Something borrowed, Nothing Blue
1578 Words
Underground Parking Garage – Midnight
The echo of footsteps struck the concrete like a metronome of tension. The air was cold, too still. Security lights blinked overhead, casting flickers of white light over polished black floors and idle luxury cars.
Sebastian Fugerson stood alone by a matte-black SUV, gloved hands in his pockets, face expressionless as ever. A faint trace of cologne and gun oil clung to the air around him.
He was expecting someone else.
Instead, he got him.
“You’re not who I was told would show.”
Aston Volvo stepped out from the shadows like he belonged to them. Tall, calm, and dressed in black, he looked more ghost than man—like someone who didn’t just walk into danger, but became it.
“I rarely am,” Aston replied coolly. “But you already knew that.”
Their eyes locked.
No guns. No raised voices.
But the air tightened like a wire between two sharpened blades.
Sebastian tilted his head slightly, analyzing. “So you’re the shadow that’s been trailing the Darlington girl.”
“And you’re the rival prince pretending not to care while watching her every move.” Aston’s voice was calm—almost too calm.
Sebastian smiled, the kind that didn’t touch his eyes. “She’s not your concern.”
“She is,” Aston replied. “More than you know.”
A beat passed.
“Why?” Sebastian asked, tone clipped.
Aston didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he looked toward the exit ramp, like the silence between them was a test neither had passed nor failed.
“You’re not stupid,” Aston finally said. “And neither am I. We both know something’s coming. Aanya is the key.”
“And you’re here to do what?” Sebastian asked. “Save her?”
“Protect her,” Aston said simply.
“Same thing,” Sebastian muttered, “until it costs you everything.”
“Isn’t that what protection is?” Aston shot back. “Choosing what you’re willing to lose?”
Sebastian narrowed his eyes, suddenly still. “I don’t trust men who speak like heroes but hide like ghosts.”
“And I don’t trust men who smile while playing chess with people’s lives.”
Their words hung heavy between them.
Two men—one born into bloodlines and blackmail, the other forged in shadows and silence.
They weren’t enemies.
Not yet.
But they weren’t allies either.
Not ever.
“Stay out of my way,” Sebastian warned.
“Only if you stay out of hers,” Aston replied.
And just like that, they turned in opposite directions—both walking away, both knowing this wasn’t over.
Just the first move.
*****
[INT. SURVEILLANCE ROOM – NIGHT]
The door locks behind Sebastian with a quiet hiss. No guards. No second pair of eyes. Just him and the footage he’d buried years ago.
He inserts a drive labeled Volvo Redacted.
The screen flickers. The image sharpens.
It’s a young Aston—maybe sixteen. Blood on his cheek. A man kneeling before him, hands bound, screaming something unintelligible. Behind Aston stands an older woman… with the same eyes.
Sebastian muttered quietly:
“So you do have a leash.”
Suddenly, he rewinds the footage. This time, the woman steps forward and says a name—barely audible—but Sebastian catches it.
“You don’t touch my son. Tell Eliza Darlington she’ll regret crossing me.”
Sebastian stiffens. He didn’t expect that name.
He zooms in. The woman was supposed to be dead. Years ago. Car bomb. Declared a casualty of the Morvain-Darlington silent feud.
But here she was. Alive. And hiding her son in plain sight.
Aston Volvo was never an outsider. He was protected. Hidden. Raised like a weapon in waiting.
Sebastian leans back in his chair, eyes wide.
Sebastian chuckled mirthlessly:
“Darlington… you’re not the only one with a heirloom.”
*****
The Morvain manor buzzed like a live wire.
Staff bustled through corridors, florists whispered in urgent tones, decorators scaled ladders with trembling hands—all under the watchful eye of Mariel Morvain, the mother of the bride, whose clipboard was a weapon and whose soft smile was laced with threat.
Dora sat stiffly at the long velvet-draped table, a tray of cake samples before her. Everything tasted like cardboard and pressure.
"No red velvet," she said flatly. "Too cliché."
Mariel didn’t look up from her checklist. “You used to love red velvet.”
“I also used to think fairy tales had happy endings. We all grow up.”
Mariel glanced at her daughter then, her eyes calm and unreadable. “This marriage is not a prison, Dora. It’s a door.”
