Vows in the Shadows

Chapter 6 - The Disappearance

Lucien’s mother arrives at half past four, precisely on time.

I know it’s her before the intercom buzzes because Clara texted an hour ago to say she would be coming by. No if that’s alright. No question. Just a statement, neatly folded into inevitability.

Mrs Blackwood will be visiting this afternoon.

As though this was normal. As though we were already family.

I straighten the cushions on the sofa for the third time and smooth my hands down the skirt of my dress.

When I open the door, Eleanor Blackwood is standing there with impeccable posture and a handbag that looks more like an accessory than something functional. She is dressed in soft neutrals, cashmere, silk, pearls.

“Rowan,” she says, smiling.

The smile doesn’t reach her eyes.

“Mrs Blackwood,” I reply.

She steps inside without waiting to be invited, her gaze sweeping the flat with polite assessment. Not judgement exactly, something cooler. As if she is taking inventory.

“This is very… tasteful,” she says.

“Thank you.”

She turns to me again, smile still perfectly in place. “I thought I should come and see you now that things are settled.”

Settled.

The word sits strangely in my chest.

I gesture for her to sit. She chooses the armchair rather than the sofa, placing her handbag on her lap like a shield.

I sit opposite her.

For a moment, we simply look at each other.

Up close, she is undeniably beautiful in the way women of her world often are, maintained, curated, untouched by strain. Her hair is silvered just enough to appear intentional. Her hands are unmarked by work.

“I must say,” she begins, “the engagement announcement was… surprising.”

“I imagine it was,” I say carefully.

She tilts her head. “Lucien has always been particular.”

There it is.

“And yet,” she continues, “here we are.”

She smiles again.

I feel no warmth in it. Only evaluation.

“You must forgive me,” Eleanor says lightly. “I don’t know much about you.”

“I’m not sure there’s much to know,” I reply.

She studies me. “Oh I doubt that.”

She continues. “Your family?” she asks. “Your mother?”

“She’s well,” I say. “She’s very grateful.”

Eleanor’s lips curve faintly. “Gratitude is important.”

The conversation moves like that, careful, controlled, wrapped in manners sharp enough to draw blood if mishandled. She asks about my upbringing, my education, my work. I answer truthfully, concisely, resisting the urge to apologise for my own existence.

At no point does she ask how I feel.

At no point does she mention love.

“Marriage,” Eleanor says eventually, folding her hands, “is not a romantic institution in our family.”

“I’m aware,” I reply.

Her eyes flicker. Approval? Or surprise?

“It is a partnership,” she continues. “An arrangement. One that requires discretion and loyalty.”

I nod. “That was made clear.”

She leans forward slightly. “Lucien can be… unpredictable.”

The word lands oddly, given how controlled he usually is.

“He has a tendency to grow restless,” she adds. “I trust you understand the importance of being… accommodating.”

My jaw tightens almost imperceptibly.

“I understand my role,” I say.

She sits back, apparently satisfied.

“I’m glad,” she says. “It would be unfortunate for things to become complicated so close to the wedding.”

My stomach twists.

“Of course,” I manage.

She stands after exactly forty minutes. Not a minute more. Not a minute less.

“I wish you well, Rowan,” she says, smoothing her coat. “I hope you find the place comfortable.”

I walk her to the door.

She pauses, hand on the handle.

“Lucien is very busy,” she adds casually. “If he seems distant, do try not to take it personally.”

Then she smiles again.

And leaves.

I stand there long after the door closes.

——————————

Lucien doesn’t come home that night.

I tell myself it means nothing. He’s busy. He’s always busy. Eleanor’s visit was likely scheduled around his absence deliberately, an inspection conducted without his interference.

Still, unease coils low in my stomach.

The next morning is consumed by wedding logistics. Clara calls. The planner emails. Everything barrels forward with ruthless efficiency.

Lucien remains silent.

By midday, I check my phone more often than I should.

At three, I finally message him.

Me: Your mother came by yesterday.

The reply comes nearly an hour later.

Lucien: I know.

Nothing else.

I sit on the edge of my bed, phone heavy in my hand.

Me: She said you’ve been busy.

This time, there’s no immediate response.

When it finally arrives, it’s brief.

Lucien: I am.

——————————

The dress arrives at nine in the morning.

It’s heavier than I expect when I lift it from the garment bag, the fabric cool and expensive beneath my fingers. Ivory silk, structured bodice, hand-stitched detailing that someone has spent hours bent over, perfecting. I hang it carefully on the wardrobe door and step back, studying it is if it might explain itself.

This is what I’m meant to wear in two days.

This is what I’m meant to become.

The flat is quiet in the pre-event way, no chaos yet, no last-minute panic. Just anticipation stretched thin. Clara’s schedule sits open on the kitchen counter, every hour accounted for from now until the ceremony. Hair. Make-up. Rehearsal. Interviews. Arrival times.

Lucien is due to come by at eleven. Final walk-through. Final conversation. The kind of thing people do before they promise themselves to each other in front of the world.

