Sinful Union

𝐍𝐎𝐄𝐌𝐀 "Marriage." The word hangs in the air like a death sentence. I stare at my father from across the impossibly long dining table, wondering if I've somehow misheard him. Unfortunately, I haven't. The silence that follows is suffocating. Crystal chandeliers glitter overhead, illuminating the gold accents of the Beaufort estate. Everything is elegant. Perfect. Controlled. Just the way my father likes it. Just the way my life has always been. "You're awfully quiet," he remarks, taking a sip of his wine. I force myself to set my fork down before I accidentally snap it in half. "What exactly would you like me to say?" My voice comes out calm. Years of etiquette lessons have taught me how to hide my emotions. How to smile when I'm angry. How to remain graceful when I'm breaking apart. But right now, I want to throw something. Preferably at him. "The Laurent family approached us several months ago," my father continues as though we're discussing the weather. "After careful consideration, an agreement has been reached." An agreement. Not a proposal. Not a choice. An agreement. As if I'm a business transaction. As if I'm property. My nails dig into my palm beneath the table. "Does my opinion matter?" My mother finally looks up from her plate. The pity in her eyes tells me everything. No. My opinion doesn't matter. It never has. "Don't be dramatic, Noema," my father says. A humorless laugh escapes me. Dramatic. Of course. Because finding out you're being handed over to a complete stranger is apparently something I should celebrate. "Who is he?" I ask. My father exchanges a glance with my mother. A glance that makes my stomach tighten. "Malik Laurent." The name means nothing for exactly three seconds. Then everything clicks into place. Laurent. As in the Laurent family. One of the most powerful families in France. Owners of luxury brands, hotels, investments, and enough wealth to buy entire cities if they wanted to. I've seen photographs. Magazine covers. Business interviews. And in every single one, Malik Laurent looks exactly the same. Cold. Untouchable. Dangerous. The kind of man people fear disappointing. The kind of man who doesn't hear the word no often. My chest tightens. "How old is he?" "Twenty-four." Five years older than me. Not that it matters. Nothing about this matters. The decision has already been made. My future signed away before I even entered the room. "Wonderful," I murmur, pushing my chair back. My father narrows his eyes. "Sit down." I don't. For the first time in years, I don't. Instead, I stand and smooth my black silk dress. "You've already sold me. I don't see why I need to stay for the negotiation." The room falls silent. My father's jaw clenches. My mother's face pales. But I don't wait to hear his response. I turn and walk away. The sound of my heels echoes through the mansion. One step. Then another. Then another. By the time I reach my bedroom, my heart is pounding so hard it hurts. I slam the door shut behind me. Marriage. To a man I've never met. A man whose reputation alone is enough to make people lower their voices. A man who, by this time next month, will be my husband. The thought makes me sick. Crossing the room, I step onto the balcony overlooking the city lights of Paris. The night air brushes against my skin. For a moment, I close my eyes. Trying to imagine what my future will look like. Trying to imagine the face of the stranger I've been promised to. Trying to convince myself that everything will be okay. ___________________ A chill runs through me. I rub my arms absently. The night air isn't cold enough to explain the feeling settling in my chest. Unease. That's the only word for it. My eyes drift across the Paris skyline, taking in the sea of lights stretching endlessly before me. Usually the view calms me. Tonight it does nothing. All I can think about is him. Malik Laurent. My fiancé. The word feels foreign. Wrong. Like trying on someone else's life. With a frustrated groan, I push away from the balcony railing and head back inside. The moment I enter my bedroom, my phone vibrates on the vanity. A text message. My best friend. Céleste. Céleste: Tell me your father didn't just summon you to dinner at nine o'clock at night. A laugh escapes me despite everything. Trust Céleste to know something is wrong. Me: It's worse. Three dots appear instantly. Céleste: Pregnant? My eyes widen. Me: What is wrong with you? Céleste: A lot of things. Answer the question. I roll my eyes. Me: I'm getting married. The typing bubble disappears. Then reappears. Then disappears again. Finally— Céleste: ...What? Me: Arranged marriage. A full minute passes. Céleste: You're joking. Me: I wish I was. The phone begins ringing immediately. I answer on the first ring. "What?" "What do you mean arranged marriage?" she practically screeches. I pull the phone away from my ear. "Ouch." "Noema." I sigh. "My father made a deal." The silence on the other end is brief. Dangerously brief. Then— "I'm coming over." "No." "I'm already getting dressed." "Céleste—" "I'm serious." I smile despite myself. She's always been like this. Loyal. Protective. Ready to start a war over the slightest inconvenience in my life. Unfortunately for both of us, this isn't a war she can win. "No," I repeat softly. "There's nothing you can do." Another silence. This one hurts. Because we both know I'm right. The Beaufort name opens many doors. It also locks just as many. "What is his name?" she finally asks. I hesitate. Then answer. "Malik Laurent." The reaction is immediate. "Oh." I frown. "What does that mean?" Another pause. "Céleste." "I've heard things." My stomach drops. "What things?" "I don't know if they're true." "Tell me." She sighs heavily. "They say he's intense." Intense. That's not exactly reassuring. "People always say that about powerful men." "I know." I sit on the edge of my bed. My gaze drifts toward the framed photographs decorating the room. Birthdays. Galas. Vacations. A life that suddenly feels very far away. "Have you ever met him?" I ask. "No." "Seen him?" "Once." My grip tightens around the phone. "And?" Céleste is quiet for a moment. When she finally speaks, her voice is strangely careful. "He looked at people like they belonged to him." I laugh. A forced sound. An uncomfortable sound. "That's ridiculous." "Maybe." I want to agree. I want to dismiss it. Yet something about the statement lingers. Like a shadow. Like a warning. A knock sounds at my bedroom door. Three sharp knocks. My father's. My expression hardens immediately. "I have to go." "Noema—" "I'll call you tomorrow." Before she can argue, I hang up. The door opens seconds later. My father steps inside without waiting for permission. Of course he does. This house has never truly belonged to me. His gaze sweeps across the room before settling on me. "There's a luncheon on Saturday." I stare at him. "And?" "You'll be attending." I already know where this is going. "No." His jaw tightens. "It's not a request." A bitter laugh escapes me. Nothing ever is. "Why?" The answer comes instantly. "Because Malik Laurent will be there." The room falls silent. And for the first time all evening— For the first time since hearing his name— Something twists low in my stomach. Not excitement. Not anticipation. Something darker. The realization that in four days... I will come face to face with the man my family has chosen for me. The man who is supposed to become my husband.