Five Years Later
Time had carved its own scars across Marceline's life—some deeper than others, none fully healed.
The past five years had taught her the art of endurance. Of silencing sobs at midnight. Of rising when there was no one left to catch her fall.
Now, with the last of her pride folded into a suitcase, she stood once again on the soil of Spain—the land that had once stripped her bare.
It wasn't home.
It was a memory.
And it hurt to breathe it in.
Her gaze drifted toward the apartment window as city lights shimmered in the dusk. Her fingers curled tighter around the mug in her hand—lukewarm coffee, the drink of the weary.
Her voice was quiet. "Can't believe I'm back here…"
Behind her, Jennie peeked from the kitchen, brow raised. "You're going to crush that interview tomorrow, you know that, right?"
Marceline blinked, offering a faint smile. "I'm not so sure."
"You're smart. Capable. You've fought dragons in human form. Who wouldn't want you on their team?"
A soft laugh escaped her, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Once I get the job, I'll be able to pay off Mama's hospital bills. Get her back on her feet. And maybe start saving for the surgery."
Her voice trailed off. Not in doubt—but in weight. The kind of pressure that wraps itself around your ribs and squeezes with every breath.
Even after everything—the cruel words, the abandonment—she couldn't leave Amanda to die.
Not when she remembered her mother's trembling hands or the way her body folded in on itself in pain. Not when Marceline had once looked up at her with the hope only daughters could hold.
"Spain…" she whispered, eyes narrowing on the skyline. "Let's see what the hell you've got for me this time."
… … … …
DEJAVA CORPORATION – INTERVIEW DAY
The lobby buzzed with ambition—heels clicking like war drums, voices coated in false charm. Marceline sat alone in the chaos; her resume clutched so tightly that her knuckles ached. Her chest rose and fell with ragged, shallow breaths, the nerves bubbling up like bile. She hadn't eaten and hadn't slept much either. Hope was a cruel thing—too fragile to lean on, too stubborn to silence.
She was here for her mother. For the surgery. For survival.
The receptionist called her name, slicing through her spiral of thoughts like a blade.
"Next—Marceline Valino."
Her legs protested as she stood, tension coiling through her spine like a whip. The walk behind the assistant felt like a slow march to a battlefield. The elevator creaked upward, but the silence was louder than any sound. It wrapped around her throat, suffocating, taunting.
Then the assistant stopped before a black double door. "You can enter."
No explanation. No reason for the isolated room.
Her gut twisted. Something was wrong.
She pushed the door open.
And time—time stopped.
He sat there.
Cross Dejava.
His name shattered against her ribs like glass. Her vision narrowed, pulse roaring in her ears.
The man who had destroyed her. The one who had once whispered promises against her skin—then turned his back when she bled when she cried when she lost everything.
Now here he was. Draped in expensive silk, smirking like the devil on a throne.
"Wow," he said, rising slowly, his voice low and lethal. "Look who we have here."
Every muscle in her body locked. Her blood ran cold. But she refused to let her knees buckle. Not now.
She met his eyes. And all the years of torment, of unanswered calls, of mourning alone—flashed behind her gaze like wildfire.
"Marceline Valino," he said with cruel amusement. "Never thought I'd see you again."
She forced her voice out, cold and steady. "Not like I planned on seeing you either."
He chuckled darkly. "Five years, and you're still this feisty? Gods, don't you miss me?"
Her throat tightened. She wanted to scream. To claw that arrogant look off his face. But she said nothing. The silence was safer. Sharper.
She turned on her heel. "I guess the interview's over. I'll be going."
But then—his voice, casual and cutting, like a blade dipped in honey.
"You've got the job," he said. "But there are rules."
Marceline stopped mid-step. The temperature in the room dropped. Her stomach twisted into knots.
A chill raced down her spine. She didn't turn around.
Not yet.
Because she knew—whatever those rules were, they would come with a price. One she wasn't sure she could afford. Not with what was left of her heart.
And in that moment, standing beneath his smirk and the weight of five years of grief, she realized something terrifying:
She had walked back into the arms of the storm.
"What rules?" Marceline asked, her voice brittle as glass, but her spine steel.
Cross smiled—a slow, dangerous smile that curled with arrogance and amusement. He leaned back on the leather couch like a king on a throne, lounging in his own cruelty.
"Rule number one: This is just a marriage of convenience," he said, voice silk-wrapped steel.
She blinked, stunned, as the air in the room thickened.
"Rule number two: You're not allowed to get physically attached to any other male. Ever."
Her breath caught in her throat. What the hell was he saying?
"Rule number three: Your body and soul belong to me."
The words hit like a slap. Possessive. Degrading. Unapologetically cruel.
"Rule number four: Never get ahead of yourself. Know your place."
Each word was a nail in a coffin—hers.
"Rule number five: You can't fall for me. This marriage has nothing to do with love."
Something inside her cracked at that. Not because she wanted his love—but because once, foolishly, naively, she had. And now he was throwing the very idea back at her like trash.
"Rule number six: You can't end this marriage. Only I can decide when it ends," he finished, nonchalantly, as though he'd just listed dinner options—not the terms of her imprisonment.
Marceline stared at him, cold horror creeping down her spine. "What's this supposed to mean?" she asked, her voice trembling.
