Chapter 1 — Signed in Silence

Gabi

The air was heavy, clinging to my skin with the suffocating scent of cigar smoke and polished wood. Dust motes floated in the pale light filtering through the thick velvet curtains, their folds drawn just enough to obscure the world outside. The office, an oppressive shrine to power, exuded a cold, deliberate opulence. Every detail—the imposing mahogany desk, the gilded accents, the faint hum of silence that seemed to bow to the man seated behind the desk—was a reminder of control. And at this moment, I was the newest addition to his collection. A possession. An acquisition. A life inspected and measured, its worth reduced to numbers on a page.

My hands shook, their tremor barely hidden as they rested in my lap. Around my neck, the familiar silver locket hung heavy on its chain, its floral engraving warmed faintly by my touch. I twisted it in my fingers, the small weight pressed against my collarbone the only anchor to a life that was already slipping through my grasp. Across the room, my parents sat stiffly, their uneasy silence expanding to fill the space between us. My father’s shoulders sagged, his gaze glued to the desk as if it were the only thing tethering him to the room. My mother’s knuckles gleamed white where they gripped her purse, her lips pressed into a bloodless seam. Neither could meet my eyes.

They had betrayed me.

A memory flickered dimly at the edges of my mind—a moment from years ago, when my father had fastened this very locket around my neck with a fond smile. “You’re our little girl,” he'd said, his voice warm with pride. “Always.” That memory curled and blackened now, consumed by the weight of their actions. Sold. Handed over to this world of shadows and violence. Yet, somewhere deep beneath my anger, a desperate ember still burned—a pathetic, fragile hope that craved their love. Craved an explanation. A reason.

“Gabrielle Moreau.” The voice sliced through my thoughts, low and sharp, weighted with authority that demanded attention without raising its volume.

I looked up, forcing my gaze to meet his. Damon Arivonese. The man who now held the strings of my life. His dark eyes locked onto mine, assessing, stripping away layers of my defenses. His presence filled the room like smoke, suffocating and inescapable. He leaned back in his chair, the faintest smirk curling the edges of his mouth. One hand tapped a slow rhythm against the polished wood of the desk, each movement deliberate and precise. Everything about Damon was calculated—the immaculate cut of his suit, the measured cadence of his voice, the predator’s patience in his posture. He was the embodiment of power. And I was nothing more than a pawn.

“You’ll forgive me for being blunt,” Damon began, though the tone of his voice made it clear forgiveness was irrelevant to him. “But I don’t have time for sentiment. This arrangement,” he gestured between my parents and himself with a flick of his hand, as if I were no more consequential than a ledger entry, “is a matter of necessity. I expect you to understand your role in this family and fulfill it without...” He paused, savoring the word. “Complications.”

The word lodged in my chest like a stone. My hands clenched around the locket, its chain digging into my palm as the urge to scream clawed at my throat. My body tensed, every muscle taut with the weight of my silence. I wanted to ask my parents if they cared—if they could possibly see what they’d done. But the silence pressed down on me, crushing the words before they formed. Instead, I nodded—a small, hollow gesture of surrender.

“Good.” Damon’s smirk deepened, and he turned his gaze to my father, Vincent Moreau. Damon’s voice hardened, a blade honed to slice cleanly. “You’ve made a wise decision, Vincent. One that ensures your debts will no longer be... problematic.”

My father flinched at the word, his hands twitching against his thighs. “Y-yes. Thank you,” he stammered, the words spilling out with a brittle edge.

Gratitude. As though there was anything to thank him for. I couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t bear the sight of the man who had traded my future for his survival. Damon’s smirk turned cruel, his amusement at my father’s weakness evident in the slight curl of his lip.

The door creaked open behind me. My breath caught, and the air shifted, heavier now with the arrival of another presence. The sound of measured footsteps filled the room, each one deliberate, unhurried, until the figure stepped into my line of sight.

Tyler Arivonese.

He was everything Damon was not—youthful, sharp-edged, and cold in a way that made my skin prickle. His tailored suit framed his tall, broad figure, but it was his eyes that held me captive: piercing gray-blue, cutting through me with the same detached scrutiny as the blade of a scalpel. There was no warmth in his expression, only a chilling disinterest, as though I were an object presented for his appraisal.

“This is her?” Tyler’s voice was low, clipped, each word precise and controlled. He wasn’t asking. He was confirming.

“Yes,” Damon replied, leaning back in his chair with an air of satisfaction. “Gabrielle Moreau. Your wife.”

The word hung in the air, suffocating in its finality. Tyler’s gaze swept over me once more, his eyes narrowing slightly. I felt myself shrinking beneath his stare, but there—just for a moment—something flickered. The faintest tightening of his jaw, a shadow of reluctance, before his expression hardened again. He turned to Damon, his tone flat but carrying an edge of tension. “I assume this won’t complicate my work.”

Damon’s smirk vanished, replaced by the steely edge of command. “Your responsibilities are to this family, Tyler. That includes her.”

The silence that followed was sharp and heavy, coiling between them like a spring wound too tightly. Tyler’s jaw clenched infinitesimally, his discomfort betrayed by a brief flicker of his fingers at his side. But he inclined his head, a stiff, perfunctory gesture of acceptance.

“Take her to the estate,” Damon said, dismissing us with a wave of his hand. “She’ll need to acclimate.”

The word twisted in my stomach like a cruel joke. Acclimate. As though I were a pet, being trained for a new cage.

Tyler’s eyes flicked to me briefly, unreadable, before he turned on his heel and strode out of the room. The door remained open, the unspoken command clear. I rose on unsteady legs, the locket slipping from my grip as its chain fell against my chest. My gaze darted to my parents—one last time. My mother’s face was pale, her lips trembling, while my father refused to look at me. A surge of nausea rolled through me, and I turned away quickly, afraid that seeing their guilt—or worse, their relief—would shatter the fragile threads holding me together.

The hallway outside was dim, its shadows clinging to the walls. Tyler stood at the far end, his posture rigid. He didn’t speak as I approached, didn’t offer a word of reassurance or even glance at me. Instead, he turned and began walking, his strides long and unyielding.

I followed, the locket bouncing lightly against my chest with each step. My heart pounded as we stepped outside into the sharp evening air. A sleek black car waited, its tinted windows reflecting the faint glimmer of neon lights from the city beyond. Tyler opened the door with an efficient motion, his silence a wall between us. I hesitated for a breath, the car’s interior a dark void that felt more like a trap than an escape. But there was nothing to return to.

I climbed in, the leather seats cold against my legs. Tyler slid in beside me, his presence filling the confined space with a tension so palpable it pressed against my skin. He stared straight ahead, his hands resting motionless on his knees. For a brief moment, his fingers twitched, a fleeting betrayal of some suppressed emotion. Then the car pulled away, and the city blurred past us in streaks of cold light.

I turned to the window, watching as the crumbling buildings of my old life faded into the distance. The streets, lined with flickering neon signs and broken promises, felt like ghosts. The locket rested heavily against my chest, its weight pulling at the fragile strands of my resolve. My throat tightened, tears threatening to spill, but I swallowed them down. If I cried now, it would be another piece of myself surrendered to this world.

As the car carried me toward the unknown, a faint ember stirred within me. I gripped the locket tightly.

I would endure. Somehow, I would endure.