Purchased Vows

Chapter 5: The Family

A week after the charity auction, Marcus told me we were having dinner with his family.

"Your family?" I'd asked, surprised. "I didn't know you had family."

"Everyone has family," he'd replied, his voice tight. "Even if they wish they didn't."

The cryptic answer had left me uneasy, and as the day approached, my anxiety grew. What would they think of me? Would they see through our act? Would they know this was all fake?

On Saturday evening, I stood in front of my mirror, adjusting my dress for the tenth time. It was a simple navy blue dress, conservative but elegant. I wanted to look like I belonged, but I felt like an imposter.

"Ready?" Marcus's voice came from the doorway.

I turned, and my breath caught. He was wearing a dark suit, his hair perfectly styled, but there was something in his eyes—tension, maybe. Or dread.

"Are you okay?" I asked, moving closer.

"I'm fine." But his jaw was tight, and he wouldn't meet my eyes. "Let's go. We can't be late."

The drive to his family's estate was silent. Marcus stared out the window, his hands clenched on the steering wheel, and I could feel the stress radiating off him.

"Marcus," I said softly. "What's wrong? You seem... tense."

"Nothing's wrong." But his voice was sharp, almost defensive. "Just... my family can be difficult. Don't take anything they say personally."

"What do you mean?"

He didn't answer. Just kept driving, his knuckles white on the wheel.

The Sterling family estate made Marcus's house look modest. It was a sprawling mansion with columns and gardens that stretched for acres. Old money. Generations of wealth and privilege.

A butler opened the door, his expression neutral, and led us into a drawing room that looked like it belonged in a museum. Oil paintings on the walls, antique furniture, everything perfectly preserved and untouched.

"Marcus." A woman's voice, cold and sharp. "You're late."

I turned to see an older woman—Marcus's mother, I assumed. She was beautiful, but in a way that was hard and brittle. Her hair was perfectly coiffed, her dress expensive, but her eyes were cold. Calculating.

"Mother." Marcus's voice was flat, emotionless. "This is Olivia. My wife."

His mother's eyes swept over me, assessing, judging. "So this is the girl you married without telling us. How... impulsive of you."

"Olivia, this is my mother, Victoria Sterling," Marcus said, his hand finding the small of my back. A warning touch. *Be careful.*

"Mrs. Sterling," I said, extending my hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you."

She didn't take it. Just looked at my hand like it was contaminated. "The pleasure is all yours, I'm sure."

I dropped my hand, my cheeks burning, and Marcus's grip on my back tightened.

"Where's Father?" Marcus asked, his voice tight.

"In his study. As usual." Victoria's eyes narrowed. "He's not pleased, Marcus. Not pleased at all. You know how he feels about surprises."

"I'm aware."

"And your brother is here. He's been asking questions. Questions I can't answer because you didn't bother to tell us about this... arrangement."

The word "arrangement" hung in the air like an accusation, and I felt Marcus stiffen beside me.

"Where is he?" Marcus asked.

"Here." A voice from the doorway, and I turned to see a man who looked like a younger, softer version of Marcus. Same dark hair, same storm-gray eyes, but where Marcus was hard and closed off, this man was open. Friendly.

"Marcus," the man said, moving forward to clap Marcus on the shoulder. "You actually did it. You got married. I didn't think you had it in you."

"Ethan," Marcus said, and I heard something in his voice—affection, maybe. The first real emotion I'd heard from him all night. "This is Olivia."

"Olivia." Ethan smiled, and it was genuine. Warm. "It's great to meet you. I'm Ethan, Marcus's younger brother. The better-looking one, obviously."

I smiled back, relieved. "Nice to meet you, Ethan."

"Come on," Ethan said, leading us into the dining room. "Father's waiting, and you know how he gets when dinner is delayed."

The dining room was massive, a table that could seat twenty, but only four places were set. At the head of the table sat an older man—Marcus's father. He had the same commanding presence as Marcus, the same cold eyes, but there was something cruel in his expression. Something that made my skin crawl.

"Marcus." The man's voice was like ice. "Sit."

We sat. Marcus beside me, his hand finding mine under the table. A gesture of support, or maybe just part of the act. But his palm was warm, and I found myself holding on tighter than I should.

"Olivia," Marcus's father said, his eyes on me. "Tell us about yourself. What do you do?"

"I..." I glanced at Marcus, but he was staring at his plate. "I'm currently focusing on charity work. I have a degree in—"

"Charity work." His father's lip curled. "How... noble. And your family? What do they do?"

