I feel remorse for the way I’ve treated Ivy. I feel partially responsible for what happened to her too. And I wish more than anything I hadn’t held on to my anger for so long. Being where I am now, I can see things through a different lens. I can see her humanity, her fragility, and the simple truth is that she and I aren’t all that different. We are both trapped in a world we’ve been trying to navigate the only way we know how. Her captor was my brother, and mine is Judge. And despite all odds, Santi has developed feelings for her. Feelings I have no doubt are love. I feel it’s only fair that one of us gets their happy ending, and I find myself praying every day for her recovery so that it can be her.

Meanwhile, I’m still trying to figure out what the hell I’m going to do. I’ve considered contacting Clifton. When I told Judge I needed to find a husband, I wasn’t just goading him. The thought entered my mind more than a few times already that I can only make the best of the situation I’m in. I’m a hostage to The Society until I can either convince Santi to give me my portion of the inheritance I’m owed or find someone to marry me. Judge has made it clear it won’t be him, and if I truly intend to protect myself, I can’t allow him to find out what I’ve done.

Like in any other hostage situation, the only way out is through negotiation. Clifton is a Sovereign Son, but he’s unwed because he’s looking for an affluent wife to pad his bank account. The Phillips line isn’t nearly as wealthy as the De La Rosas, and my dowry is undoubtedly a shiny, bright beacon to him. He isn’t at all romantic, and I realize now that I shouldn’t be either. We can make a business deal. I could tell him the truth about my situation, and he would agree to it because the benefit to him outweighs any feelings he might have about my circumstances. We could have a shotgun wedding, sign the contract, and live in harmony as roommates who are free to do as they please with nobody being any wiser.

It all sounds good in theory, but as I type out a draft message to the phone number I’d hidden in my clutch, I’m still not convinced I can bring myself to do it. A wave of nausea rolls over me at the prospect of bearing his family crest on my neck. It feels like a betrayal, a hot knife to the heart. But what choice do I have?