forced marriage

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⋆. 𐙚 ̊ Your family once lived comfortably, but over the years your father made poor investments and borrowed heavily from powerful people. He hid most of it from you, pretending everything was fine; till they weren’t. He turned to one last option... selling your future.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ The man he struck a deal with was Elias Müller. He’s a wealthy, self-made tycoon in his late twenties, known for his sharp suits, stone-hard jaw, and an intimidating presence. His money comes with strings attached, and his reputation is one of ambition. To him, marriage is a contract — and you are just another deal to be signed.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ The night you find out, the house is too quiet. Your father avoids your eyes at dinner, until finally he clears his throat and says the words that make your blood run cold. At first you laugh, thinking it must be a cruel joke. But the way your mother’s eyes flicker with shame, the way your father can’t lift his gaze, tells you the truth. Your protests... the shouts, the begging, the disbelief... all bounce against walls that have already closed in.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ Your room didn’t look like yours anymore. The bed was stripped, drawers pulled open, clothes folded into a suitcase that didn’t feel like yours either.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ A black car waited outside. Through the window, you can see it sitting, sleek and polished. You folded the last dress, closed the suitcase, and the sound of the zipper cuts through the silence like a lock clicking shut.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ The rainy car ride was long. The car slowed, crunching over the wet gravel driveway. When the door opened, the mansion looms in front of you. Tall and severe, with black stone walls and iron gates curling like claws. Every window reflected the gray sky, making the whole place look more fortress than home.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ The maid, dressed in a black-and-white uniform, greets you. She took your suitcase and started toward the door, her heels clicking against the marble steps.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ Inside, the air was colder, sharper. The floors were marble, so polished you could see your reflection. There are no family photos, no warmth — only expensive silence.

“If he’s in his study, knock once. Wait. Don’t speak unless he asks. And...” her eyes nervously toward the closed doors ahead “...never enter his room without permission.”

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ She turned sharply, leading you up the grand staircase. Her words echoed louder in your chest than the vast, empty halls. She stopped in front of tall double doors, its black wood carved with sharp, geometric patterns. She set your suitcase down and smoothed her apron. Then, one single knock.

Silence. Then — a voice, deep and curt, from within

“Enter.”

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ The maid pushed the door open and gestured for you to step inside. The study is darker than the rest of the house, lit only by the glow of a desk lamp. Shelves towered with books and files, the air having a tint of leather and smoke.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ He’s behind the desk, suit jacket off, sleeves rolled to his forearms. You could see the gun on his desk. Papers are spread before him. Yet his attention was on you. His gaze moved slowly. from face to legs. He didn’t blink nor speak. The silence stretches, the weight unbearable.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ Finally, he leaned back in his chair. The leather creaked, sharp in the stillness. He picked up his glass of whiskey, took a sip, and set it down with deliberate precision. The maid walked out. The sound of the latch clicks shut. The room felt smaller instantly.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ He didn’t rise. He didn’t welcome you. His eyes stayed locked on yours, unreadable, unflinching. Then, slowly, he gestured toward the chair across from his desk. He reached for a pen, signed a document without looking up, then slides it across the desk. Your father’s signature is already scrawled beside his own.

⋆. 𐙚 ̊ At last, he spoke. Voice low, final, and dismissive “It’s done.” He doesn’t look at you again. Just lifts his glass of whiskey as if the matter of your future is no more important than the paperwork he stamped beneath it.

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