When The Puppet Falls For The Puppeteer

The Cruelest Cut

Myra

I walked slowly toward his study, the tray balanced carefully in my hands. A bottle of whiskey, two glasses, ice, and a jug of water. My palms were damp against the tray's edges—not from the weight, but the tension I could already feel leaking through the closed door.

The voices inside were sharp. Not raised. Not shouting. But laced with something colder—controlled frustration, a clash of power just below the surface.

"You know there's nothing binding you here," his uncle's voice came first—measured, coaxing.

"I signed a contract," Marcus replied, flat and unapologetic.

"Oh, fuck the contract," the older man scoffed. "You signed it when you were thirteen. Who's going to take that seriously in a court of law?"

My breath caught. The contract. That contract. The one he signed when he was thirteen. He's talking about our contract.

"I wanted her."

"Yeah, yeah. I know—you're obsessed with her," his uncle sighed, like it was an inconvenience. "Your mother was obsessed with you. You asked for her like a birthday gift. A gift, Marcus. Keep it at that. You don't have to marry her."

A slow chill crept up my spine. My grip on the tray tightened.

"This contract—this ridiculous agreement—doesn't mean a thing. Your mother's dead. Her mother—the woman who slyly made it legally binding—is already under your thumb. You saved her from prison. You think she'll dare contest anything now?"

"It's none of your business," Marcus snapped.

His uncle chuckled. "I've known you all your life, Marcus. You're a prodigy—exceptionally intelligent. It's in your blood. You belong in politics, not playing house with some redheaded charity case. Having Thomas Hales in your pocket could be your biggest win."

A pause. Then, like a dagger slipped between the ribs:

"Think about his proposal. Marry the daughter. Jessica. Everything becomes easier."

My hands began to tremble. So this was it. The proposal. Jessica.

Will he marry her?

And if he does... what does that mean for me?

Do I even want to be married to him?

Wasn't I the one trying to escape this twisted arrangement?

Then why does it burn? Why does it feel like my chest is caving in?

"I said it's none of your business."

His uncle laughed again, sharper this time. "Oh, come on. You asked your mother for a toy on your birthday. You got it. Play with it if you must. But you don't have to marry the toy. That redhead is a nobody. Keep her if she entertains you. You don't have to marry her to keep her."

"I know—"

The glass tray slipped from my hands and crashed to the floor with a thunderous clang. The whiskey bottle shattered, ice scattering like broken teeth.

Silence.

The voices stopped.

And suddenly, I was the center of the room.

The silence after the crash was deafening. My breath hitched, the sting of whiskey and shame burning my eyes.

Marcus turned.

For a second, his face betrayed nothing—just cool calculation. Then his eyes landed on the broken glass, the spilled liquor, and finally—me.

"What the hell are you doing here?" His voice was sharp, accusing.