Chapter 2

The escape felt like a fever dream.

A sympathetic night nurse named Sarah, who had seen the terror in my eyes after Mark's visit, helped me. She found me a set of discarded scrubs that hung off my frame and turned a blind eye as I slipped out a service exit into the pre-dawn chill of Veridia.

The air was sharp and damp, tasting of rain and exhaust fumes. It was a shock to my system after the recycled, sterile air of the hospital. Every sound was magnified-the distant wail of a siren, the hiss of tires on wet asphalt, the frantic thumping of my own heart. I clutched the brass key in my pocket, its rigid edges a painful, reassuring pressure against my thigh. It was the only real thing I had left.

Veridia National Bank was an old, imposing building of granite and marble, a temple to old money and secrets. My hands trembled so badly I could barely sign my name on the access slip. The clerk, a young man named David with bored eyes, didn't seem to notice. He led me into the vault, the air growing cold and still as the massive circular door swung shut behind us with a heavy, final thud.

The safe deposit box was long and narrow. Inside, nestled on a bed of faded black velvet, was a single, thick vellum envelope sealed with dark red wax. My family's crest. A crest I hadn't seen since my parents' funeral.

My fingers, clumsy with a mixture of fear and adrenaline, broke the seal.

The document inside was heavy, the paper crisp and aged. The script was archaic, a formal legal language that was difficult to parse. But the names, typed in stark, modern font, were impossible to mistake.

My name, Clara Ashford.

And another name. A name that made the breath catch in my throat.

Julian Thorne.

*What?* The name echoed in my mind. Julian Thorne. The notoriously ruthless, obscenely wealthy, and pathologically reclusive CEO of Thorne Industries. He was a phantom in the world of Veridia's elite, a man whose empire was a direct and bitter rival to the one Mark was so desperate to inherit. He was a legend, a shark, a ghost.

And according to the ironclad, legally binding document I held in my trembling hands, he was my betrothed.

It was a pre-arranged marriage contract, a pact made by our grandfathers decades ago, binding their firstborn grandchildren. It was a relic from another era, a dynastic alliance meant to merge two powerful families. A promise sealed in ink and law, forgotten by time, until now.

*This is what Mrs. Gable meant. A contract with more power than Mark could dream of.* The sheer audacity of it, the medieval strangeness of it, was staggering. My parents had left me a lifeline, but it was attached to a leviathan.

I stumbled out of the bank, the contract clutched in my hand, my mind reeling. The grey morning light felt harsh, abrasive. The city was waking up, the streets filling with people who had normal lives, normal problems. They weren't running from a monster, holding a marriage contract to a myth.

That's when I saw them.

Two men in dark suits, standing by a black sedan across the street. They were trying to be inconspicuous, but their focus was too sharp, their stillness too predatory. One of them lifted a phone to his ear, his eyes locked directly on me. Mark's men. He hadn't waited. He was already hunting me.

Panic, cold and sharp, seized me. My legs started moving before my brain gave the command. I ran.

I plunged into the morning crowds, my hospital-issued sneakers slapping against the wet pavement. I shoved past people, ignoring their angry shouts. The scrubs were a poor disguise, marking me as someone who was out of place, someone who was running.

*Think, Clara, think! Where can you go?* Sophie's apartment was the first place they would look. A hotel required an ID and a credit card, both of which were still in my purse at the hospital. I was a ghost with no resources.

The chase was a blur of storefronts and faces. I risked a glance over my shoulder. They were closer now, moving with a terrifying, athletic purpose. They were gaining.

My lungs burned. My body, still weak and recovering, screamed in protest. Despair began to claw at the edges of my panic. They were going to catch me. They were going to drag me back, and Mark would make good on his threat. The image of a locked room, of being silenced forever, propelled me forward.

Then I saw it.

Rising above the other buildings like a shard of obsidian, a monument to power and ambition. The headquarters of Thorne Industries.

It was an insane idea. A desperate, last-ditch gamble. But it was the one place in all of Veridia that Mark couldn't easily touch. It was the dragon's lair. And I was holding an invitation from the dragon himself.

With the last of my strength, I sprinted across the wide, windswept plaza towards the gleaming glass and steel entrance. The two men behind me shouted, breaking into a full run.

I burst through the revolving doors into a lobby so vast and opulent it felt like a cathedral to commerce. The floors were polished black marble, reflecting the soaring, three-story ceiling. A massive, abstract sculpture of bronze and steel dominated the center of the space. The air smelled of money, clean and sterile, with a faint, pleasant scent of what might have been white tea. Men and women in immaculate suits moved with quiet, efficient purpose, their voices hushed.

My ragged appearance in pale blue scrubs, my wild hair, my panicked breathing-it all brought this silent, perfect world to a screeching halt.

A security guard, a mountain of a man with a stern face, moved to intercept me immediately. "Ma'am, you can't be in here."

"I need to see Julian Thorne," I gasped, my voice raw.

He gave a short, humorless laugh. "I'm sure you do. You and everyone else. You need to leave. Now."

He reached for my arm. The men who had been chasing me were at the doors now, momentarily blocked by another guard. Time was running out.

My desperation boiled over into a raw, primal scream.

"JULIAN THORNE!"

The sound echoed in the cavernous space. Every head turned. Every conversation stopped. The silence that followed was absolute, heavy with shock.

The head guard's face hardened. "That's it. You're out."

"NO!" I yelled, fumbling with the document in my hand. I held it up, the thick vellum shaking. "I have a contract! A marriage contract! With him!"

The absurdity of my claim, of my appearance, hung in the air. I could see the pity and disbelief on the faces around me. They thought I was insane. Maybe I was.

And then, a shift.

A collective gasp rippled through the lobby. The people standing near the grand, floating staircase at the far end of the atrium parted like the Red Sea.

I followed their gaze upwards.

At the top of the stairs, a figure stood, silhouetted against the vast window behind him. He was tall, dressed in a suit so perfectly cut it looked like a second skin. Even from this distance, the power radiating from him was palpable. It was a stillness, a coiled intensity that commanded the entire space without a single word.

He began to descend the stairs, his movements fluid and deliberate. As he drew closer, his features came into focus. Sharp, aristocratic cheekbones, a strong jaw, and dark hair. But it was his eyes that held me captive. They were a startling, icy grey, and they were locked onto mine from across the atrium. They weren't angry or surprised. They were assessing, analytical, and utterly, terrifyingly cold.

Julian Thorne. The myth. The man who held my future in his hands. And his icy gaze held not a single flicker of recognition.