The flickering chandelier light cast long shadows across the ornate Lee family meeting room. Emma sat stiffly in her chair, her fingers nervously tracing the edge of the mahogany table. James’s father, the imposing patriarch of the Lee family, leaned forward, his voice low and deliberate. “Marriage,” he said, his words hanging in the air like a decree. “It’s the only way to ensure your safety, Emma. And it strengthens our family’s position.”
Emma’s breath caught in her throat. She glanced at James, who sat beside her, his expression unreadable. He nodded slightly, his eyes locked on hers. “It makes sense,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “You’ll be safe with me. No one will dare touch you.”
Emma’s mind raced. She had grown close to James during their escape, but this—this was too much, too soon. “I… I need time to think,” she stammered, her voice barely above a whisper. She rose from her chair, her legs feeling like they might give way at any moment.
James reached out, his hand closing around hers with a grip that was both reassuring and possessive. “You’re mine,” he murmured, his voice low and intense. “You always have been.”
Emma’s heart pounded as she pulled her hand away, her cheeks flushing. She turned and hurried out of the room, the heavy door closing behind her with a soft thud.
The cool night air greeted her as she stepped into the sprawling Lee family garden. The moonlight bathed the manicured hedges and blooming flowers in a silvery glow. Emma walked aimlessly, her mind a whirlwind of emotions. She paused by a fountain, the gentle trickle of water providing a soothing backdrop to her thoughts.
“Running away already?” a familiar voice teased. Emma turned to see James leaning against a tree, his arms crossed over his chest. His smirk was infuriatingly charming.
“I’m not running,” Emma shot back, crossing her arms defensively. “I’m thinking. There’s a difference.”
James pushed off the tree and took a step closer. “Thinking about what? Whether you can trust me? Whether you want to be with me?”
Emma hesitated, her eyes searching his. “It’s not that simple, James. This isn’t just about us. It’s about your family, my safety, and… and everything else.”
James reached out, his hand gently brushing her cheek. “It’s about us,” he said softly. “Everything else is just noise.”
Emma’s breath hitched, her resolve wavering. She wanted to believe him, to let herself fall into the safety of his arms. But the weight of the decision pressed heavily on her shoulders.
“Give me time,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Please.”
James nodded, his expression softening. “Take all the time you need,” he said. “But remember, Emma, some doors shouldn’t be opened. And once you walk through this one, there’s no turning back.”
Emma’s eyes widened at his words, a shiver running down her spine. What did he mean by that? Before she could ask, James turned and disappeared into the shadows, leaving her alone with her thoughts and the haunting echo of his words.
The garden was cloaked in a silvery mist, the kind that made the world feel like a dream. Emma paced the gravel path, her breath visible in the cold night air. The rustling of leaves and the distant hoot of an owl were the only sounds that broke the silence. She paused by the rose bushes, their thorns glinting like tiny daggers under the moonlight.
A shadow moved at the edge of her vision. She turned, her heart skipping a beat. From the darkness emerged a white wolf, its fur glowing like a ghost in the night. Emma’s breath caught in her throat. She knew that wolf—it was Owen.
The wolf stepped closer, its amber eyes locked on hers. Then, in a fluid motion, it shifted. Owen stood before her, his face pale and drawn. "Emma," he said, his voice low and urgent. "The Thomases are planning a raid. You and the Lees are their targets. You need to be careful."
Emma’s mind raced. "Why are you telling me this?" she demanded, her voice trembling. "You’re one of them."
Owen’s jaw tightened. "I don’t want to be Henry’s pawn anymore," he said, his voice barely above a whisper. His eyes flickered with something—guilt? Fear? Emma couldn’t tell.
She stepped closer, her fists clenched. "You expect me to trust you? After everything?"
Owen’s gaze softened. "I don’t expect anything," he said. "But I couldn’t stand by and let them hurt you." He turned away, his shoulders slumped. "Be careful, Emma. Some doors shouldn’t be opened."
Before she could respond, he shifted back into the wolf and disappeared into the shadows. Emma stood frozen, her mind a whirlwind of questions. What did he mean by doors? And why did he look so haunted?
She hurried back to the house, her heart pounding. When she opened her bedroom door, she found James sitting on the edge of her bed, his expression unreadable.
"Where have you been?" he asked, his voice calm but with an edge.
Emma hesitated. "Just... clearing my head," she said, avoiding his gaze.
James stood, his eyes narrowing. "You’re a terrible liar, Emma." He stepped closer, his voice dropping. "What’s going on?"
Emma bit her lip. Should she tell him about Owen? Or would that only make things worse? The room felt smaller suddenly, the walls closing in. She took a deep breath, trying to steady her nerves. But before she could speak, James’s phone buzzed. He glanced at it, his face darkening.
