The Villains Must Win

Fredrich guided Lina back to the waiting car, his arm firmly around her waist as his men swiftly moved through the aftermath—neutralizing the last of Christian's forces and erasing every trace of the brutal encounter.

The chaos faded behind them like a storm that had passed, leaving only silence . . . and the cold efficiency of men trained to clean up blood without question.

The real Lina held the memory of Christian's desperate whisper close to her chest like a memory she couldn't yet release. The soul inside her, however, already forgot his existence and moved on to the next step of her plans.

They boarded together—no guns, no threats, just comforting silence.

The driver sat, ready. Fredrich shut the door, eyes meeting Lina's as he buckled her in.

He reached across and placed his hand over hers. "You're going to be fine now. That man would no longer bother you."

She nodded, pulling her closer. "Thank you."

The door shut, the engines roared, and they left.

"Are you alright, Fredrich?" Lina asked, her voice trembling slightly as she noticed the sudden stillness beside her.

He hadn't spoken a word since they got into the car.

She turned to look at him—his face was pale, lips pressed in a tight line, eyes closed as if willing himself to stay conscious. His breath came in slow, labored rasps.

That's when she saw it.

A growing patch of crimson staining the front of his shirt, blooming like a deadly flower just beneath his ribs.

"Fredrich!" she gasped, reaching for him.

Her hand hovered helplessly over the wound. His skin was clammy, his body rigid with pain.

"Why didn't you say anything?" she whispered, voice cracking as panic rose in her throat. "You're hurt—Fredrich, stay with me!"

He opened his eyes a fraction, pain dulling their usual sharpness. "It's . . . nothing," he muttered hoarsely. "Just . . . a scratch . . ."

Lina pressed her hands against the wound in desperation, trying to slow the bleeding. "Don't lie to me," she choked out. "Stay awake. Please, just—don't close your eyes, okay?"

The driver slammed the accelerator as one of Fredrich's men radioed ahead, shouting for a doctor to be ready at the estate.

But all Lina could hear was the unsteady rhythm of Fredrich's breath.

All she could see was the man who had been everything and too much, slipping further into the shadows.

====

Lina found herself standing by a hospital bed—not in a villa or a car, but in a sterile white room pulsing with the hum of machines and quiet beeping monitors.

Fredrich lay beneath the crisp linens, his body still and pale, though the steady rise and fall of his chest proved otherwise.

He'd insisted on marriage the night after the showdown—claiming he wasn't sure if he'd wake up again.

The priest, summoned at the last minute, stood beside the bed, rosary beads in hand and voice solemn. His presence felt heavy in the room, like an altar to nightmares dressed as hope.

Lina swallowed hard. She knew better than to trust the drama unfolding around her.

Fredrich, with all his controlling habits and cold obsessions—it fit his style to manufacture a near-death crisis just to seal their bond. He hadn't looked that hurt.

Not really.

But she stood at his side, exhaling in time with his respirator. Smiling by rote.

When the priest began in low, measured tones, Lina's heart pounded—not from fear, but from the strange thrill of her plans unfolding.

She clasped Fredrich's hand, feeling the warmth of his skin—strong pulse, sure and alive.

Nothing about this was final. Everything about this was staged.

Still, she didn't want to break the ceremony, and she would play along with him.

Men like Fredrich didn't just want affection. They wanted possession.

To them, love wasn't about warmth or trust—it was about control. Complete, unwavering control. They didn't want their women to love them freely. They wanted them tethered, bound so tightly that escape became impossible.

And now, Fredrich had found the perfect excuse: his supposed near-death injury. A fatal-sounding wound. A bloody shirt. A dramatic priest called in the dead of night to marry them while he lay pale in bed.

It was a trap so cleverly disguised as vulnerability that even the soft-hearted would fall for it.

He played the part perfectly—weak, breathless, eyes full of longing. "Let's get married, Lina," he had whispered, barely audible. "I don't want to die without marrying you."

And to the untrained, it would have sounded romantic.

Beautiful even.

But Lina knew better.

He wanted to marry her not because he feared death—but because he feared losing control. A wife would be harder to remove, harder to disobey.

If she wore his ring, lived under his name, bore his brand, then running away would be more than difficult—it would be treason.

He didn't want a partner. He wanted a caged bird.

Lina stared at him as he lay there, eyes half-lidded in pain or performance—she wasn't sure anymore. Maybe both.

She had no idea how many women had stood where she was now, gripping a man's hand in a dark bedroom, saying yes to a vow they didn't fully understand.

How many had worn that same ring?

How many had smiled through uncertainty?

How many were still alive?

Or worse—how many were still locked behind glass, just like the woman before?

But Lina wasn't like them. She was different. She wasn't here to fall in love, or play the role of the doting wife. She was here to win.

So she said yes.

Readily. Sweetly. Even leaned down to brush her lips against his brow with a trembling smile. "Of course, Fredrich," she whispered. "I'll marry you."

It was easy to fake. She'd had years of practice.

Because now that Christian was dead and gone—his last breath uttering her name as he bled out in jealousy—there was no more obstacle in the way.

She could finally move on to her next step.

It was checkmate.

And Fredrich had no idea.