Chapter 1 — The Summons

Ariana

The air in Lincoln Manor was unnervingly still, a silence so thick it felt alive, pressing against Ariana’s ears and winding tightly around her chest. She sat on the edge of her bed, her fingers tracing the delicate filigree of the locket around her neck. Its cool, familiar weight was the only thing grounding her as she stared at the thick velvet curtains, their folds swallowing the afternoon light and draping her room in shadows. Her heart hammered, each beat reverberating through her trembling hands. The polished wood of the floor beneath her feet felt cold, unyielding.

A single, sharp knock shattered the silence. It reverberated through her, sharp and jarring, like the crack of a whip. Her breath hitched, her fingers tightening instinctively around the locket. She knew who it was. She always knew.

“Come in,” she said softly, her voice barely carrying across the room.

The door swung open to reveal Robert Lincoln, his presence as suffocating as the manor itself. His tailored black suit bore no trace of imperfection, not a wrinkle out of place, just as his expression betrayed no trace of warmth. He stepped inside with the precision of a predator, his polished leather shoes clicking against the floorboards in a rhythm that made Ariana’s stomach churn. Every detail of him radiated control, a man whose very existence brooked no dissent.

“Ariana,” he said, his tone cold and clipped, more pronouncement than greeting. “Come with me.”

Her body obeyed before her mind could process, rising as though the command was etched into her very bones. She smoothed the fabric of her blouse and skirt with trembling fingers, willing herself to hold steady. Falling into step behind him, she followed him out of the room.

The hallway stretched ahead, a sepulchral passage lined with ancestral portraits. Dozens of Lincoln faces—each severe and unsmiling—stared down at her, their painted eyes filled with silent judgment. Those eyes seemed to follow her every step, a silent reminder of the legacy she was expected to uphold. Her gaze flickered briefly to her mother’s portrait, the only face in the hall that didn’t look stern. But even her mother’s gentle smile now felt hollow, a remnant of a warmth long extinguished.

The weight of those gazes bore down on her, an invisible pressure that made her chest tighten further. She fixed her attention on the polished floor and the faint creak of their footsteps. Her palms grew damp, and she rubbed them discreetly against her skirt, but the clammy texture lingered. A dull ache settled in her jaw where she clenched it, trying to keep herself composed.

The study door loomed ahead, ajar just enough to let in a sliver of dim light. The scent of cigars and aged leather seeped through, wrapping around her like a phantom. Robert pushed the door open fully, revealing the room within. It was a fortress of wood and shadow, the walls lined with shelves of leather-bound books that seemed to absorb the light instead of reflecting it. A heavy oak desk dominated the space, its surface immaculate save for a few neatly stacked papers. Thick drapes covered the windows, barely allowing the faintest glimmer of daylight to seep through.

“Sit,” Robert ordered, gesturing to the chair before the desk. His tone left no room for hesitation.

Ariana hesitated anyway—a fleeting moment of resistance that earned her a sharp look, one that sent a chill down her spine. Quickly, she moved to the chair and lowered herself into it, folding her hands in her lap. It was an old habit, a reflex meant to give her some semblance of control. But her hands betrayed her, trembling faintly in her lap, a silent betrayal of her turmoil.

Robert took his seat across from her, his movements deliberate and heavy with unspoken authority. He leaned back, his steely gray eyes boring into hers, assessing her with the cold precision of a man appraising a chess piece. The silence stretched as he studied her, each passing second tightening the knot in her stomach.

“You know why you’re here,” he said finally, his voice a measured rumble.

Ariana’s throat tightened. She didn’t—not exactly—but she knew better than to admit it. “Yes, Father,” she replied, her voice barely more than a whisper. She kept her gaze fixed on the edge of the desk, but his sharp tone cut through her composure.

“Look at me when I’m speaking to you,” he snapped.

Her heart jolted, and she slowly raised her eyes to meet his. His stare, cold and unyielding, pinned her in place, as though he could strip away any pretense with a single glance.

