The words hung in the air, heavier than any silence Izzie had ever known.
"You're going to marry Theo this week Sunday. You have no say in it."
Bianca Hart stood at the foot of the bed, her expression carved from marble. No sympathy, no hesitation. Only the mechanical, unwavering chill of a woman who had long ago traded her heart for ambition.
"We can't watch our company crumble. That scandal can't bring us down. So do your best as our daughter and fulfill Mummy's one wish—be obedient, Izzie."
And then — like she had merely delivered a weather report — Bianca turned on her heel and walked out, her heels clicking sharply against the polished marble floor, leaving behind the scent of her expensive Chanel perfume.
The door closed with a soft click.
For a long moment, Izzie simply stood there, unmoving.
Breathing hurt. Thinking hurt.
Everything — everything — hurt.
Then, the world cracked open inside her.
With a sharp, broken sob, she lunged toward the door and slammed it shut, the impact rattling the crystal chandelier overhead. The bang echoed down the endless, empty hallways of the mansion, but no one came to check on her.
They never did.
She stumbled backward, gasping, feeling like the air itself had turned to ice. Tears spilled down her cheeks in violent, uncontrollable waves as she collapsed onto the edge of her bed, clutching the soft silk of her bedsheets like a lifeline.
"No, no, no," she whispered, as if saying it out loud could undo it.
As if she could wake up and find it had all been a nightmare.
But it wasn't.
The room around her — her sanctuary, her prison — mocked her.
Pale pink walls trimmed in gold leaf. Floor-to-ceiling windows looking out over manicured gardens. A closet bigger than most people's apartments, lined with racks of couture: Dior, Chanel, Valentino, Prada, lined up like silent witnesses to her downfall.
A grand piano sat untouched in the corner. A gift from her father on her fifteenth birthday — not because he knew she loved music, but because it photographed well for the society pages.
The house itself sprawled over acres — twenty bedrooms, a ballroom modeled after Versailles, an indoor Olympic-sized pool, a fleet of luxury cars gleaming under the harsh sunlight. Servants flitted silently through the halls, chefs prepared gourmet meals Izzie rarely touched, and groundskeepers sculpted the gardens into perfection every morning.
It was supposed to be a kingdom.
But it had never felt like home.
With shaking fingers, Izzie grabbed her phone. Her vision blurred with tears, but somehow she found Mila's name and hit FaceTime.
It rang once. Twice.
Then Mila's familiar face appeared, framed by wild brown curls and wide, worried eyes.
"Izzie?" Mila's voice was soft, urgent. "Babe, what's wrong?"
For a moment, Izzie couldn't find the words. Her throat closed around them. She just stared at the screen, tears slipping silently down her cheeks.
Then, brokenly:
"I'm getting married."
Mila's face froze.
"Wait — what? Married? To who?"
Izzie wiped at her face, a hollow laugh escaping her lips.
"Theo Dore."
The silence on Mila's end was deafening.
"Theo... Dore?" Mila echoed, as if she couldn't quite believe it. "The guy who got arrested for punching a CEO at a fundraiser? The one who crashed a Bugatti into a club and smiled for the cameras?"
Izzie nodded, her vision swimming.
"Oh, Izzie," Mila breathed. She looked close to tears herself. "No, no, no. This can't be happening."
"I tried," Izzie whispered. "I begged her. My mum... she didn't even blink."
Mila cursed under her breath. "You don't have to do this. We'll figure something out. We'll run. We'll fake your death if we have to."
But even as she said it, they both knew.
There was no running from this.
Downstairs, the real betrayal unfolded.
In the Hart family's grand conference room — a sprawling space with floor-to-ceiling windows and priceless art hung on every wall — two families sealed Izzie's fate.
The Dore family sat across from the Harts, two dynasties clinking glasses over her body like merchants trading goods.
William Hart, once a lion of the business world, sat stiff and proud at the head of the table, hiding the desperation under a thin smile. Harrison and Margaux Dore were the picture of predatory grace, dressed in tailored black and glittering diamonds.
Papers lay spread across the table. Marriage contracts. Dowry agreements. Corporate mergers hidden between lines of legal jargon.
The door opened.
And in he walked.
Theo Dore.
The room seemed to lean toward him as he entered — a gravitational force of arrogance and raw, untamed power. Tall, broad-shouldered, impossibly handsome, with thick, dark hair that fell into icy blue eyes. He wore his wealth like a second skin — a Rolex glinting on his wrist, custom Italian leather shoes tapping out a lazy rhythm on the marble floor.
He moved like a man who owned the world — and knew it.
Theo didn't bother to sit immediately. Instead, he leaned casually against the back of a chair, crossing his arms, a smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Still time to back out, William," Theo drawled, his voice smooth as poisoned honey. "I'm not exactly planning to be good to your daughter."
William barely looked up. His pen scratched across the paper, signing away his daughter's life with barely a flicker of emotion.
"She'll manage," William said.
Theo laughed softly — the sound low and dangerous.
"Your funeral," he said again.
Upstairs, Izzie pressed her forehead against the cool glass of her window, watching the luxury cars gleam in the driveway below. Her parents' greed had built this palace of wealth — but it was crumbling from within, and now they would sacrifice their daughter to save the façade.
Hers had always been a life of appearances:
Designer clothes.
Lavish parties.
Private jets to Paris for brunch.
But no real affection. No real love.
They worshiped money, not her.
They admired perfection, not pain.
And now, they were selling her into the arms of a man everyone whispered about — a man whose cruelty was not a secret but a celebrated, thrilling danger.
Izzie Hart was no fool.
She knew exactly what kind of man Theo Dore was.
At thirty, he was one of the richest men in the world, his fortune sprawling across industries like wildfire.
His name alone could shift stock markets.
Women threw themselves at him; magazines worshipped him.
He had everything. And he destroyed everything he touched.
And now, he would have her.
Izzie stared at her reflection in the glass.
She was beautiful — objectively so.
Pale, flawless skin. Wide, stormy grey-blue eyes. A mouth made for poetry. Hair like spun gold cascading down her back. A figure sculpted by years of ballet lessons and private trainers.
But none of it mattered.
Not when your soul was already being crushed.
As night fell, and the mansion around her glowed with warm, artificial light, Izzie curled up on her bed, feeling smaller than she ever had before.
She clutched the tiny silver cross she had worn since childhood — a memory of a time when she still believed wishes came true.
Now, all she could do was pray.
And no one was listening.…