Welcome To Your Doom
The heavy doors slammed shut behind them. Queenie's stomach twisted. The echo bounced off marble walls and she couldn't shake the feeling she was walking away from her old life forever. Jamal's footsteps were steady beside her, confident, like he owned every inch of ground he walked on. Maybe he did.
"Get in," he said, voice low and rough. The sleek black car gleamed under streetlights, all polished metal and tinted windows. He opened the passenger door and she caught expensive leather mixed with his cologne—something dark and woody that made her head spin.
Queenie bit her lower lip, tasting blood. Her teeth had been worrying that same spot all evening, a nervous habit she'd picked up since everything went to hell. The leather seat was soft against her back, softer than anything she'd sat in for months. She pulled her thin jacket tighter, suddenly aware of how shabby she must look in his perfect world.
The drive stretched out in silence. Nothing but engine hum and the occasional whoosh of other cars passing by. Queenie pressed her face against the cool window, watching city lights blur past. Each mile took her further from the only home she'd ever known, even if that home had become a prison. Her breath fogged the glass and she traced nervous patterns with her finger.
When they finally arrived at his mansion, Queenie's breath caught. The place was massive—all towering columns and sprawling gardens that seemed to go on forever. Warm light spilled from every window, making the whole thing glow like something out of a fairy tale. It was wealth and luxury wrapped up in stone and glass, way better than anything she'd grown up with, even before everything fell apart.
She stepped out of the car, her worn shoes crunching on perfectly manicured gravel. The night air was cool against her skin, carrying jasmine and something else she couldn't name. Without anyone telling her what to do, she followed him toward the house. Her legs moved on autopilot while her mind raced with possibilities, each one worse than the last.
Her heart hammered against her chest like a caged bird trying to escape. What did tonight have in store for her? The question bounced around in her head, making her palms sweat and her breathing shallow. She'd heard stories about men like him, men with too much money and too much power. Men who bought people like they were buying furniture.
The front door was massive, carved wood that probably cost more than most people made in a year. Inside, the house was even more impressive—marble floors that reflected light from crystal chandeliers, artwork that looked like it belonged in a museum, furniture that screamed money in every perfectly placed cushion.
Reaching the sitting room, Jamal settled onto a leather couch that looked like it could seat six people easy. Everything about him was controlled, calculated, like he'd done this dance a thousand times before.
"Sit," he said, pointing to the couch opposite him. It wasn't a request.
Queenie quietly sat where he pointed, the leather creaking softly under her weight. She buried her face toward the floor, staring at her scuffed shoes against the pristine marble. It was a habit she'd developed over the past few months—keep your head down, don't make eye contact, maybe they'll forget you're there.
"Look up," Jamal said, his voice carrying an edge that made her spine straighten.
Even though every instinct screamed at her to keep staring at the floor, she found herself lifting her chin. Her eyes met his and she was struck again by how unfairly handsome he was. Dark hair that looked like he'd run his fingers through it, sharp cheekbones that could cut glass, and eyes that seemed to see straight through her. He was the kind of man who turned heads wherever he went and he knew it.
"Any questions on your mind?" he asked, leaning back in his chair like he had all the time in the world.
"What are you going to do with me?" The words tumbled out before she could stop them, barely above a whisper.
Jamal chuckled and the sound sent shivers down her spine. "Queenie, you belong to me tonight, absolutely. I'm sure you know the reason you're here, so why ask that question?" His voice was smooth as silk, but there was something underneath it that made her skin crawl.
Queenie stared at him, confusion written all over her face. Her mind was spinning, trying to process everything that had happened in the past few hours. But one thing stuck out above all the rest.
How did he know her name? She was sure she hadn't told him. Hell, she was sure no one had mentioned it during the entire awful auction.
"I know what's in your mind," he continued, like he could read her thoughts. "How did I know your name? Well, nothing's hard for me to discover. Let's say I know almost everything about you."
The room suddenly felt smaller, the air thicker. Queenie's palms began to sweat.
