CHAPTER EIGHT
1293 Words
LUCAS’S POV
I stood outside the heavy double doors of the fitting suite, the rhythmic clicking of a camera and the hushed, fawning voices of the stylists drifting through the wood.
Every sound was a reminder of the trap my grandfather had set. And I had stepped into it willingly.
I pushed the doors open.
The air in the room died instantly. I didn't look at Ava. I didn't want to see the way the white lace probably made her look like an innocent sacrifice. Instead, I locked eyes with my stepmother.
"That's enough," I said.
The satisfaction of watching Margaret’s smile falter was the first real thing I’d felt all day. When I told her to act like a mother or not stand there at all, I wasn't defending Ava’s honor. I was cutting the last strings Margaret thought she had on me.
Once the room cleared of Magret and Sonia’s lingering presence, the silence that remained was heavy and suffocating.
Now, I was left with the prey.
The stylists and the photographer scuttled out behind them, sensing the atmospheric shift. They didn't even wait for a formal dismissal; they just vanished, leaving the heavy silence of the room to settle over us.
I finally turned toward the pedestal.
Ava was still there. She hadn't moved an inch since I entered. She looked like a statue carved from salt. The gown was a monstrosity of wealth—yards of silk and intricate lace that must have cost more than the average person made in a decade.
And she was drowning in it.
She didn't look at me. Her chin was tucked so low against her chest that her dark hair fell forward, shielding her face. Her hands were white-knuckled, gripped so tightly into the delicate fabric of the skirt that I heard the faint, sickening crink of silk being crushed.
She was shaking. Not the loud, sobbing tremors of a woman like Sonia, but a quiet, rhythmic vibration of someone who had reached their breaking point and was trying to hold their soul together by sheer will.
I walked toward her, the sound of my custom-made oxfords on the marble sounding like hammer blows in the silence. I stopped at the edge of the white silk train. Up close, I could see the pulse jumping frantically in her neck.
"Take the dress off," I said.
I meant it to be a release, but it came out as a command. My voice was still laced with the adrenaline of the fight with my mother.
She flinched. It was a small, violent jerk of her shoulders, as if I had struck her. She didn't look up. She didn't acknowledge me with a word. She just stayed frozen, her eyes likely fixed on the hem of my trousers.
"Ava," I said, my voice hardening. "Did you hear me?"
A single nod. It was jerky, mechanical. She looked like she was trying to breathe through a straw.
I felt a surge of cold, jagged irritation. I didn't want to be the villain in her story. I had enough roles to play. I reached out, my hand hovering near her chin, intending to force her to look at me, but I stopped myself. The last thing this girl needed was more hands on her.
"This is a performance," I whispered, leaning in so the walls wouldn't hear. "Don't mistake my presence for protection. My mother is a snake, but I am the one who bought the cage. You are here to keep grandfather alive for a few more months. You are a ghost in a wedding dress. Act like it."
I turned on my heel and walked out. I didn't look back to see if she collapsed. I couldn't.
I was halfway down the gallery when the sound of heels struck the floor behind me. Fast and desperate.
"Lucas! Stop! Please!"
I didn't stop. I kept my pace even, heading toward the sanctuary of my study. I didn't want to deal with the second act of this tragedy.
"Lucas, look at me!" Sonia cried, her voice cracking.
I stopped. I didn't turn around, but I stopped. The air in the hallway was cold, scented with the lemon wax the cleaners used and the faint, lingering smell of my father’s old cigars.
I turned slowly. Sonia stood five feet away. Her emerald dress was slightly rumpled, her hair—usually perfect had a few strands loose. She looked human for the first time in years.
"What do you want, Sonia?"
"Why are you doing this to me?" she whispered, her hands clasped at her waist. "You’re hurting me on purpose. You’re using that... that girl... to punish me for something that happened when we were barely twenty."
I let out a short, dry laugh. "You think this is about you? You think I would tie my life to a stranger just to make you cry?"
"Yes!" she stepped closer, her eyes searching mine for a spark of the boy who used to bring her flowers from the garden. "Because I know you, Lucas. You don't do anything without a reason. You’re marrying a girl you don't even know, a girl you clearly despise, just to keep me at a distance. If you hated me less, you wouldn't need such a large shield."
I stepped into her space. I was taller than her, and I used every inch of it to loom over her until she was backed against a heavy mahogany side table.
"You're half right," I said, my voice a silk-wrapped blade. "I am marrying her to keep you at a distance. But it's not because I hate you, Sonia."
A flicker of hope ignited in her eyes. "Then why?"
"Because you're a complication," I said. "And I don't have time for complications. Ava is a void. She is a silent, grateful shadow who will do exactly what I tell her to do. She doesn't have a past that haunts me. She doesn't have a mother who thinks she owns my boardroom."
Sonia’s face crumpled. "She's nothing! She’s a charity case, Lucas! Everyone will laugh at you!"
"Let them laugh," I said, leaning down so my breath brushed her ear. "I’d rather be laughed at with a silent wife than whispered about with a wife like you. You’re the past, Sonia. And in this house, the past is dead."
I straightened my jacket, my expression going stone-cold.
"If I see you in this wing of the house again, I will have the security team escort you to the gate. I don't care what my mother promised you. In this house, my word is the only one that carries weight. Do you understand?"
Sonia didn't answer. She couldn't. She just stared at me, a sob finally breaking through her composure. She looked small and pathetic.
I walked away. I didn't feel like a winner. I didn't feel powerful. I just felt tired.
As I opened the door to my study and the scent of old books and leather rose to meet me, I thought of the girl back in the fitting room. I thought of the way she hadn't looked at me.
She was the perfect choice. She was already broken. And a broken woman is much easier to manage than a whole one.
I poured a glass of Scotch, the amber liquid catching the light, and sat at my desk. Outside, the wind rattled the windowpanes.
The wedding was in three days. Three days until the cage door locked for good.
I raised my glass to the empty room.
"To the bride," I whispered.
Then I drank the whole thing in one go.
The game was in motion. And I was the only one playing to win.
- Writer
