Amelia sat still on the edge of her aunt's antique chair, spine straight, palms sweating, jaw clenched so tightly it ached.
Across the room, Aunt Veronica held a crystal glass of red wine like she was queen of the underworld. Her lipstick was flawless. Her voice, sharp.
"You're marrying Richard Blackwell."
Amelia blinked. Her ears rang. "What?"
Veronica exhaled slowly, almost irritated. "Don't act shocked. I did you a favor. He's rich. Powerful. And somehow, he wanted you."
"I didn't agree to anything," Amelia said, her voice low and tight.
"You don't have to," her aunt snapped, standing up. Her heels echoed across the wooden floor like gunshots. "You're mine until you're twenty-one. And you cost me money every single day. This marriage is your repayment. Be grateful."
"Grateful?" Amelia whispered. "You're selling me."
Veronica leaned in. "I'm saving you. Do you think your parents left you anything but a sweet name and a funeral bill? You're a burden, Amelia. Don't flatter yourself into thinking you're something more."
The words hit harder than a slap. Amelia's face didn't flinch, but her chest cracked wide open.
She stared down at the envelope lying between them like a death sentence.
It had her name on it.
Neat, elegant. Like she belonged to him already.
She picked it up with trembling fingers and slid the photo from inside.
It was Richard Blackwell on the photo.
He was nothing like she imagined. No smug smile. No kindness. Just cold elegance. Tall. Broad shoulders in a black suit. His eyes were deep gray, almost silver. Sharp. Soulless. A man born for secrets. A man who didn't have to speak to make people obey.
The air grew colder just looking at him.
Amelia swallowed.
There were rumors. Of course there were. That he married. That he lost his wives. Not to accidents. Not to heartbreak.
To silence.
No funerals. No answers. Just two missing women. And now… her.
"I won't marry him," she said, but the words didn't even sound like hers.
Veronica laughed, dark and cruel. "Oh, you will. And you'll smile for the camera, wear the dress, play the good little wife. Or I'll have you out of this house by morning."
Amelia stood up, slowly, her fingers curled into fists. "You're a monster."
"No, darling," her aunt whispered, leaning closer. "He is."
Later that night, the envelope still sat on her bed, untouched but loud. She didn't sleep. She didn't cry.
She stared at the ceiling and wondered if her parents would've ever imagined this would be her life. Traded like an antique to a man with graveyard eyes and a family curse that no one dared speak of.
Of course, she didn't know the truth yet. No one did.
But deep in her bones, she felt it.
There was something wrong with the Blackwells. Something ancient. Something evil. Richard didn't just look dangerous,he was built on it.
And Amelia was being offered to him like a lamb.
She rolled onto her side and stared at the photo again.
He was beautiful. Not in a kind way,but in a way that destroyed. His gaze was ice. His presence bled power.
She hated that she was drawn to him even now. Hated the flicker of fear and fascination he stirred inside her.
The worst part? She'd heard things no one else seemed to take seriously.
Whispers from the old florist who once delivered roses to the Blackwell estate. A girl she met at the market who knew someone who used to work for them but left and never spoke again.
"She said the walls in that house breathe," the girl had murmured. "Like they're watching you."
Amelia had laughed it off back then.
She wasn't laughing now.
She curled tighter beneath the blanket, the storm outside lashing against the windows like claws. Her heart thudded in her chest, heavy and loud.
"Mom," she whispered into the darkness, voice breaking. "Dad… what would you do?"
But no one answered because they were gone.
And she was alone.
Except she wasn't. Not really. Not anymore.
She belonged to Richard Blackwell now. Her name would be his. Her life,whatever was left of it would unfold in the shadows of his mansion, under a roof that had swallowed two wives before her.
But something in her refused to lie still.
She sat up slowly, wiped the single tear that dared fall, and whispered into the night:
"I'll go. I'll wear the ring. I'll play their game. But I won't break. And if he thinks I'm his next victim…"
She reached for the envelope again, tracing her name on the front like it was a goodbye letter to herself.
"…he's not the only one who knows how to survive in the dark."