"Queenie Vale, daughter of Edward Vale," he continued, counting off on his fingers like he was reading a grocery list. "Georgina Vale, stepmother, threw you out of the house a few hours ago and framed you for poisoning her daughter."
Each word hit her like a physical blow. How could he possibly know all this? She'd been so careful, so quiet. She'd tried to stay invisible.
"But I'll give you one clue," he said, leaning forward slightly. "Your step sister was never poisoned. Just a fake-up and a backup for them to get rid of you. But I must say, you're quite stupid and naive."
His chuckle was cold this time, without any warmth. Queenie felt like the ground was shifting beneath her feet. Everything she thought she knew was crumbling.
"How did you know all this?" she mumbled, her voice barely audible.
Jamal opened his mouth to answer but was interrupted by footsteps in the hallway. A tall, sharp-dressed man stepped into the room—the same one who'd been beside Jamal at the auction. Eris, she remembered.
Jamal nodded at the newcomer, who walked over and dropped a thick manila file in front of Queenie. The papers made a soft thudding sound against the glass coffee table.
"What's this?" Queenie asked, staring at the file like it might bite her.
"Read it," Jamal replied, pulling out a cigarette and a gold lighter. The flame danced for a moment before he lit the cigarette, taking a long drag. The smoke curled up toward the ceiling and she caught expensive tobacco.
With trembling fingers, Queenie opened the file. The papers were thick, official-looking, covered in legal jargon that made her head spin. But she understood enough to catch the important parts. Marriage contract. Terms and conditions. Duration of one year. Compensation.
When she finished reading, she looked up at him with even more confusion clouding her features.
"What's the meaning of this?" she asked.
"Let's just say I'm here to offer you salvation," he said, taking another drag of his cigarette. "It's simple. I have a scandal that I need to handle and only by proving to the world that I'm married can the rumors die down."
Queenie's head was spinning. This was not what she'd expected when she'd climbed into his car. "Why me? According to what I know, you seem to be someone of high class."
"That's because I find you intriguing," he replied, his voice completely casual, like they were discussing the weather.
"No, I'm not interested," she said quickly, panic rising in her chest.
Jamal smiled but it didn't reach his eyes. "Now let me ask you something. Do you really think your stepmother would let you go even after giving her the money? No, sweetheart. She's tasted blood now. She knows she can destroy you and she'll keep doing it until there's nothing left."
His words hit too close to home. Queenie knew he was right, even if she didn't want to admit it.
"But if you sign this contract," he continued, "then I'll offer you protection, a roof over your head, and a chance to do anything you'd like to do. And here's the beautiful part—I don't just offer protection. I'll also help you get revenge on everyone you want to. All you need to do is sign the contract."
He leaned back, studying her face. "You don't have a choice here, darling. I could easily force you to do anything I want—I'm more dangerous than your stepmother, but I'm keeping my cool. This is me being generous."
Queenie stared back at the contract, then at the man in front of her. Her mind was racing, weighing her options. He was right about Georgina—the money wouldn't stop the abuse. If anything, it would make her bolder, more creative in her cruelty.
But with this offer, with the backing of someone this powerful, she could expose Georgina's evil deeds. She could make her pay for everything she'd done.
"Have you made up your mind, darling?" Jamal asked, his voice patient but with an underlying current of steel.
"I'll need to think about it," she said weakly.
"There's no time for that," he said, all pretense of patience gone. "Hand her the pen," he said to Eris.
Eris reached into his pocket and produced an expensive-looking pen, placing it in Queenie's trembling hand. The metal was warm from his body heat and it felt heavier than it should have.
She stared down at the contract, the words swimming before her eyes. This was it—the moment that would change everything. With a deep breath, she opened the contract to the signature page and signed her name in shaky handwriting.
Jamal let out a satisfied smile as he puffed smoke from his cigarette. The smoke seemed to form shapes in the air, like ghostly fingers reaching toward her.
One trap fallen. Welcome to your doom, Mrs. Devereaux, he thought, watching her with dark satisfaction.