"It's the job," he said, still lounging, looking like the devil dressed in designer. "A contract marriage. You marry me, you get the job. You don't… well, good luck finding another way to save your dear mother."
Her heart stopped. The room tilted. She stared at him, searching for any flicker of humanity in his eyes.
"Tell me you're joking," she whispered. "Tell me this is just another one of your twisted jokes."
"You have 24 hours," he said, his voice flat, emotionless. "Read the contract. Sign it. Or don't. Your choice."
She swallowed the scream clawing up her throat. "And what if I refuse?" she asked, daring him.
He stood then—slowly, deliberately. Power radiated from every step as he stalked toward her like a predator. The air turned cold, heavy with danger.
"What did you say?" he asked softly.
"I said I won't sign it," she snapped. "I'm not that weak, naive girl you used to control. I'm not your toy, Cross. I won't let you use me again."
His smirk vanished. His face darkened.
"You're nothing to me, Marceline," he growled. "Do you understand? Nothing. Just a pawn."
"Then find another pawn," she spat. "Because I'd rather starve than marry a monster like you."
He moved closer, so close she could smell the expensive cologne—cool, sharp, suffocating.
"Don't make me force you, Celine," he warned, voice low. "I'm still trying to be nice."
"Go to hell. Take your job and shove it," she hissed, turning sharply toward the door.
But she didn't make it three steps before his next words stopped her cold.
"Walk away now," he said calmly, "and I'll make sure your mother never gets that surgery. I'll buy out the hospital. I'll make sure she dies waiting."
The world went silent.
Marceline froze.
Her breath caught in her throat.
He wouldn't.
Would he?
She turned back slowly, her legs trembling. Tears burned in her eyes—but they would not fall. Not in front of him.
She looked at the man who had once kissed her like she was air, who now held her fate—and her mother's—in his merciless hands.
He had become her nightmare.
And she had just woken up in it.
Marceline froze. The air in the office felt suddenly thinner like the oxygen had been sucked out and replaced with fire and ice.
Cross's words echoed in her skull, cold and deliberate.
"Take her younger sister; I'm sure you know the address of her school. Her sick mother is at home, all alone, right now. You know what to do," he said coldly, the chill in his tone cutting deeper than any blade.
Marceline froze. Her breath hitched. Her world tilted.
Her eyes widened in sheer disbelief as his words sank in—slow, brutal, suffocating. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, a frantic, desperate rhythm of fear and fury.
"You wouldn't—" she choked out, her voice a mere whisper of its former strength, strangled by the lump forming in her throat.
Her body trembled, a storm of panic tearing through her as the image of her little sister flashed across her mind's eye. Innocent. Bright-eyed. Defenseless.
Cross stared back at her, unblinking, a predator who knew exactly where to cut. "Marceline, you know I have too many ways to catch the cat. I just decided to go for the simplest. The blood of your family will be on your hands if anything happens to them because of you."
He didn't raise his voice. He didn't need to. The ice behind his words was enough to pierce through skin and soul alike.
"You… how do you know all this?" she asked, brokenly, barely holding herself together.
"You might be surprised," he said with a smug curl of his lips. "When I say I know everything about you, Celine, I mean everything."
Her knees felt weak like they might give way under the weight of it all. Her lips trembled as the tears she had fought so hard to hold back now rolled freely down her cheeks.
"Why me?" she asked, her voice cracking as her body folded in on itself—like something shattered inside her chest.
He smiled, cruel and careless. "Take it as me granting that wish you made five years ago."
She let out a bitter, broken laugh through the sob in her throat. "I hate you," she whispered.
"I don't care. I don't like you either," he said, devoid of remorse. "This is just a marriage of convenience. You mean nothing. I only picked you because you'll be easy to discard… just like before. You're disposable, Marceline Valino."
Marceline squeezed her eyes shut. She hated that it still hurt. She hated that it still mattered.
"You should be happy, Marceline," he added with venom-laced sarcasm.
"Why are you doing this to me, Cross? Why?" she snapped, voice rising, cracking under the weight of anguish and betrayal. Her fists clenched at her sides.
"You don't deserve to know," he replied coldly. "I get to solve your problems for you. All you have to do is play the part of Mrs. Dejava."
She stared at him—really stared at him. The man she had once loved was now a stranger in front of her, twisted by power and vengeance.
"After all these years… I thought maybe you'd changed," she said, her voice low and trembling. "But hell no. You're still the devil you were back then."
Cross merely tilted his head, eyes gleaming darkly. "Thank goodness. You and this devil will make quite the pair."
"You'll pay for this. You'll feel every bit of pain my mother felt," he whispered, trembling with barely contained rage. "You're punishing me for something I know nothing about. How could you?"
"I don't care," he said with terrifying calm. "I'll break you, Marceline."
Her heart thundered in her chest as she picked up the pen with shaking hands. Her whole body screamed at her not to do it. But she had no choice. Not with her mother's life on the line. Not with her sister in danger.
She signed.
Each stroke of her signature felt like etching chains around her own neck.
Then she turned to face him—her eyes, red and swollen with tears, yet burning with defiance.
"You can't break me, Cross," she hissed. "I'm no longer a plastic doll you can bend and toss away. I'm ironing now. I won't shatter."
His gaze darkened. But she didn't flinch.
Not anymore.