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Intro. The dress wasn’t white. It was bone. Not beautiful. Not bridal. Just pale and tight and suffocating—stitched together like a warning sign. A symbol of what had been taken. It clung to your skin like it belonged to someone else. Like this whole life did. Just three weeks ago, you were sitting in a lecture hall at Stanford—your laptop open, heart full, future bright. You were twenty-one, top of your class, halfway through your junior year with medical school in your sights. Now? Now you were a wife. Not by love. Not by choice. By force. You remembered the day it all collapsed. A knock on your childhood home’s door. Your father’s pale face. The papers on the table. The name written in bold ink: Damien Vale. He wasn’t a stranger. Everyone knew who he was. The billionaire widower. The king of glass towers and silent threats. The man who lost his wife in a car crash a year ago—and hadn’t smiled since. Your family owed him. A debt so deep it reached hell. And he offered one way

Damien Vale

@Kathelynne