Thirty minutes had slowly slipped by since Marceline had retreated into her sanctuary, a refuge from the chaotic storm raging within her soul. The hot shower had cascaded over her, the steam wrapping her in a temporary cocoon, yet it had done little to wash away the heavy weight pressing down on her chest, a weight that felt all too familiar as it threatened to suffocate her. Wrapped in her soft satin night robe, the fabric gliding across her skin, she felt the damp tendrils of her hair cling against her neck, a physical reminder of her disarray. With each step toward the bathroom door, her movement was slow, burdened by exhaustion not of the body but of the spirit, as a tempest of emotions swirled chaotically within her.
As she moved, towel in hand, to dry her hair, the silence of her home was abruptly shattered by a shrill vibration emanating from her phone.
Her heart quickened, already reacting to the interruption before her hand could even grasp it. The screen lit up on the wooden desk across the room, displaying the ominous words: Unknown Caller.
A prickling sensation crept up her spine, icy and unwelcome.
She hesitated, her instincts screaming caution.
Before her thumb could reach the green icon, the call ended, leaving behind an eerie calm.
Then came a soft chime—a new message.
> You have two options, Marcee. Come outside and see me, or I'll come inside and see you.
The breath hitched in her throat, strangled by a mix of confusion and dread.
No name, no context to frame the message—but the tone was unmistakable, laced with arrogance and a thinly veiled threat. It was him.
Cross.
"What the hell is he doing here?" she muttered under her breath, her words barely escaping her lips as panic coiled in her gut like smoke spiraling from a dying fire.
In a surge of instinct, she darted toward the window, the cool glass pane reflecting her wide, startled eyes. Cautiously, she pulled the curtain aside, her heart racing as she sought him out. And there he was.
Leaning nonchalantly against his sleek black sports car, he radiated an aura of confidence, as if time had slowed just for him. His presence seemed to command the night itself, and his lips were curved into that infuriating smirk she had come to know all too well.
With urgency racing through her veins, she knew she couldn't afford to panic now. Not when her mother and Jennie were inside, blissfully unaware. Not when her life was already precariously hanging by a fragile thread.
Drawing in a rushed breath, Marceline quickly slipped on her slippers, each movement a frantic dance of anxiety, and headed downstairs. Her heart pounded in her chest like a relentless drum, each beat matching the pace of her hurried steps.
The moment she stepped outside, the cool night air hit her like a slap, sharp and awakening, biting against her skin. Instinctively, her gaze found him again, and she noted he hadn't budged an inch, his casual demeanor unwavering.
Cross looked at her as though she were exactly what he had come for—his prize, his puppet, an object meant to be possessed.
Marceline stormed toward him, her fists clenching at her sides, ready to unleash the storm brewing within her.
"What are you doing here?" she hissed through clenched teeth, her voice low but intense.
Cross tilted his head, eyes glinting with mischief under the pale moonlight, the very air between them thick with tension. "What, no hug for your fiancé? I'm just here to visit my future wife... and her darling family, of course."
His voice dripped with mockery, thick and bitter like poison.
Marceline's jaw tightened, her frustration boiling just beneath the surface. "How did you even find out where I live?"
He shrugged lazily, as if the answer were so obvious it didn't require thought. "Come on, Marcee. There's nothing too difficult for me. You should know that by now."
"Don't call me that," she snapped, her emotions flaring. "You lost the right to call me that the moment you blackmailed me into this—this circus!"
His grin widened, arrogance dripping from him like honey oozing in the heat. "Still fiery. I like that."
Before she could even muster another step back, he closed the distance between them in a heartbeat, his speed catching her off guard. In one swift motion, one of his arms snaked around her waist, pulling her flush against his chest, the warmth unsettling yet all too familiar.
"Let go of me!" she spat, her voice laced with anger as she squirmed in his hold.
He remained steadfast, his grip unyielding.
Instead of releasing her, he leaned closer, his breath warm and insidious against her ear, brushing against her with a false intimacy as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind it. "You must've forgotten something," he murmured, his words sending shivers down her spine. "You signed the contract, remember? That makes you mine now, Marcee. My wife. My rules. I get to touch you whenever I want."
His words slivered under her skin like venom, igniting a furious fire in her.
"You disgust me," she growled, her eyes blazing with defiance. "You think you have power over me? Does this piece of paper make me yours? You may have me in a contract, Cross, but you'll never have me. I will never belong to you."
He stared at her for a beat, something dark flickering in the depths of his eyes. Then, a slow, dangerous smile crept across his lips, one that sent a chill rippling through her.
"I must confess, wifey—you're turning out to be far more entertaining than I expected. All this fire… I like it. At least you won't be boring in bed."
Marceline, fueled by outrage, shoved against his chest with every ounce of strength she could muster, forcing herself free from his suffocating grasp.
"If you're done playing whatever game this is, leave," she commanded, her voice steady despite the turmoil inside. "I don't want you here. I don't want you near my house. My family."
"Oh?" He raised an eyebrow, utterly unfazed by her demands, as if her words were nothing but an amusing riddle. "You didn't tell Mommy Dearest about our little engagement, did you? Or should I say... Daddy's ex-mistress?"
Her blood ran cold, ice rushing through her veins.
"What did you just say?" she breathed, the weight of his words pressing down like a physical force.
Cross took a leisurely step toward the house, his demeanor dangerously casual. "I wonder what her face will look like when I tell her. Imagine it—her precious daughter marrying the son of the man she used to roll around in silk sheets with. How poetic."
In a surge of fierce protectiveness, Marceline grabbed his arm, desperation clawing at her. "You stay away from my family, Cross. This is between you and me."
But he only offered her a smirk, a predator sizing up its prey. "Oh, don't worry, darling. I'm just here to help you break the news. I know how hard it is to explain that you're marrying someone you despise just for survival."
"Get lost," she snapped, her voice fierce but tinged with desperation.
His smile only widened, a cruel twist of satisfaction.
"I think I'll go let her know the good news—that I'm about to marry her precious little daughter," he said, the wicked glint in his eye promising chaos. "I can't wait to see the look on her face."
And with that, he pivoted on his heel, striding toward the house with an arrogant air, as if he owned the very ground beneath his feet, leaving Marceline trembling in the wake of his dark intentions.