Silas Miller could not bear to lose Shriya.
It wasn't love—not in the way poets wrote about it, not in the way MK loved her, freely and without conditions. What Silas felt was possession sharpened by pride. He had spent years building himself around the idea of her, shaping his ambition with her name etched into it like a vow carved into bone. To lose her now—after everything—would mean admitting that all of it had been for nothing.
And Silas Miller did not lose.
Shriya, on the other hand, had already decided.
She had planned to tell her family the truth. To end the engagement publicly, clearly, without ambiguity. She could not marry Silas—not now, not ever. Whatever consequences came, she believed her family could withstand them.
The Robertsons were soldiers. They understood pressure. They stood their ground.
Silas had dared her not to cancel it.
He hadn't shouted. He hadn't begged. He had only smiled, calm and certain, and warned her—quietly—that pride was a fragile thing, and men like him did not like to be humiliated.
She had dismissed it then.
She would regret that forever.
The dining hall that evening was grand in the way only old military wealth could be—polished wood, subdued lighting, walls lined with portraits of men and women in uniform whose names carried weight long after their deaths. The Millers and the Robertsons sat together at a long table, glasses clinking softly, conversation flowing with the practiced ease of families who had shared history for generations.
They were arranging a wedding.
Dates were being discussed. Venues on the island, guest lists that read like a who's who of military command, alliances strengthened by celebration disguised as love.
Shriya sat stiffly in her chair, her hands folded in her lap to keep them from trembling.
This is it, she told herself.
Say it now, or live with it forever.
She cleared her throat.
The sound was small, but it carried.
"Dad… Mum… Mr. and Mrs. Miller," she began, her voice steady despite the storm in her chest. "I—"
Her phone buzzed.
The sound cut through the room like a blade.
Shriya froze.
She had meant to ignore it. She truly had. But before she could, Silas lifted his gaze from across the table and gestured—subtle, polite, almost courteous—toward her phone.
Something in his eyes made her fingers move.
She picked it up.
Opened the message.
And the world collapsed.
It was a photo,of,MK,Asleep.Peaceful.Unaware.
The angle was unmistakable. The lighting wrong for daylight. Shriya recognized the room instantly—the bed, the wall, the faint shadow of furniture she herself had leaned against countless times. This wasn't a rumor. It wasn't a threat spoken into the air.
Someone had been there.
In MK's home.
Shriya's breath left her lungs in a silent rush. Her hands began to shake so violently she had to grip the edge of the table to stay upright. Slowly, dreadfully, she lifted her eyes.
Silas was watching her.
He smiled.
Her phone buzzed again.
Agree to our wedding.
Or lose her.
The letters blurred as tears filled her eyes.
"Shriya?" a woman's voice called gently from across the table. "Is everything alright, dear?"
"I—" Her mouth opened, but no sound came out. Her chest felt too tight, as if something was crushing her ribs inward. "I… I just—"
She stood abruptly, chair scraping against the floor.
"I need some air," she managed, and fled the room
.
No one stopped her.
"I'll check on her," Silas said immediately, concern perfectly sculpted into his tone. He rose, placed a reassuring hand on the table, and followed.
The corridor outside was dimmer, quieter. The sounds of the gathering faded behind heavy doors.
"Shriya," Silas called softly.
She stopped walking.
She didn't turn
.
They stood there, the space between them suddenly vast and suffocating.
"You don't have a choice," he said calmly. "We're getting married."
Her nails dug into her palms. "Don't hurt her," she whispered.
Only then did she fully understand.
Silas had not climbed to Colonel through honor alone. The speed of his rise, the silence around his methods—it all clicked into place with horrifying clarity.
"I love you," Silas said, as if it justified everything. "And I won't let anyone come between us. Especially not her."
"Please," Shriya said, her voice breaking. "Please, Silas. I'll end it. I swear. I'll break up with her. Just , just don't hurt her."
He stepped closer.
"Good girl," he murmured. "You have three days."
Her knees buckled.
She collapsed onto the cold stone floor, tears streaming freely now, her breath coming in broken sobs. Silas looked down at her—not with cruelty, not with kindness—but with ownership.
"I'll tell my family to finalize the arrangements," he continued. "The wedding will be in a month."
Then he turned and walked away.
Shriya stayed there long after he was gone.
She had been on the island for a month.
A month of ceremonies, competitions, expectations tightening like chains around her wrists.
Now she had to leave.
She had to go back.
And she had to break MK's heart—to save her life.