Chapter 2

• Chiara
• “I... I think there’s been a mistake,” I whispered, staring at the papers in my trembling hands.
• I was back in the sitting room after cleaning up in my “room”—if you could even call it that. A windowless basement with cobwebs in every corner. The slums had treated me better than this.
• But none of that mattered now. Because in my hands was a marriage contract. With my name as the bride.
• “Mistake? What mistake?” Father snatched the file from me. “This is correct. Sign here and here.” He shoved it back.
• “If you can’t write, use your thumbprint,” Mother said coldly, pushing an ink pad toward me with her foot.
• “But... this is a marriage contract.” My voice cracked.
• “Oh? You can read?” Mother arched a brow. “Impressive. I thought the slums beat every brain cell out of you. Emilia must be a miracle worker.” Her chuckle was sharp and mocking. “Now sign the damn paper.”
• My hands wouldn’t stop shaking. “Why? I don’t understand. This is my first day here, and you’re—you’re asking me to marry someone? I don’t even know who—”
• “Listen, Ivara…”
• “Ivara?” I looked up sharply.
• “We’re changing your name,” Father said casually. “Your surname is already changed. We’ll get used to calling you Ivara soon enough.” He smiled… a fake one. I could tell.
• I stepped back. “No. My name is Chiara. I’m not changing it.”
• The maids who’d been cleaning froze. One slowly backed toward the door. Silence fell like a heavy blanket.
• “What did you just say?” Amelia looked up from her phone for the first time since I walked in.
• I couldn’t believe I’d spoken out loud. I never spoke up. Not in the slums, not anywhere. But a marriage contract was different. This was my life.
• “I knew it,” Amelia said with a satisfied smirk. “She was only pretending to be grateful.”
• For the first time since I stepped foot inside here, Father’s face contorted, and his brows twitched.
• “So you refuse to change your name?”
• I twisted the hem of my dress between my fingers. “I’m sorry. I can’t.”
• He sighed heavily. “Fine. We’ll discuss the name later. But sign the contract. This is more important.”
• “I can’t sign this either. It’s a marriage certificate, and I don’t know anything about—”
• “Just sign it!” Father roared, standing up suddenly. “Do you understand how important this is?”
• The maids began rushing out of the sitting room. The air thickened, and tension rose.
• “No. I’m not signing it,” I blurted.
• “As the true daughter of the Gallo family, you will!” His jaw clenched.
• I flinched. “A sudden marriage to someone I’ve never met? You just found me today, and now you want me to—” My throat closed up. “You’re making me regret coming here.”
• “Regret?” Father laughed bitterly. “Do you think we spent all that money searching hospitals for you because we love you? Because we missed you?”
• I was shocked.
• “Listen to me. You are the only and true daughter of the Gallo. Marriage with whom? I’ll show you!”
• He brought out his phone, scrolled through it, then tossed it at me.
• I caught it with shaking hands and looked at the screen. Photos of a man, always from behind or the side, never showing his face clearly. But I could see one thing: he was in a wheelchair.
• “There’s your future husband,” Father declared. “Now sign.”
• Something inside me cracked. “You searched for me just to marry me off to a stranger?”
• “This marriage was arranged before you were even born,” my father said, his voice softening as if he thought he could deceive me. “It should have been Amelia, but she’s not our real daughter—you are. We don’t have a choice, Chiara. Please.”
• I looked from him to Mother to Amelia. None of them looked sorry. None of them cared that I’d just escaped hell only to be thrown into something worse.
• Marriage wasn’t on my list; all I sought was independence and a chance to make it big. How could they just throw this in my face and think that mere preaching was enough to make me accept it? Why did it have to be me?
• “The contract says consent is required,” I whispered. “It says I can refuse. It says you can refuse. You’re acting like—”
• “Darn it!” Mother kicked the coffee table so hard that the papers flew into the air.
• I raised my arm to shield myself, old instincts taking over.
• “What is wrong with you?” Mother’s face was twisted with rage. “You want to ruin everything for us?”
• I pressed my lips together. This was my first day. It was supposed to be different and better.
• To my shock, she stomped toward me, grabbed my wrist, and began trying to force my fingerprint onto the paper.
• “Let me go!” My pulse hammered as I twisted against her grip. “I’m not signing!”
• She held on tighter, dragging my hand toward the paper. I planted my feet and pushed back with all my strength.
• I gasped, my hand flying to my mouth. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to—”
• “It’s fine.” Mother stood up slowly, brushing her hair back. She was smiling. That terrified me more than her anger.
• “See?” she said to Father. “I told you she’d fight back. Good thing we prepared.”
• He was burning with pure rage; I could feel the heat on my skin.
• “Playtime is over. You are signing your consent, and no, we’re not begging, because you will sign it!”
• She slid her phone across to me. “Take a look at that screen… this should remind you why refusing isn’t an option.”