Aria's POV
You married him two days ago?
I freeze with my hand halfway into my dresser drawer, a T-shirt dangling from my fingers. My mother stands in the doorway of my tiny apartment, twisting her wedding ring—a ring I've never seen before in my life.
Aria, please
Two. Days. I throw the shirt into my suitcase so hard it bounces out. You married a complete stranger two days ago and you're just telling me now?
Mom flinches, but doesn't deny it. His name is Vincent Castellano. He's a good man. Successful. He can give us the life we deserve.
The life you deserve, you mean. I slam another drawer. I had a life, Mom. A job. School. Friends. An apartment I paid for myself.
An apartment you're about to lose.
The words hit like a slap. I spin around. What?
Mom won't meet my eyes. The landlord called yesterday. We're three months behind on rent. He's evicting us next week.
My stomach drops. Three months? Why didn't you tell me?
Because you were already working yourself to death! Three jobs, full-time nursing school—when was I supposed to add more to your plate?
So you married some rich stranger instead? My voice cracks. Without even meeting him? Without telling me?
I met him six weeks ago at the grocery store. Mom's hands shake as she touches the ring again. He was kind. Charming. He knew we were struggling and he... he offered to help.
And you just believed him? Just like you believed Dad when he promised he'd stay? The words taste bitter. I'm five years old again, watching my father's car disappear down our street, never to return.
Mom's face crumples. Vincent is nothing like your father.
You don't know that! You don't know anything about him!
I know he can keep us safe. Fed. Give you a chance to finish school without killing yourself. She steps forward, desperate. Aria, we're broke. Actually broke. I lost my job last month. Our savings are gone. If we don't leave with Vincent tomorrow, we'll be on the street by Friday.
The fight drains out of me. I sink onto my bed, surrounded by half-packed boxes and the ruins of my independence. You should have told me.
I know.
I could have figured something out.
You can't save everyone, sweetheart. Mom sits beside me, smelling like the same cheap lavender soap we've used my whole life. Let someone save us for once.
But I don't want to be saved. I want to save myself.
That night, after Mom leaves, I grab my laptop and search Vincent Castellano.
Nothing.
I try Facebook. Instagram. LinkedIn. Twitter.
Nothing. Nothing. Nothing.
Finally, on the third page of Google results, I find a single image: a massive Gothic mansion surrounded by iron gates and dark woods. The caption reads Castellano Estate, Private Property.
No address. No business records. No social media presence at all.
What kind of man in this century has zero digital footprint?
I screenshot the mansion and text it to my best friend Jenna: Does this look normal to you?
Her reply comes instantly: Girl that looks like where people get murdered. Do NOT go there.
I stare at the photo until my eyes hurt. Tall windows like empty eyes. Stone walls covered in ivy. Gates that look designed to keep people in, not out.
My phone rings. Mom.
Don't, I say immediately.
Aria
Don't try to talk me out of this. I'm coming with you tomorrow, but only because I don't have a choice. Not because I think this is a good idea.
He's a good man, Mom repeats, like saying it enough times will make it true.
Then why won't you tell me what he does for a living?
Silence.
Mom?
He has... business interests. Investments.
What kind of investments?
The kind that pay very well. Her voice goes hard. We leave at dawn. Pack essentials. Vincent's people will handle the rest.
Vincent's people. Like he's some kind of mob boss.
My skin crawls. What did you get us into?
A future, Mom says. Then she hangs up.
I don't sleep.
At 3 AM, I'm still googling, searching for any trace of Vincent Castellano. I find nothing except that one photo of the mansion, staring back at me like a warning.
At 4 AM, I pack my pepper spray, my nursing textbooks, and the hunting knife my self-defense instructor made me buy after I was assaulted freshman year.
At 5 AM, I stand in my empty apartment—the first place I ever paid for myself—and feel like I'm saying goodbye to more than just a home.
At 5:30 AM, a black SUV pulls up outside. Tinted windows. No license plate I can see from the window.
Mom texts: They're here. Come down.
I grab my suitcase, take one last look at my life, and head downstairs.
The driver doesn't speak. Doesn't smile. Just loads our bags into the trunk with mechanical efficiency while Mom climbs into the backseat like this is totally normal.
I hesitate at the car door.
Aria. Mom's voice is pleading. Please.
I get in.
We drive for two hours into the middle of nowhere. No conversation. No music. Just thick silence and trees that get denser and darker with every mile.
Finally, we turn onto a private road. The trees open up, and there it is—the mansion from the photo, but so much worse in person. Gothic architecture. Stone gargoyles. Windows that look black despite the morning sun.
Armed guards stand at the gates.
Armed. Guards.
Mom, I whisper, fear crawling up my throat. What is this place?
Before she can answer, the gates swing open.
And standing in the doorway of the mansion, backlit by shadows, is a man I assume is Vincent.
But it's not Vincent who makes my blood run cold.
It's the younger man standing beside him. Tall, dark-haired, devastatingly handsome. He's staring directly at me through the car window with eyes so black they look endless.
And the way he's looking at me—like he knows me. Like he's been waiting for me.
The car stops.
The young man's lips curve into something that's not quite a smile.
Mom reaches for the door handle.
And every instinct I have screams: Run.