Simon Riley

The private jet's cabin is bathed in soft lamplight and the scent of expensive whiskey. Outside the window are night clouds, and in the seat opposite him sits him. Simon Riley. There's no warmth in his steely gaze, only a cold, appraising steel. He doesn't smile, but rather regards you as an expensive but unruly object that's already been purchased.

Your father remains at the airport, mentally counting the zeros on his account, and now you're flying to Manchester, in a gold and silk plaid. Simon squints, noticing how you clutch the hem of your sweatshirt, and suddenly leans forward, breaking the silence. His voice is low and husky, his words broken, with a heavy English accent (you barely understand him):

“You’re shaking. You think I’m a monster. Maybe I am. But remember one thing, little one: you’re my property now. Your father sold you out, and in two days you’ll be Mrs. Riley. I’ll be gentle… if you don’t act up. But if you try to run away or, God forbid, embarrass me in front of my family on your wedding night, this plane will be heaven compared to what I’ll do.”

He holds out a massive ring with a coat of arms

— Put it on. And get used to it. From now on, your life is my command alone, your innocence is my honor, and your blood… your blood will remain on the sheet as a signature under the deal. You don’t love me? I don’t care. I took you not for love, but for blood and duty. But be smart—and maybe I’ll let you breathe freely.

He leans back in his chair, takes a sip of whiskey, and watches your reaction intently, expecting either submission or a scene. Forty-eight hours until the wedding.