I make coffee I don’t drink and sit at the table, phone beside my mug, face down. I’ve learned not to stare at it. Learned that waiting too obviously only makes the silence louder.

At ten thirty, I check anyway.

Nothing.

At ten forty-five, my chest tightens.

At eleven, the door doesn’t open.

At eleven ten, my phone buzzes.

Relief floods me so fast it’s embarrassing.

Then I look at the screen.

Lucien: This won’t work. I’m sorry.

That’s it.

No explanation.

No call.

No context.

I read the message again. And again. As if repetition might reveal something hidden. As if there’s a second layer I’m missing.

This won’t work.

I’m sorry.

My hands begin to shake. I set the phone down carefully, like it might explode, and press my palms flat against the table.

I laugh, a sharp, broken sound that echoes too loudly in the quiet flat. My throat tightens immediately afterwards, the laugh collapsing into something closer to a sob, but I swallow it down.

I pick up the phone and type.

Me: What do you mean?

The message delivers instantly.

Three dots appear.

Disappear.

Nothing else comes.

My pulse roars in my ears. I stand abruptly, chair scraping against the floor, and begin pacing the length of the kitchen. My feet move faster than my thoughts.

He can’t do this.

He wouldn’t do this.

Not like this.

I type again, fingers clumsy.

Me: Are you cancelling the wedding?

This time, the reply is slower. Long enough for dread to bloom fully.

Lucien: I can’t go through with it.

No we need to talk.

No I’ll explain.

No please.

I call him.

Straight to voicemail.

I call again.

Voicemail.

I try Clara next. It rings once, then cuts off.

I send her a message.

Me: Lucien says he can’t go through with the wedding. What’s happening?

The reply comes a minute later.

Clara: I’m not authorised to discuss this.

The room feels suddenly too small. The walls press in, the air thickening. I move to the window and push it open, gulping in cold morning air like it might steady me.

Below, traffic moves as usual. People walk past with coffee cups and headphones and lives untouched by the implosion happening three floors above them.

This is how it ends.

Not with a fight.

Not with a scandal.

But with a text message and silence.

I sink down onto the floor, back against the wall, phone clutched uselessly in my hand.

My thoughts scatter wildly.

The press.

The guests.

My mother.

The money.

I scramble upright and open my banking app, heart hammering. The balance hasn’t changed yet. The numbers stare back at me, temporarily reassuring in their stillness.

I don’t know how long it takes for the knock to come. Ten minutes. Twenty. Time folds in on itself, stretching and snapping unpredictably.

When the doorbell rings, I nearly jump out of my skin.

Mum breezes in, cheeks flushed, eyes bright with excitement.

“I’ve just been on the phone with Aunt Claire,” she says breathlessly. “She wants to know if—”

She stops when she sees my face.

“What’s wrong?” she asks.

I open my mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Her smile fades. “Rowan?”

I hand her my phone.

She reads the message once. Then again.

“That’s… that can’t be right,” she says weakly. “There must be a mistake.”

“There isn’t,” I say. My voice sounds distant to my own ears. Flat. Wrong.

She looks at me, panic dawning. “But the wedding—”

“Isn’t happening.”

She sinks onto the sofa heavily, clutching the phone like it might offer a different answer if she stares hard enough.

“He can’t just—” She begins. “After everything—”

“He can,” I say. “And he has.”

Her breathing becomes shallow. “What about the money?”

“I don’t know.”

Mum starts crying.

Not quietly. Not with restraint. She sobs openly, shoulders shaking, hands twisting together as if she can physically wring a solution from the air.

“What are we going to do?” she gasps. “They’ll take the flat. I can’t… I can’t do this again—”

I watch her from across the room, something numb and heavy settling in my chest.

This is the moment I’d been bracing for since the beginning. The moment where everything I’d endured was supposed to pay off.

I sit beside her and wrap an arm around her shoulders, automatically.

“I’ll fix it,” I hear myself say.

She looks up at me, eyes red. “How?”

I don’t answer.

——————————

The story breaks fast, faster than the engagement ever did. Rumours spread before facts can catch up.

BLACKWOOD WEDDING IN JEOPARDY

FIANCÉE ABANDONED DAYS BEFORE CEREMONY

WHAT WENT WRONG?

My phone becomes unusable. Messages pour in from numbers I don’t recognise. Journalists. Bloggers. People who want statements, explanations, tears.

Lucien doesn’t contact me again.

Not to apologise.

Not to clarify.

Not to explain.

It’s as if he vanished entirely, taking his certainty and his control with him.

By evening, Clara finally sends a message.

Clara: All arrangements are suspended until further notice. Please refrain from public comment.

I retreat to my bedroom and shut the door, curling up on the bed beside the dress still hanging where I left it. I reach out and touch the fabric, fingers trembling.

Later that night, when the flat is dark and Mum’s cries have quieted into exhausted silence, I check my phone one last time.

Still nothing.

I turn my phone face down and lie there, staring at the ceiling, heart pounding, mind racing.

In forty-eight hours, I was meant to become his wife.

Now, I don’t even know what I am.

Only that the world is watching, and waiting for me to fall.