THE BARGAIN

The doorbell rang, its sharp chime slicing through the tension in the room like a knife. Calla’s heart leapt into her throat, her hands trembling as she clutched the edge of the table. Her father, Charles, straightened in his seat, his expression was unreadable.

“That must be your husband,” he said, his voice cold and detached, as if he were discussing a business transaction rather than the fate of his own daughter.

Daniel, her stepbrother, smirked and walked toward the door, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he were savoring every moment of her discomfort and anxious. Calla’s stomach churned as she watched him reach the door. She hated the way he looked at her, the way he always seemed to revel in her pain and misfortune.

The door creaked open, and there he was.

Damian Blackwood.

Calla’s breath hitched as her eyes landed on him. He was not what she had expected. She had imagined someone older, someone cruel and hardened, with a face that matched the coldness of his demands for a young woman as repayment for a debt. But Damian was young—far younger than she had anticipated. His sharp features were striking, his dark hair swept back, and his piercing eyes seemed to see straight through her. He carried himself with an air of authority, his presence commanding the room without a word.

She felt a flicker of confusion. Why would a man like him demand her as repayment for a debt? What could he possibly want from her? She was nothing—a broken girl with no worth, no future. Why her? Was he a psycho that derived pleasure from things like that?

Damian stepped inside, his gaze sweeping over the room before landing on her. His expression was unreadable, but there was a hardness in his eyes that made her shiver.

“Mr Blackwood. Please have a sit. Would you like tea? Or wine? Everything is available.” Charles, Calla's father spoke quickly. It was obvious that he was trying so hard to win his favour.

“I’m not here for tea or win,” he said, his voice low and firm. “All negotiations have ended. I’m here to see my bride.”

Calla’s heart pounded as his eyes locked onto hers. She felt exposed, vulnerable, as if he could see every scar, every crack in her soul. She wanted to look away, to hide from his gaze, but she couldn’t. She was frozen in place, her body betraying her.

He stepped closer, his eyes narrowing as he took in her appearance. Her face was wet with tears, her hair unkempt, her clothes disheveled. She looked broken, and she knew it. But she didn’t care. She had nothing left to lose. Maybe, just maybe, he would change his mind now that he had seen the woman he wanted to take in as his wife.

“Who the hell are you, really? Why would you want someone like me?” she blurted out, her voice trembling but defiant. “What do you even want from me? What’s your plan?”

As she spoke, Damian’s gaze flickered downward, and she realized with a jolt that the top button of her shirt was undone. His eyes lingered for a moment too long, and she felt a surge of anger and shame. He hadn't even married her and he was looking at her chest with those eyes. Before she could react, he reached out, his fingers brushing against the fabric of her shirt. She wanted to rebel but he held her in place with a firm grip, his other hand moving to open the side of her shirt further.

There, on her chest, was a scar.

Calla’s breath caught in her throat as his fingers traced the jagged line. She wanted to pull away, to scream at him to stop, but she couldn’t move. His touch was cold, clinical, as if he were inspecting a piece of merchandise for any cracks or imperfections.

Daniel stepped forward, his voice sharp and accusing. “Calla, are you crazy? Are you trying to ruin this deal by being rude to him? Stay still!”

Damian raised a hand, silencing Daniel with a single gesture. His gaze shifted to Charles, his eyes cold and piercing. “I told you I wanted my bride without any imperfections. What’s this scar?”

Calla’s father stammered, his face pale. “She, Uhm.... I—I didn’t know—”

Margaret, her stepmother, stepped in smoothly, her voice dripping with false concern. “She’s suicidal, just like her mother. That scar is from when she tried to kill herself. She’s unstable. Good thing we found her quickly and took her to the hospital.”

Calla’s blood boiled. The scar wasn’t from a suicide attempt—it was from the night Daniel had tried to force himself on her, and she had fought back with everything she had. But what hurt more than the lie was the mention of her mother.

“My mother didn’t commit suicide!” Calla shouted, her voice cracking with emotion. “Don’t you dare talk about her that way! You don't know anything!”

Charles slammed his hand on the table, his voice booming. “Enough! Compose yourself, Calla! Are you trying to embarrass the family with your stupid ways?”

He turned to Damian, his tone apologetic. “I’m sorry for the… family drama. She’s emotional, as you can see. She needs to be controlled well so she doesn't go over the edge.”

Damian nodded, his expression unreadable. He turned to Calla, his gaze steady. “Follow me.”

For a moment, she hesitated. But then she looked at her family—her father, cold and unfeeling; her stepmother, with her painted smile and venomous words; her stepbrother, who had taken so much from her already. In that moment, she realized that following Damian, a stranger, was better than staying in a place where she was unloved, unwanted, and unseen.

She took a deep breath, her resolve hardening. Without a word, she stepped forward, her eyes meeting Damian’s. She took one last look at her family, her heart heavy but her mind clear. Then she followed him out the door, leaving behind the only life she had ever known, promising herself never to come back there.