“A door into what? Business merger hell?” Dora crossed her arms. “Father doesn’t care what I want. He just wants this deal secured.”
Behind them, a seamstress whispered measurements and hurried away. Mariel sighed and moved to sit across from her daughter.
“You think I wanted this for you? That I enjoy watching my headstrong daughter marry a man she loathes just to save her father’s legacy?”
Dora looked away. Her throat tightened, but her resolve held. “No one's here Mariel, no need to act like the perfect mother. If you really don't want things this way then stop it.”
“I can’t,” Mariel whispered. “Because you’re not just Dora. You’re a Morvain. And our name doesn’t beg—it negotiates.”
---
Meanwhile, on the other side of the city:
Cassian Trent tossed a tuxedo jacket onto the hotel bed and loosened his tie. His best friend and groomsman, Adrian Vale, leaned against the doorframe, smirking.
“She’s going to kill you one day.”
Cassian cracked open a bottle of whiskey. “If I’m lucky.”
“You’re seriously going through with this?”
Cassian drank. “She’s strategic. I’m resourceful. The marriage will survive—even if we don’t.”
“Romantic.”
“I’m not in this for romance.”
---
Back at the manor, Dora and Aanya huddled together in her bedroom, the only place untouched by white roses and wedding planners.
“I want to run,” Dora muttered, tugging pins from her trial updo. “Drive off into the woods and become a hermit with a dog.”
Aanya stretched out on the bed. “Make it a cat, and I’m in.”
They laughed, but it didn’t last.
“What if I’m wrong, Aanya? What if marrying him ruins me?”
Aanya’s voice softened. “What if it saves you in a way you don’t expect?”
Dora looked up sharply.
“I’m not saying you’ll love him. I’m saying… sometimes, survival is a kind of rebellion too.”
Dora swallowed hard. Then nodded. She was right.
*****
“Vows and Vendettas”
The Morvain estate shimmered in ivory and gold, like it had been pulled from the pages of a glossy bridal magazine. From the crystal chandeliers to the fresh orchid petals lining the aisle, everything screamed perfection.
Except the bride.
Dora Morvain stood before the mirror in her dressing room, her lips pressed into a tight line. Her dress was couture—hand-beaded bodice, structured silk train—but she wore it like a battle uniform. Her hair was pinned in soft waves, a few curls falling intentionally loose, as if to say I care just enough to play along.
Across the room, Aanya adjusted her friend's veil with steady hands.
"You don’t have to smile," she murmured, careful not to ruin the makeup Dora wasn’t crying over. "But you do have to walk down that aisle."
Dora let out a low, unladylike scoff. "Like a sacrificial lamb?"
"Like a Morvain. One who just might survive this circus and still come out on top."
Aanya squeezed her hand before slipping out to join the other guests. Her sleek black gown stood out among the pastel-clad bridesmaids—intentionally. Let them whisper. She was a Darlington, after all.
---
Cassian Trent stood at the altar, one hand tucked into his pocket like he’d rather be anywhere else. His jaw was set, sharp and unflinching beneath his neatly styled dark hair. The Morvains’ guests were whispering—he heard the name "Trent" followed by phrases like corporate bailout and business arrangement.
He couldn’t care less.
Except for the doors.
When they opened and Dora walked in, everything in him coiled.
She was breathtaking, yes—but also infuriating. Her eyes locked with his the entire walk down the aisle. No blush, no flustered smile. Just pure, unfiltered disdain.
By the time she reached him, Cassian leaned slightly closer and murmured, "You clean up well—for a hostage."
Dora didn’t even flinch. "Say 'I do' quickly. The faster this ends, the sooner I can stop pretending you're the better option."
They turned to the officiant as the ceremony began.
---
From the crowd, Aanya watched with narrowed eyes. Something about the way Sebastian slipped in late and took a seat near the back made her suspicious. He didn't look like a wedding guest—he looked like a man observing a transaction.
And then her eyes drifted to the far end of the hall—where a stranger stood just inside the shadows. Tall, controlled, dressed in grey.
Aston.
He wasn’t supposed to be here.
But he wasn’t watching Dora.
He was watching her.
---
- Writer
