Elina lay awake through the night, the darkness pressing in on her like a suffocating weight. The storm of tears had subsided, but the ache in her chest lingered, gnawing at her insides. Despair wrapped around her, threatening to drag her under. Yet, as the hours stretched on and the silence of the room settled around her, something inside her shifted—a quiet fire began to burn in the pit of her stomach.
She thought of her dream. The one thing she had—her desire to build an NGO for the children, for those who needed her. She had no family to turn to, no allies left to help her. But those children... they were still her purpose.
She couldn't forget their innocent faces, or the desperation in their eyes. Whatever her parents decided, whatever deal they struck with Adrian Blackwood—she wouldn't let go of that dream.
She wasn't done. Not yet.
The realization hit her with the force of a tidal wave: she couldn't let this defeat her. No matter how trapped she felt, no matter how much they had forced her to give up, she wasn't going to bend to their will. Not without a fight.
She was a Castellano. A daughter of the mafia. She carried blood that had weathered wars, betrayals—things far darker than this. She wasn't weak, no matter how hard they tried to make her feel like it. She wouldn't go quietly into that life, into that marriage, into Adrian's grasp. She had inherited the strength to fight, even if it meant standing up to the man who threatened everything she held dear.
Adrian Blackwood. The thought of him sent a cold ripple through her chest. His arrogance, his ruthless control—he had already begun to claim ownership over her life, treating her like a mere piece to be moved at his whim. But Elina was no one's possession. She had her own identity, her own purpose, and she wasn't about to let him take that away.
Her parents had chosen him, but that didn't mean she had to accept it.
There was only one person left to confront—the man they had decided she would marry.
Adrian Blackwood.
Her parents expected her compliance. He seemed to believe it was his right. But Elina knew one thing for sure: she wouldn't go quietly into this.
Elina wouldn't let anyone—not her parents, not Adrian—control her future.
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By morning, Elina's decision was set in stone. She neither ate nor spoke. Rage simmered beneath her skin, propelling her forward.
She descended the stairs, each footfall striking the marble with purpose. Her parents, seated at the breakfast table, looked up in surprise.
"Elina," her mother called, setting down her coffee cup. "Where are you going dressed like that?"
Her father's gaze narrowed. "You're not leaving the house without an explanation."
But Elina didn't stop. She didn't even glance their way. "I'm meeting a friend," she said flatly, brushing past the table.
Isabella stood from her chair. "You can meet your friends here. You don't just walk out without permission."
"I'm not asking for permission," Elina muttered under her breath, her hand already on the front door.
And then she was gone—out the door, down the steps, her pulse pounding with a new kind of resolve.
Outside, she found Marco near the cars, going over a manifest with a junior staffer.
"Marco," she said curtly.
He turned immediately, adjusting his stance with respectful attentiveness. "Miss Castellano."
"I need the address to Adrian Blackwood's office. Now."
He hesitated for a split second. "Your father—"
"My father is not the one asking. I am." Her tone left no room for argument.
Marco gave a tight nod. "Understood." He pulled out his phone, tapped a few times, then looked up. "I've sent the address to your phone, Miss Castellano."
Elina checked her phone, saw the message, then looked up at him. "Thank you." Her voice was calm but firm. "This doesn't go beyond us. My father doesn't need to know."
There was no hesitation in her voice—just a clear directive, delivered like someone used to being obeyed.
Marco gave a short nod, his expression unreadable. "Understood."
After a moment's pause, Marco hesitated before asking, "Shall I arrange for a driver, Miss Castellano?"
Elina didn't even look back. "No," she said curtly, already moving.
Without another word, she stepped out into the driveway, her heels clicking against the stone as she approached her car. The sleek white vehicle gleamed under the morning sun.
She slid into the driver's seat, slammed the door shut, and started the engine with a sharp twist of the key. A second later, the tyres screeched against the gravel as she sped out of the estate gates, leaving behind the mansion, the expectations, and the weight of everyone trying to control her.
Today, she wasn't running anymore. She was marching into war—on her own terms.
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