"My mother is a teacher," I said, my voice steady despite my racing heart. "My father... he's no longer with us."

"Ah. So you come from nothing." The words were brutal, meant to hurt. "And you married my son for his money, I assume."

"Father," Marcus said, his voice sharp. "That's enough."

"Is it?" His father's eyes narrowed. "Because I find it interesting that you married this girl without telling anyone. Without a prenuptial agreement. Without any of the proper safeguards."

"There's a prenuptial agreement," Marcus said, his hand tightening on mine.

"Is there?" His father leaned back, his expression calculating. "Because I've checked. And there isn't. Which means if this marriage ends, she gets half of everything. Half of Sterling Industries."

The words hung in the air, heavy and dangerous. I felt Marcus's hand go rigid in mine, and I realized something: he hadn't had me sign a prenup. He'd trusted me. Or he'd been so desperate for a wife that he'd forgotten.

"Marcus," his mother said, her voice sharp. "Is this true?"

Marcus didn't answer. Just stared at his father, his jaw tight, his eyes flashing with something—anger, maybe. Or fear.

"Because if it is," his father continued, "then this marriage is a liability. A risk to the company. And you know how I feel about risks."

"I know," Marcus said, his voice low, dangerous. "But this is my marriage. My decision."

"Your decision?" His father laughed, but it was cold. "Everything you have is because of me. Because of this family. You don't get to make decisions that affect us all without consequences."

The threat was clear. And I saw something in Marcus's expression then—not anger, but something else. Something that looked like defeat.

"Father," Ethan said, his voice gentle. "Maybe we should—"

"Stay out of this, Ethan," his father snapped. "This doesn't concern you."

Ethan fell silent, and the table went quiet. The only sound was the clinking of silverware against china, the tension so thick I could barely breathe.

After dinner, Marcus's father pulled him aside, and I watched them from across the room. Marcus's shoulders were tense, his expression closed off, but I saw the way he flinched when his father spoke. The way he seemed to shrink, just slightly.

It was the first time I'd seen him look vulnerable. The first time I'd seen him look... small.

"Don't let them get to you," Ethan said, appearing beside me. "They're like this with everyone. It's not personal."

"Isn't it?" I asked, watching Marcus. "Because it feels personal."

Ethan followed my gaze, and his expression softened. "Marcus has always been the one they put pressure on. The heir. The one who has to be perfect. It's... hard on him."

"Then why does he do it? Why does he let them control him?"

"Because he doesn't have a choice." Ethan's voice was sad. "Because everything he has, everything he's built, is tied to this family. And if he steps out of line, they'll take it all away."

I looked at Marcus again, at the way he was standing there, taking whatever his father was saying, and something twisted in my chest. I'd thought he was cold. Unfeeling. But he wasn't. He was trapped. Just like me.

When Marcus finally came back, his expression was blank, but I saw the tension in his shoulders, the way his hands were clenched.

"Let's go," he said, his voice flat.

We said our goodbyes—awkward, stilted—and got in the car. The drive home was silent, but this time, the silence felt different. Heavier.

"Marcus," I said softly, when we pulled up to the house. "Are you okay?"

"I'm fine." But his voice was tight, and he wouldn't look at me.

"You're not fine. I saw what happened. I saw how they treated you."

"It doesn't matter." He got out of the car, and I followed him into the house. "This is how it's always been. This is how it will always be."

"But it doesn't have to be," I said, following him up the stairs. "You don't have to let them control you."

He stopped, turning to face me, and I saw something raw in his expression. Something broken.

"You don't understand," he said, his voice low, pained. "You don't know what they can do. What they will do if I step out of line."

"Then tell me. Help me understand."

But he just shook his head, his expression shuttering again. "Go to bed, Olivia. This doesn't concern you."

"It does concern me," I said, my voice rising. "Because I'm your wife. Because I'm part of this now, whether you like it or not."

"You're not my wife," he said, the words sharp, brutal. "You're a contract. A transaction. And when this is over, you'll walk away, and I'll still be here, dealing with them. So don't pretend you care. Don't pretend this matters to you."

The words hit like a physical blow, and I backed away, my throat tight.

"You're right," I said, my voice shaking. "I'm just a contract. A transaction. I don't matter."

I turned and walked to my room, closing the door behind me. But as I stood there, my back against the door, I realized something that made my heart ache:

I did care. I did matter.

And that was the problem.

Because caring about him meant I was already in too deep.

And there was no way out.