Vows in the Shadows

Chapter 5 - Cracks in the Gold

Lucien is late.

Not fashionably late. Not delayed by something important or unavoidable. Just… late. The kind of late that stretches, quiet and uncomfortable, until you start wondering whether you’ve misunderstood entirely.

I sit alone in the private room of a florist in Mayfair, hands folded in my lap, my coat draped neatly over the back of the chair. The walls are lined with arrangements in muted tones, ivory roses, pale eucalyptus, soft blue peonies that smell faintly of sugar and damp earth. Everything here is tasteful.

Everything here reminds me that I don’t belong.

My phone sits on the table between my hands. I’ve checked it six times already. No new messages. No apologies. No explanation.

The appointment had been Lucien’s idea.

We should choose flowers together, he’d said two nights ago, as if it were the most natural thing in the world. The optics matter.

The optics always matter.

I glance at the time again. Twenty-three minutes late.

The florist, a woman named Elena, keeps giving me sympathetic looks from behind the counter. She’s offered me tea twice. I declined both times. I don’t trust my hands not to shake.

I tell myself not to read into it.

Lucien is busy. His life operates on a scale I still can’t fully comprehend, board meetings, travel, people whose time is apparently worth more than mine. This is part of the arrangement. I knew that going in.

Still, something twists unpleasantly in my chest.

At thirty-two minutes past the hour, Elena approaches again.

“Shall we begin without him?” she asks gently.

I hesitate. The truth is, I have no idea whether I’m allowed to make decisions alone. That hadn’t been explicitly stated in the contract, but neither had it been encouraged.

“I think we should wait,” I say.

She nods and retreats.

I wait another ten minutes before my phone finally lights up.

Lucien: Apologies. Something’s come up. We’ll reschedule.

That’s it.

No are you alright waiting. No thank you for your time. Just a statement, clean and efficient.

I stare at the screen, heat creeping behind my eyes.

Me: I’m already here.

The reply comes quickly.

Lucien: I’m aware. Clara will cover any inconvenience.

I swallow hard and type back:

Me: It’s not about the money.

There’s a pause this time. Long enough for me to wonder if I’ve crossed an invisible line.

Lucien: Then what is it about, Rowan?

I don’t answer. I don’t know how to explain that what I want is something I’m not supposed to want.

I put my phone in my pocket, pulling my coat from the chair as I stand.

Elena looks up. “Is everything all right?”

“Yes,” I lie. “We’ll be in touch.”

Outside, the streets glow with polished indifference. I walk until my feet ache, replaying the exchange over and over in my head, searching for meaning where perhaps there is only habit.

Lucien didn’t forget me.

That’s what makes it worse.

——————————

The pattern becomes clearer over the next week.

Meetings postponed. Dinners cancelled with minimal notice. Messages that read like bullet points instead of conversations. When we are together, he is attentive but distant, as if part of him is always elsewhere, already moving on to the next obligation.

At first, I tell myself it’s temporary. Pre-wedding pressure. Media management. The weight of expectation.

Then there’s the night he doesn’t come home at all.

I’m in the flat we live in, a sleek, minimalist space overlooking the river. It still doesn’t feel like mine. I’m careful with everything, as if the furniture might report me for mistreatment. My suitcase remains half-unpacked in my bedroom, clothes folded but not put away.

It’s past midnight when I finally give up waiting.

I haven’t heard from him since a brief message that afternoon.

Lucien: Late evening. Don’t wait up.

No context. No explanation.

I sit perched on the edge of the couch, staring at the dark window, city lights reflecting back at me like a double exposure. My phone lies beside me, stubbornly silent.

This shouldn’t matter, I tell myself.

This is not a real relationship. We’ve been very clear about that. Expecting reassurance is foolish. Expecting him to be present is naïve.

Still, the silence presses in.

When Lucien finally arrives sometime after two, I’m awake. He pauses in the doorway when he realises the light is on.

“You’re awake,” he says.

“Yes.”

He loosens his tie, expression unreadable.

An awkward beat stretches between us.

“I had meetings,” he says eventually.

I nod. “I assumed.”

He studies me for a moment, as if considering something.

“You’re not angry,” he says.

It’s not a question.

“I don’t think I’m meant to be,” I reply.

Something flickers in his eyes. Surprise, perhaps. Or irritation.

“This arrangement works best without emotional expectations,” he says. “I thought we’d established that.”

“We established boundaries,” I say carefully. “Not your absence.”

He exhales, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “Rowan. I cannot account for every hour of my time.”

“I’m not asking you to.”

“What are you asking for, then?”

I hesitate. The truth feels childish when spoken aloud.

“To not feel… out of the loop,” I say quietly.

He looks at me for a long moment. Then he nods once.

“I’ll be clearer,” he says. “Is that sufficient?”

It isn’t. But it’s all I’m going to get.

“Yes,” I say.

He goes to shower, conversation closed.

I lie back against the couch cushions, staring at the ceiling, and tell myself that this is survivable.

——————————

Mum, meanwhile, is thriving.

She has opinions about everything now, the wedding, the venues, the guest list. She speaks about Lucien as if she knows him intimately, as if his wealth has somehow softened him into something generous and benevolent.

“He’s very private,” she says, when I try to explain. “Important men often are.”

Important men.

The phrase makes something sour in my stomach.

When I mention that Lucien is often unavailable, she waves it away.

“He’s providing for us,” she says. “That’s what matters.”

Us.

I bite my tongue.

Because she’s right, in a way. The debts are gone. The letters have stopped. The fridge is full.

This is the trade.

Lucien’s distance buys my family peace.

And peace, I tell myself, is worth loneliness.

——————————

The final moment of clarity comes quietly, almost kindly.

We’re meant to attend a charity gala together, our first official appearance as an engaged couple since the announcement. The dress arrives that morning. Clara sends me the schedule down to the minute.

Lucien is meant to collect me at seven.

At six forty-five, I’m ready.

At seven ten, I check my phone.

At seven twenty-five, Clara calls.

“There’s been a change,” she says briskly. “Mr Blackwood will be attending alone.”

I feel something drop inside me.

“Alone?” I repeat.

“Yes. A scheduling conflict. You’ll be briefed before the next engagement.”

I hang up and sit down slowly on the edge of the bed, the silk of the dress whispering against my skin.

In the mirror. I look composed.

Lucien doesn’t message me that night.

The papers publish photographs of him smiling beside donors, his ring catching the light. I am mentioned only in passing, as if I were a footnote that failed to attend.

I should be angry.

Instead, I feel something colder settle in.

Understanding.

This is who he is when things become inconvenient.

And I tell myself, firmly, deliberately, that I can endure it.

For Mum.

For stability.

For the life I’m protecting, even if it isn’t quite mine anymore.

Gold, I’m learning, cracks quietly.

You only hear it if you’re listening.