"Mr. Franklin will see you right now."
Emilia stood up immediately, barely having time to change into the simple dress that had been left on the bed, when she heard the sharp, deliberate knock on the door.
The same woman as before stepped in. She did not smile.
As Emilia followed her, they walked silently through the echoing halls. She attempted to memorise turns—left, then right, two long corridors—but it proved impossible.
Everything looked the same: polished, cold, and magnificent beyond measure.
The office door was slightly ajar. The woman gave Emilia a small nod and then disappeared.
She stepped inside.
The room was darker than the rest. The walls were covered in wooden panels, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves rose behind the massive mahogany desk. A fire crackled in the hearth, but it was not cold.
And there he was.
Damian Franklin, the mafia king.
He was every inch the man whispered about in dark corridors and opulent halls.
He stood tall and broad-shouldered, exuding power without ever raising his voice. His features were carved in harsh, unforgiving lines: high cheekbones, a straight Roman nose, and a strong jaw framed by the faintest stubble. Very good-looking.
With just one glance, any woman would fall head over heels for him. He's like a greek god.
But it was his eyes—icy steel-blue and always calculating—that took everyone's breath away. There was a dangerous calm about him, like a storm about to break.
His hair, thick and dark as night, was always neatly styled, but a rebellious strand occasionally fell over his brow, adding to his rugged charm.
He sat behind the desk, sleeves rolled up, a glass of amber liquid beside him.
When Emilia entered, he did not rise.
"Emilia Jones," he said, looking up from a folder. "Sit; we have terms to discuss."
She hesitated for a moment before lowering herself into the chair opposite him. Every instinct told her to run—but where? she was in his world now.
"First," he said, folding his hands, "you are not a prisoner. But you're not free either."
The muscle in her jaw twitched. "That doesn't make any sense."
He leaned back. "You're here to settle a debt, specifically your uncle's. 35 million dollars, plus interest."
Emilia's heart stutters. "Thirty-five—?" unbelievable.
"Plus interest," he reiterated.
"Your uncle approached me for it. The agreement stipulated that if he defaulted, collateral would be seized. You, Emilia Jones, were chosen as collateral."
"Chosen? "I was not—"
"You were signed over," he interrupted. "With your complete birth information and signature forged well enough to avoid legal scrutiny. My men investigated. It is solid. Ugly but solid."
She swallowed back the wave of nausea that was rising in her throat.
"I have nothing to do with all of this!"
Damian stood up and moved to the window, hands in his pockets, as if he hadn't heard anything she had said. "So. Here are your options."
Her breath caught.
"One: you stay here. You do nothing but exist in safety under my protection until your uncle repays every penny—which, let's face it, he won't."
He slowly turned, his gaze locked on hers.
"Two: You marry me. The debt disappears. In exchange, you give me what I require."
I blinked. "Which is?"
"A convenient alliance," he stated flatly. "A name. A look. An image. An heir. You'll be my wife, and nothing else—unless you want more."
Emilia felt the room tilt.
"This is insane!"
"This is business," he explained. "You were born into a world that likes to pretend that shadows don't exist. I live inside them."
"I am not for sale," she yelled. She had wished it were all a dream.
"No," he replied quietly. "But you were given away."
Silence pressed in like a weight.
She stood with fists clenched. "What will happen if I refuse both?"
Damian's jaws tightened. He took a breath.
"Then I'll send you to one of my clubs." You will not be touched. But you will work. Like any other girl with debt. Long hours. No life. No future."
This was insane, she thought to herself; she couldn't believe how her life had devolved into this; her eyes welled up with angry tears.
"You are a monster."
He stepped forward, his voice sharp as a blade. "No. I am the man who is giving you a choice."
She looked up at him, breathing heavily. "You think locking me up and decorating it with silk and chandeliers will make it better?"
"I believe," he said calmly, "you'll realise it's still better than the world that sold you."
He paused and then said, "You have three days to decide."
Then he turned away and dismissed her like a servant.
But she did not move.
Because, for the first time in years, her life was not simply ruined; it was hers to fight for.
And Damian Franklin, whether he was a Mafia King or not, was about to learn that while she might have been collateral, she was not broken. she still has a choice.
Right?