My Husband Locked Me Inside His Fortress — Then I Saw The Men With Guns
Part 1
The ink on the marriage contract was still wet when I realized I had traded one nightmare for another.
My father, Brian, had gambled away everything we owned at the card tables in London.
He owed an astronomical sum to a ruthless, scarred man named Dan, who collected human collateral when gold ran dry.
Dan didn’t want our crumbling estate.
He wanted me.
I was given three days to prepare myself for a life of misery.
I stood in the shadows of a grand ballroom on what was meant to be my final night in society, my chest tight with impending doom.
Then the crowd suddenly parted.
Greg walked into the room.
He was formidably tall, radiating a cold, untouchable authority that silenced the entire hall.
The society papers called him a man whose heart was forged in frost, a wealthy industrialist who bowed to no one.
He walked directly toward me.
His deep voice rumbled through the marble floor as he demanded a word in the library.
I followed him, trembling but desperate to maintain my dignity.
Once the heavy oak doors clicked shut, he turned his piercing gaze on me, stripping away my defenses.
He tossed a thick parchment document sealed with red wax onto the mahogany desk.
He wanted to marry me.
He needed a wife to satisfy the stipulations of a will by his thirtieth birthday, which was exactly one month away.
He required a woman who understood business, not a simpering debutante.
The terms were explicit and chillingly precise.
We would be married for exactly one year, in name only.
I would reside at his sprawling, isolated estate in the north.
In return, he would purchase my father’s debt from Dan in full by morning.
When the year concluded, the union would be annulled.
I would be given a massive settlement and my absolute freedom.
I stared at the silver fountain pen on the desk.
It was a miracle, a way to save my father’s life and escape a lifetime of abuse under Dan.
I reached for the pen and signed my name.
My marriage was solemnized three days later in a barren, silent chapel.
Greg placed a heavy sapphire ring onto my trembling finger.
His hands were large, warm, and calloused, the hands of a man who fought hard.
Within an hour, we were in a black carriage hurtling toward his estate.
The journey took four grueling days.
Throughout the ride, Greg was a portrait of icy detachment.
He treated me not as a bride, but as a fragile, valuable acquisition.
We arrived at his manor beneath a bruised, stormy sky.
It was a magnificent, terrifying fortress of dark stone sitting on the edge of a jagged cliff overlooking the crashing sea.
Gargoyles guarded the parapets, and the surrounding moors were choked with thick, rolling fog.
It looked less like a home and more like a prison.
A severe housekeeper named Brenda greeted us at the door, her face pinched tight with secrets.
Greg did not let go of my hand as he welcomed me to my new home.
The interior was opulent but suffocating.
Heavy velvet drapes blocked out the moonlight, and roaring fires failed to banish the chill of the ancient stone.
True to his word, Greg never visited my bedchamber.
I existed in a state of surreal luxury, but the isolation was profound.
He was gone before I woke and returned only for dinner, speaking in polite, clipped tones.
On the eighth night, the illusion of my peaceful year was violently shattered.
I could not sleep, the wind howling off the moors and rattling the glass panes.
I threw a heavy wool shawl over my shoulders and took a candle, deciding to walk in the enclosed courtyard gardens.
I descended the grand sweeping staircase, the marble freezing beneath my slippers.
The great hall was plunged in absolute darkness.
I reached the massive double oak doors that led to the courtyard.
I grasped the heavy brass handle and pulled.
It did not move.
I set my candle down and used both hands to tug at the handle.
It was deadlocked.
I looked up and gasped.
Three massive, newly forged iron bolts had been slid into place, padlocked with heavy brass locks.
Panic fluttered in my chest like a trapped bird.
I hurried down the servants’ corridor to the kitchen door.
It was locked.
I ran to the conservatory glass doors.
They were chained from the inside.
I hurried into the drawing room and pulled back the heavy velvet curtains to look out the tall windows.
In the moonlight, I saw two of the estate’s groundsmen patrolling the perimeter of the manor.
They weren’t carrying lanterns.
They were carrying rifles.
A voice cut through the dark behind me, asking what I was doing out of bed.
I spun around, dropping my candle onto the carpet.
Greg stood in the doorway.
He wore only dark trousers and a loose white linen shirt, unbuttoned at the throat.
He looked wild, untamed, and entirely dangerous.
I demanded to know why the doors were bolted and chained.
He stepped slowly into the room, moving with the silent, lethal grace of a hunting wolf.
He admitted there were men with guns in the garden.
I asked if we were under attack, my heart hammering against my ribs.
He said no.
He advanced until he was mere inches from me, the heat radiating from his body intoxicating and terrifying.
I demanded to know why I was locked in.
His voice dropped to a dark velvet whisper as he reminded me that the contract stated I would reside there for one year.
He told me it never stated I was permitted to leave.
I accused him of keeping me prisoner, swatting his hand away as my fear morphed into rage.
His eyes flashed with a sudden, possessive fury that took my breath away.
He told me I would remain exactly where he could see me.
The gates would not open, the carriages had been dismantled, and the staff answered only to him.
I yelled that it was only for a year, pushing against his chest.
He backed me completely against the glass, his hands slamming onto the window frame on either side of my head.
He caged me in.
He asked if I truly believed he had gone through the trouble of buying my life and marrying me just to let me walk away in twelve months.
He whispered brutally that there was no annulment and no exit.
The doors were locked, and they would never open for me again.
I stepped back until my spine hit the cold glass, staring at the man who had bought my life, realizing I was entirely trapped.
