Chapter 3

She dressed in jeans and an old sweater, braided her hair, and went downstairs. The smell of bacon and coffee drifted from the kitchen, but she stopped at the living room threshold.

Her father was already in his armchair, a newspaper open on his lap. Across from him, her mother sat on the edge of the sofa with a notebook and pen. A wedding planner, Layla recognized it from the drugstore. Ruth had bought it weeks ago, when the arrangement was first announced.

"Good morning," William said without looking up. "Your mother and I are making a list. Caterer, florist, photographer. You need to choose a color scheme."

"I don't want a color scheme."

He looked at her then. "This isn't a negotiation, Layla. The wedding is in twelve days. We have to be organized."

Twelve days. She had counted down to thirteen last night. Now it was twelve.

"I'll pick white," she said flatly. "Everything white. Like a surrender flag."

William folded his newspaper with deliberate precision. "You will not speak to me that way in this house."

"Why not? It's the truth."

Ruth set down her pen. "Layla, please. We're just trying to make this as nice as possible."

"Nice?" Layla's voice cracked. "You want me to pick flowers so the reception looks nice while I marry a man I've barely spoken to?"

"He's a good man," William said, standing. "He's a deacon. He has a steady job. He will take care of you. That's more than many women get."

"I have a job. I can take care of myself."

"Your little library position? That's pocket money, not a life."

Layla felt heat rise to her face. "I like my job. I'm good at it."

"You're twenty-two years old. It's time to grow up." He stepped toward her, his voice lowering. "This marriage is happening. You will go through with it, and you will be grateful."

"Grateful?" She almost laughed. "Grateful for what? Being sold to cover your debt?"

William's hand moved before she could flinch. He caught her chin, forcing her gaze to meet his. His grip was not hard, but it was firm enough to make her stop. "You will not speak of that again," he said quietly. "Understood?"

Layla's heart pounded. She had seen her father angry before, but never at her like this, not with his fingers on her skin.

"Let her go, William."

Ruth's voice was small but steady. She had risen from the sofa, the notebook clutched to her chest.

William released Layla's chin and stepped back. "Both of you need to remember who provides for this family." He turned and walked toward the kitchen, his coffee cup in hand.

Ruth moved to Layla's side. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine." Layla's voice was a whisper. She touched her chin where his fingers had been.

"I'm sorry," Ruth said. "I should have... I don't know what I should have done."

Before Layla could answer, the front door opened. A woman's voice filled the hallway, bright and familiar.

"Hello? Anyone home?"

Ruth's face went pale. "Summer."

Aunt Summer swept into the living room, her auburn curls bouncing, a large handbag slung over her shoulder. She was Ruth's younger sister, the one who had moved to Nashville years ago and rarely visited. She dressed in colors their mother would have called "loud," and she spoke her mind without a filter.

"Layla, honey," she said, crossing the room and pulling Layla into a hug. "I came as soon as I heard."

"Heard what?"

"About the wedding." Summer pulled back, her eyes sharp and worried. "My brother-in-law called to invite me. Said you were marrying Deacon Webb. I nearly dropped the phone."

Ruth stepped forward. "Summer, it's not what you think."

"Then what is it? Because the way I hear it, my niece is being married off like a prize cow."

"Summer!" Ruth glanced toward the kitchen. "Keep your voice down."

William emerged, his face unreadable. "Hello, Summer. I didn't expect you so early."

"I took the first flight out. Couldn't miss my niece's wedding, now could I?" Her tone was light, but her eyes were hard. "But I want to hear from Layla. Is this what you want?"

Layla looked at her father, then at her mother. Ruth's eyes were pleading. William's jaw was tight.

"No," Layla said. "It's not what I want."

Summer nodded slowly. "Then why is it happening?"

"It's complicated."

"Uncomplicate it."

William cleared his throat. "This is a family matter, Summer. And it's been decided."

"Decided by who? You?" Summer crossed her arms. "Last I checked, this is America. Women get to choose who they marry."

"She's my daughter."

"And she's my niece. And I'm not going to stand by while you sell her off like a used car."

Ruth stepped between them. "Please, both of you. Not here, not like this."

Summer ignored her. She turned to Layla. "Do you have somewhere to go? A friend? A coworker you can stay with?"

Layla thought of her small savings account, the library where she worked. She thought of Marcus's quiet voice, his promise of a porch swing. "I don't know."

"You could come with me. Back to Nashville. Just for a while."

"Summer!" William's voice rose. "You will not take my daughter out of this house."

"Watch me."

Layla's heart hammered. The idea was terrifying. And tempting. The thought of getting in a car and driving away, leaving the yellow kitchen and the ticking clock and her father's armchair behind.

But then she looked at her mother. Ruth's face was a mask of desperation. She was shaking her head slowly, a tiny motion, as though begging Layla not to go.

"I can't," Layla said, the words tasting like ash. "Not yet."

Summer's face fell. "Layla—"

"Not yet," Layla repeated. "But I want to know I have a choice."

She looked at her father, and for the first time, she held his gaze without flinching. "I'll go through with the wedding. But I'm not going to smile and pretend it's what I want. And if you ever touch me again, I will leave. I don't care where I go."

William stared at her, his face unreadable. Then he turned and walked into the kitchen without a word.

The grandfather clock ticked.

Summer took Layla's hand. "I'm staying at the motel on Highway 9—room 12. You call me anytime, day or night. You hear?"

Layla nodded, not trusting her voice.

"Ruth," Summer said, her tone softening. "You okay?"

Ruth nodded, wiping her eyes. "I'm fine."

Summer hugged her sister, then turned to Layla. "I'll be at the wedding. And I'll be watching. You need me, you look my way."

She let herself out, the door clicking shut behind her.

Layla stood in the living room with her mother. The wedding planner lay on the sofa, open to a page of sample color swatches.

"I'm sorry," Ruth whispered.

"I know."

Layla walked out the back door, into the small yard, and sat on the steps. The morning sun was warm on her face. She pulled out her phone and looked up Greyhound schedules to Nashville. Just in case.

Inside, the grandfather clock chimed ten—twelve days to go. But for the first time, she felt like she had an exit sign, even if she wasn't ready to take it.