The next forty-eight hours passed like a fever dream.
Amelia barely slept. When she did, she dreamed of shadows and iron and a voice that whispered I found you over and over again.
She ate nothing.
She spoke to no one except to say "I'm not hungry" and "leave me alone."
Her father didn't push. He left her meals outside her door and took away the ones she didn't touch.
Ethan didn't come to the house.
But she felt him anyway.
She'd be sitting in her room, staring at the wall, and suddenly her skin would prickle. She'd look out the window, and there he'd be—across the street, or down the block, or sitting in a black car with the engine running.
He never approached, he never waved. He just watched.
And every time, her phone would buzz.
Unknown Number: Did you eat today?
Unknown Number: You should sleep.
Unknown Number: Three more days.
On the morning of the wedding, Amelia stood in front of her mirror in a white dress she hadn't chosen. The woman who had delivered it—a stylist, she'd said, hired by Mr. Hayes—had done Amelia's hair and makeup while Amelia sat in silence.
Now she was alone.
The dress was beautiful. Simple. Elegant.
She hated it.
A knock on the door.
"Come in," she said, expecting her father.
Ethan walked in instead.
Amelia's breath caught. She hadn't seen him up close in daylight. He was younger than she'd thought—maybe late twenties—with sharp features and eyes that seemed to see too much.
"You're not supposed to see the bride before the wedding," she said. Her voice came out steadier than she felt.
"Superstition doesn't interest me."
"Does anything?"
He tilted his head slightly. "You."
She looked away. "That's not an answer."
"It's the only one I have."
He walked toward her, stopping when he was close enough that she could smell him—clean, something woody underneath, nothing like the iron of that first night.
"I'm not going to hurt you," he said quietly.
"You've already hurt me. You've taken my choice."
"No. Your father took your choice. I'm just the consequence."
"That's not better."
"No," he agreed. "It's not."
He reached out, slowly, and touched the sleeve of her dress. Just the fabric. Just for a moment.
"But I will keep you alive," he said. "And one day, you'll understand why that matters more than anything else."
He turned and walked out.
Amelia stood there, heart pounding, and realized something that terrified her more than the contract, more than the danger, more than any of it.
She believed him.