Ella sat stiffly on the leather chair in her father's study, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. The room hadn't changed much, still filled with the heavy scent of wood polish and expensive cigars, but it felt suffocating now. Her father, Victor Marquez, sat across from her, his steely gray eyes watching her with an unsettling calm. He leaned back in his chair, steepling his fingers as if considering her request.
"I'll help you," he finally said, his voice even.
Ella's shoulders sagged in relief, and for a brief moment, she felt a flicker of gratitude.
"But," he added, his tone sharpening, "there will be conditions."
Her stomach dropped. Of course, there were conditions. Nothing was ever simple with her father. "What kind of conditions?" she asked, her voice wary.
Victor leaned forward, resting his elbows on the polished desk. "You'll marry Mr. Armand."
Ella blinked, certain she'd misheard him. "What?" she whispered.
"Mr. Armand," he repeated. "He's a wealthy man, a widower, and my business partner. He's been seeking a suitable wife to manage his household. If you agree to this arrangement, I'll cover your mother's hospital bills and provide for her ongoing care."
Ella stared at him in disbelief, her mind racing. Mr. Armand was infamous. He was in his late fifties, a man known for his mistreatment of women, his controlling nature, and the string of scandals that followed him like a shadow. Marrying him would be like signing her life away.
"No," she said, her voice trembling but firm. "I can't do that."
Victor's expression darkened. "You don't have a choice, Ella. You came to me for help, and this is the only way I'm willing to provide it."
Her chest tightened, anger and heartbreak warring within her. "You were married to Mom for twenty-two years," she said, her voice breaking. "You loved her once. How can you ask me to do something like this? She would never forgive you."
Victor's jaw tightened, but he remained silent, his gaze cold and unyielding. Ella searched his face for any trace of the father she used to know, the man who had once carried her on his shoulders and made her laugh with silly jokes. But he was gone, replaced by someone she could barely recognize.
"You'd sell me off like I'm some commodity," she said bitterly, standing up. "Just to secure a business deal?"
Victor's lips thinned. "Don't be so dramatic, Ella. This is an opportunity for you to stabilize your life. Mr. Armand can offer you security, something you clearly lack right now."
"That's not security," she snapped. "That's a prison."
"Then I suggest you find another way," he said, his tone final.
Ella's hands balled into fists at her sides. She felt the sting of tears but refused to let them fall in front of him. Without another word, she turned and stormed out of the study, slamming the door behind her.
As soon as she stepped into the hallway, Vanessa was there, leaning casually against the wall with a smirk on her perfectly made-up face. Her stepmother's presence was like poison in the air, suffocating and bitter.
"Well, that didn't take long," Vanessa drawled, crossing her arms over her chest. "Let me guess—he said no? Or maybe he offered you one of his infamous deals?"
Ella glared at her, refusing to take the bait. "Stay out of it, Vanessa."
"Oh, sweetheart, I'm just trying to help," Vanessa said, her tone dripping with mock sincerity. "It's not every day someone like you gets the chance to marry a man as powerful as Mr. Armand. You should be thanking your father for looking out for you. After all, he didn't have to."
Ella's temper flared. "Looking out for me? You call selling me to a man like that 'looking out'? You've always hated me, Vanessa. Don't pretend you care."
Vanessa laughed, a cold, sharp sound that echoed down the hallway. "Hate you? Don't flatter yourself. You're not worth that much energy. But if you're so determined to play the victim, don't be surprised when no one comes to save you."
Ella clenched her jaw, her nails digging into her palms as she walked past Vanessa, determined to get out of the house before she lost her composure completely.
She had just reached the front door when it opened, and her stepsister, Clarissa, waltzed in. Clarissa was a vision of polished perfection, her designer outfit impeccable, her makeup flawless. But beneath the surface, Ella knew her stepsister was as venomous as Vanessa, if not more so.
"Ella," Clarissa said with feigned surprise, her lips curving into a saccharine smile. "What are you doing here? I thought you were too busy being a martyr to grace us with your presence."
"I'm leaving," Ella said shortly, brushing past her.
But Clarissa wasn't done. "Oh, don't be so cold," she said, following her into the foyer. "Did Daddy say no to your little sob story? You should've known better. He has more important things to worry about than your sad, little life."
Ella whipped around, her eyes blazing. "You don't know anything about my life."
"Oh, but I do," Clarissa said, her smile widening. "I see your pictures online. You look so… tired. And that apartment of yours—pathetic. I don't know how you live like that."
"Clarissa," their father's voice interrupted, warm and affectionate. He stepped into the foyer, his stern demeanor melting as he looked at his stepdaughter. "You're back. How was the shopping trip?"
"It was wonderful, Daddy," Clarissa said, her voice suddenly sweet and innocent. She kissed his cheek and held up a bag from an expensive boutique. "I found the perfect dress for your gala next week."
"That's my girl," Victor said, pride evident in his tone. "You always have such an eye for these things."
Ella watched the exchange, the bitterness rising in her throat like bile. He had never spoken to her like that, never looked at her with that kind of pride. She was nothing more than an inconvenience to him now, a burden he couldn't wait to get rid of.
"Ella," Victor said, turning to her with a frown. "Are you still here? I thought we were done."
Her heart cracked a little more at his dismissive tone. She wanted to scream at him, to make him see how much he was hurting her, but she knew it would be pointless. He didn't care. Not anymore.
"Don't worry," she said quietly, her voice shaking. "I'm leaving."
Without waiting for a response, she opened the door and stepped out into the cold evening air. The door closed behind her with a soft click, cutting off the warmth and light of the house. Ella stood there for a moment, her breath fogging in the chilly air, before she walked to her car.
As she drove away, tears streamed down her face, blurring her vision. She had come here hoping for help, for some shred of compassion from the man who was supposed to protect her. Instead, she'd been offered a deal that felt like a betrayal of everything she held dear.
Her father had chosen his new family, his new life, over her. And now, she was truly on her own.