Rejected Bride, Now His Prey

Isabella

Forty minutes.

I stood in the center of the private platform at Chicago Union Station, my heels clicking restlessly against the cold, polished marble. The space was cavernous, echoing with the distant rumble of trains that carried free people to destinations of their choosing. I wasn't one of them.

I was a package. A debt payment. Collateral.

Two men in dark suits stood ten feet away, their hands clasped in front of them, their eyes hidden behind sunglasses despite the dim lighting. They were soldiers of the Maddox family, sent to collect me like dry cleaning. But the man who owned them—the man who now owned me—was nowhere to be seen.

My grandfather, Clifford Preston, had sold me to a man known only as "Maverick" to settle a gambling debt that threatened to swallow our family's legacy. I had worn the red dress my grandfather insisted upon, a silent beacon for my new husband.

But he hadn't come.

Every passing second was a calculated insult. In our world, punctuality was a sign of respect. Absence was a statement. My new husband was telling me exactly where I stood in his hierarchy: nowhere.

I gripped the handle of my suitcase, my knuckles turning white. I wouldn't cry. I wouldn't give these stone-faced soldiers the satisfaction of seeing Clifford Preston's granddaughter break.

The screech of tires shattered the oppressive silence. A silver Duesenberg roared onto the platform access ramp, ignoring the designated stopping lines.

My breath hitched. Jovani.

My cousin jumped out of the car before it fully stopped, his face twisted in a mix of worry and defiance. He was the only person in my life who saw me as Isabella, not as an asset.

"Bella," he breathed, striding toward me. The soldiers tensed, hands drifting toward their jackets, but they didn't draw. Not yet.

"You shouldn't be here, Jovani," I whispered, though my heart ached with relief. "If they see you..."

"He's not here?" Jovani scanned the empty platform, his lip curling in disgust. "He leaves you standing here like a stray dog? This is the man Grandfather sold you to?"

"It doesn't matter," I said, trying to keep my voice steady. "Go, please."

Jovani ignored me. He reached into his car and pulled out a bottle of water, cracking the seal before handing it to me. My hands were trembling as I took it.

"Look at you," he murmured, his voice softening. He reached out, his fingers brushing against my temple as he tucked a loose strand of dark hair behind my ear. It was a gesture of pure, familial affection, a anchor in a storm. "You don't have to do this."

"I do," I said, leaning into his touch for just a second, drawing strength from the only love I had left. "I have no choice."

Damien

The tint on the windows of my Cadillac was dark enough to turn the Chicago afternoon into twilight. I sat in the back, the leather cool against my suit, watching the scene unfold on the platform fifty yards away.

"That's her," I said, my voice devoid of inflection.

She matched Nonna's description perfectly. The red dress clung to curves that would have been tempting if they weren't tainted by the stench of the Preston family's desperation. She stood tall, I'd give her that. Most women would be weeping by now.

I had come here to inspect my purchase. To see if the woman I agreed to marry to secure the South Side territories was worth the headache.

Then the silver car arrived.

I watched the man get out. Young. Arrogant. Too handsome for his own good.

I watched him hand her water. I watched her take it.

And then, I saw it.

The man reached out. He touched her face. He ran his fingers through her hair, smoothing it back with a familiarity that made the blood in my veins turn to ice.

And she let him. She leaned into his hand.

In my world, a wife was property. Her body, her loyalty, her very breath belonged to her husband. To allow another man to touch her was not just an indiscretion; it was an act of war. It was a public declaration that I was a cuckold before the ink on the marriage contract was even dry.

Rage, cold and absolute, settled in my chest. The Prestons thought they could pass off damaged goods to me? They thought they could mock the Maddox name in my own city?

I didn't yell. I didn't break anything. I simply reached for the notepad inside my jacket pocket.

My Enforcer, Cortez Riggs, sat in the front passenger seat, his eyes glued to the rearview mirror, waiting for my command.

I uncapped my pen and wrote two sentences. The scratch of the nib against the paper was the only sound in the armored car.

I tore the page out and handed it to Cortez.

He read it, his expression unmoving. The deal is off. Find out who he is. I want her gone by morning.

"And the girl?" Cortez asked, his voice a low rumble.

I looked out the window one last time at the woman in the red dress. She looked innocent. Beautiful.

A liar.

"Drive," I ordered. "I'm done here."