"We’ve got a problem," he said, turning the screen toward her. It was a security alert from the estate’s perimeter. Someone—or something—had breached the gates.
Emma’s blood ran cold. The Thomas were already here.
The dim glow of the chandelier cast long shadows across the polished wooden floor as James stepped closer, his sharp eyes narrowing on Emma. She stood by the window, her fingers nervously tracing the edge of the curtain.
The faint scent of his cologne—something musky and expensive—filled the air, but it did little to ease the tension.
“Where were you?” James’s voice was low, clipped, and laced with suspicion. He crossed his arms, his tailored suit pulling taut across his broad shoulders.
Emma hesitated, her gaze flickering to the floor. “Just… out for a walk. Needed some air.”
“A walk?” He tilted his head, his lips curling into a sardonic smile. “Funny. I didn’t see you on the security feed.”
Her heart skipped a beat. The cameras. Of course. She forced a laugh, though it sounded hollow even to her own ears. “Maybe you weren’t looking hard enough.”
James stepped closer, his presence overwhelming. “Emma, don’t play games with me. I know when you’re hiding something.”
She swallowed hard, her mind racing. “I’m not hiding anything, James. I just… needed some space.”
His expression softened, but only slightly. He reached out, his fingers brushing her arm. “You don’t need space from me. You need me. And I need you.”
Emma’s chest tightened. His touch was warm, almost comforting, but his words felt like chains. “James, I—”
“No,” he interrupted, his voice firm. “Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter. You’re mine. Always have been, always will be.”
She opened her mouth to argue, but he pulled her into his arms, his embrace both possessive and protective. His lips brushed her ear as he whispered, “I won’t let anyone take you away from me. Not now, not ever.”
For a moment, Emma let herself lean into him, the familiar scent and strength of his body offering a fleeting sense of security. But deep down, a knot of unease twisted in her stomach. His words, though tender, carried an edge of finality she couldn’t shake.
“I’m tired,” she murmured, pulling away gently. “I think I’ll head to bed.”
James studied her for a moment, his eyes searching hers. Then he nodded, though his jaw remained tense. “Rest well. We’ll talk more tomorrow.”
As she climbed the stairs to her room, Emma’s mind was a whirlwind. The memory of Owen’s words earlier that evening—“You don’t have to do this, Emma. You have a choice.”—clashed with James’s unyielding declaration.
She closed the door behind her and sank onto the bed, the soft mattress offering little comfort. The room was silent except for the faint ticking of the clock on the wall. She stared at the ceiling, her thoughts a tangled mess.
What am I supposed to do?
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, and she reached for it, half-expecting another message from Owen. Instead, it was an unknown number. The screen displayed a single line of text:
“Some doors shouldn’t be opened. Be careful which one you choose.”
Emma frowned, her fingers trembling as she typed a reply. “Who is this?”
But the message was marked as undeliverable. She stared at the screen, a chill creeping down her spine. The words echoed in her mind, a cryptic warning that only deepened the weight of her decision.
As she lay back, the flickering streetlight outside cast shifting patterns on the walls. The room felt smaller, the air heavier. Emma closed her eyes, but sleep wouldn’t come. The choices before her loomed like shadows, each one darker than the last.
And somewhere, in the back of her mind, a voice whispered: What if there’s no right answer?
The clock struck 2 a.m., and the apartment was eerily silent except for the faint hum of the refrigerator. Emma sat on the edge of her bed, her fingers tracing the rim of a half-empty wine glass. The dim glow of the city lights filtered through the blinds, casting long shadows across the room. Her mind was a whirlwind of memories—James’s piercing blue eyes, the way he’d shielded her from the paparazzi that fateful night, his voice, calm yet commanding, saying, “You’re safe with me.”
“God, why is this so hard?” she muttered to herself, running a hand through her tangled hair.
Her phone buzzed on the nightstand, and she glanced at it. A text from Owen: “You know what’s at stake. Don’t let emotions cloud your judgment.”
Emma groaned, tossing the phone aside. “Easy for you to say,” she muttered. “You’re not the one being pushed into a gilded cage.”
She stood up and paced the room, her bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. The memory of James’s proposal flashed before her eyes—the way he’d knelt, the ring glinting under the chandelier, his voice steady but with an undercurrent of vulnerability. “Marry me, Emma. Let me protect you.”
“Protect me, or control me?” she whispered to the empty room.
Her gaze fell on the framed photo on the dresser—her and James at the charity gala, his arm around her waist, her smile genuine but now tinged with doubt. She picked it up, her thumb brushing over the glass. “What if I’m making a mistake?”
The night stretched on, and Emma’s thoughts turned darker. Owen’s warnings echoed in her mind: “The Thomases aren’t just playing games, Emma. They’re hunting. And you’re the prize.”
She sank back onto the bed, her heart pounding. “James doesn’t understand. He thinks love is enough. But it’s not. ”
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