The ocean outside Figure Eight was deceptively calm that morning, its glassy surface hiding the currents beneath. You stood at the edge of the pier, the hem of your dress catching the breeze, as if freedom could still be carried to you on the wind.

Freedom. You’d tasted it once. But the Camerons had a way of making sure no one escaped their grip—not even you.

It started with your father’s business failing. He’d borrowed from the wrong people—powerful, ruthless, and very much under the shadow of Ward Cameron. The deal was supposed to be temporary. A lifeline. But when the time came to pay it back, Ward’s offer was… different.

A proposal, not for money, but for marriage. His son, Rafe Cameron.

You’d heard the rumors about him—the fights, the coke, the violence. You’d seen him at parties, sharp grin cutting through the haze of beer and bad decisions. Rafe was danger in human form, dressed in expensive clothes and wearing his last name like armor.

You’d laughed it off at first. Surely this wasn’t serious. Surely your father would say no.

He didn’t.

Which is how you found yourself in the Cameron estate’s sunroom a week later, sitting across from Rafe as Ward poured champagne.

“You’re doing the right thing,” Ward said, smiling like a man who had never heard the word no. “It’s a good match.”

Rafe didn’t say anything at first—just leaned back in his chair, watching you. His eyes were piercing, the kind that stripped you down to the bone. Finally, he spoke.

“You’re quiet.”

“And you’re not my choice,” you snapped before you could stop yourself.

He smirked. “Guess that makes two of us.”

The engagement wasn’t romantic. There were no stolen glances, no whispered confessions under the stars. Instead, there were tense dinners, awkward public appearances, and the suffocating weight of knowing your life was no longer your own.

Rafe wasn’t cruel—not exactly. But there was something about the way he moved around you, like a predator circling something it already owned. He’d reach for your hand in front of others, but his grip was just a little too firm. He’d lean close to whisper, his words just a little too sharp.

“You’re mine now,” he told you one night, after a gala where you’d had to smile for endless photographs. “You don’t have to like it. You just have to accept it.”

The wedding day came like a storm you couldn’t outrun. The dress was perfect, the flowers immaculate, the guests glittering in their designer clothes. To anyone else, it looked like a fairytale.

But when you walked down the aisle, your chest felt tight. Every step was a surrender.

Rafe stood at the altar, watching you like he’d won something in a high-stakes game. When your hand slid into his, he squeezed hard enough that you knew there’d be no turning back.

The vows blurred together. You barely heard yourself say I do. The applause felt like a funeral dirge in disguise.

That night, the ocean outside the Cameron estate roared, waves breaking against the shore like a warning.

Rafe poured himself a drink, leaning against the doorway of your shared room. “You’re part of this now,” he said. “The sooner you stop fighting it, the easier it’ll be.”

And the terrifying part? A small, traitorous part of you wondered what it would be like if you did.