.” Lucian looks at me, deep, and triumph burns in his eyes. “You’re the collateral.”
“What?” The room spins, and I have to force my knees not to buckle.
Frantically I look between all of them.
No one smiles.
“This has to be a joke.” I wait. When no one speaks, hysteria bubbles in me. “Dad?” Dropping my hand, I stare at the man who has always been my hero.
“Sophie, I…”
Oh my God. No. This can’t… Can’t.
“Your father has offered your hand in marriage, Sophie.” He pauses. “To both of us.”
The words are a physical blow. Marriage? To both of them?
The absurdity of it almost makes me laugh. And I would have, if not for the cold certainty in Lucian’s tone.
The crystal chandeliers blur, and the yellow roses in the centerpieces swim in my vision.
I blink hard, forcing my gaze back to my father, searching his face for any sign that this is some elaborate joke, some desperate bid for time.
But his eyes—those warm brown eyes that have always lit with genuine pride when he looks at me—hold only raw, exhausted defeat.
“Dad?” My voice comes out smaller than I intend, threaded with the disbelief that claws at my throat.
“Tell me this isn’t real. You wouldn’t…” I shake my head as I try to understand.
“You could never have agreed to something like this.”
He exhales, the sound ragged, and his free hand lifts as if to touch my cheek the way he did when I was a girl scraping my knee on the playground.
It hovers, then drops. “Your mother’s next cycle is due in three weeks.
The clinic in Riyadh won’t schedule without full payment upfront.
I’ve exhausted every legitimate line of credit.
These men… They’re willing to pay for it.
The full course, Sophie. Whatever it costs, for as long as she needs it. ”
His words begin to tumble, and the specialist in me recognizes the behavioral loop I have coached so many clients through—the initial rush of justification, the tightening anxiety, the compulsive grasp at the only lifeline left.
“I thought I could turn it around. One more hand. But they had me cornered.”
The second man’s shoulder brushes my father’s in a subtle show of dominance, and something dark flickers in his eyes.
It’s the same coiled hunger I felt pinned by eight years ago when he slammed Adrian against that stone wall.
“The arrangement is simple. You marry us. Your mother’s treatments continue uninterrupted.
Your father’s debts vanish. Everything else—your practice, your independence—remains yours to manage within reason. ”
“Within reason.”
Fury surges, hot and immediate, beneath my skin. “I’m not chattel.”
Though Lucian raises a brow, he doesn’t argue.
“How?” I demand, unleashing my anger. “How did this happen? My father doesn’t gamble. He builds things. He helps people. Small landlords, single mothers—people the banks abandoned. I’ve watched him do it my whole life. So tell me, exactly how did four point eight million in markers accumulate?”
His beautiful, predatory lips curve in that controlled half smile I remember too well, the one that once promised I would thank them later while my heart lay shattered on cool stone.
“The details of the debt are between your father and us. What matters now is the resolution. Your agreement isn’t required for the markers to transfer, but we prefer you walk down the aisle to us with your eyes wide open.”
My agreement isn’t required?
They’d force me to marry them?
I blink, stunned.
This kind of thing doesn’t happen in this day and age.
Can’t happen.
But Lucian is still speaking, as if he hasn’t ripped my entire world apart beneath me a second time.
“The wedding to me and Caleb will happen within a month. A private ceremony here in Houston, your father present to give you away. Before that, you’ll move into our penthouse.”
My father makes a small, broken sound, and my mother’s face flashes behind my eyes—her gentle smile during our last video chat, the way she still calls me her brilliant girl even when her voice grows thready.
But the thought of her treatments stopping, of watching her fade the same way she started to four years ago, sends ice threading through my veins.
“No.” I step back. “I can’t. I won’t.”
My tone and sharp movement draw the eyes of nearby guests whose conversations falter.
Let them fucking stare. Let the whole ballroom witness this. “I will not be collateral for you monsters.”
Though the dangerous man’s jaw tightens, Lucian’s gaze never wavers.
Instead of responding with fury, he smiles. “Oh, but you will, Sophie. You will.”
I turn toward the doors and begin to run.
The pins in my chignon slip loose, and several strands of hair fall across my heated cheeks.
My father calls my name once, soft and pleading, but I do not slow.
When I finally exit the hotel, cool night air hits my bare arms.
Desperately I fumble for my phone. I need a car to put distance between me and the men who just tried to buy my future the way my father once bought second chances for strangers.
My breath comes in short, ragged bursts as I rush down the curving driveway.
Tears burn at the corners of my eyes, but I blink them back hard, jaw clenched against the sob that wants to rise.
For years, I’ve carried the scar of my shattered fairy tale. Now the same men want to own me outright, using my mother’s life as a tool to fold me into their world of polished dominance.
I won’t let them. I won’t.
The ride app pings with a driver three minutes away, and I hug my arms around myself against the sudden chill that has nothing to do with the temperature.
My father’s pale, defeated face haunts me. And my mother. She can’t possibly realize what he’s done.
All of it collides inside me as I wait at the curb, pulse hammering.
I will find another way. I have to. Because the alternative—the thought of walking down any aisle toward them, of their hands on me in any way that echoes that long-ago promise—sends a fresh wave of heat and horror twisting low in my belly.
Finally the car arrives.
Exhaling my relief, I wrench the door open.
Only to have a large, forceful hand clamp on my shoulder.
“My future wife will ride in my vehicle.”