“You are to be married,” he announced, his words blunt and final.

The impact was immediate—a blow she hadn’t braced for. Her breath caught, and her fingers twitched against the fabric of her skirt. Married. The word rang hollow in her ears, its weight reverberating through her chest. She clutched her locket, the small, familiar ridges pressing into her palm as if to anchor her against the tide of her father’s decree.

“To whom?” she managed, though her voice trembled.

“To Armando D’Angelo.”

The name struck like a thunderclap. Even within the carefully shielded walls of Lincoln Manor, the D’Angelo family was an inescapable shadow. Whispers of their power and ruthlessness reached even the most insulated circles, and the name Armando carried its own weight—a figure of calculated strength and cold authority. They were the specters that haunted the city, and now, she was to be bound to them.

Her pulse pounded in her ears as she struggled to speak. “Why?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, tinged with disbelief.

Robert’s jaw tightened, his gaze hardening as he leaned forward. “Because it is what must be done,” he said, each word carved from ice. “This arrangement ensures the survival of our family.”

She blinked, her mind struggling to keep pace with his words. “The survival of our family?” she echoed, her voice cracking. A faint tremor ran through her, the enormity of his implication settling in her chest like a stone.

“My debts,” he clarified, his tone sharpening. “The D’Angelos have agreed to clear them in exchange for this union.”

It was worse than she feared. Her father’s obsession with clinging to their status—his reckless gambles, his insatiable need to maintain appearances—had led to this. She was the price he was willing to pay.

“You’re selling me to them,” she said, the words trembling on the edge of a sob.

Robert’s expression darkened, his hands tightening into fists on the desk. “You will not speak of it that way,” he said, his voice low and laced with menace. “This is an opportunity—a chance for you to secure the future of this family. You should be grateful.”

Grateful. For what? A childhood of suffocating silence? Years of living beneath his iron rule, every step measured, every word calculated to avoid his wrath? The ache in her chest deepened, but with it came something sharper—anger. It burned faintly at first, a flicker of light in the shadows of her fear.

“But I—”

“No.” His voice cracked like a whip, silencing her. He stood abruptly, the force of his movement making the desk tremble. “You will not argue. You will not resist. You will obey.”

The finality in his tone was suffocating, a locked door slamming shut in her mind. Her fate had been decided, and no amount of protest would change it.

Robert reached into a drawer and withdrew a folder, sliding it toward her. “The arrangements are made. You will leave for the D’Angelo estate tomorrow.”

Tomorrow. The word hollowed her out, the dread seeping into every crevice of her mind. She stared at the folder, its contents a tangible representation of chains tightening around her. Her fingers curled tightly around the arms of the chair as she fought to keep the tears at bay.

“You may go,” he said, dismissing her like an errant servant. His attention shifted back to the papers on his desk, as though she were already gone.

She rose unsteadily, her legs feeling like lead. As she reached the door, her hand hovered over the cold brass handle. Something swirled within her—a fragile thread of defiance, the faintest spark of rebellion.

“Father,” she said, her voice trembling but firm enough to make him look up. Her hazel eyes, damp but unbroken, met his steel-gray stare for the first time without flinching.

“You may control my choices,” she said, her voice soft but steady, “but you’ll never own me completely.”

For a fleeting moment, his expression shifted—an almost imperceptible flicker of something behind his eyes. Anger, perhaps. Or fear. But it vanished as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the cold mask he always wore.

“Leave,” he said, his voice cutting through her resolve like ice.

She did.

The hallway seemed less oppressive as she walked away, her steps growing steadier with each passing moment. Her locket pressed heavily against her chest, the tiny key hidden within it a silent secret she didn’t yet understand.

Tomorrow, she thought, dread curling alongside a nascent determination. Tomorrow, she would step into the shadows of the D’Angelo estate. But she vowed silently, her fingers brushing the cool metal of her locket, that she would not remain a pawn in anyone’s game.