Chapter 4
953 Words
Chapter 4 – The Countdown
I’ve made million-dollar deals in my sleep. I’ve sat across from seasoned CEOs and watched them sweat. But today... something about this silence unsettles me.
Three days left.
Three days before I marry a girl I’ve never met — just to please a father who measures love in loyalty and duty.
I glance at the thick folder on my desk again. Lily. Her name is stitched into the manila paper like it belongs there. Like she belongs to me already. I haven’t touched it since the day he dropped it on my desk. Not out of respect — but fear. Fear that if I learn too much, I might feel something.
And I can’t afford feelings.
Not anymore.
I light a cigarette I don’t need and lean back in my chair. The city sparkles below, vibrant and loud — a sharp contrast to the silence building inside me.
"Still brooding over your mystery bride?" Jessica’s voice cuts through my thoughts as she walks into my office without knocking — as usual.
I sigh. "She’s not my bride," I reply, exhaling smoke. "She’s a deal."
Jessica walks over, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor. She snatches the folder from my desk and flips it open.
"Lily James..." she murmurs. "Pretty. But there’s sadness here. Look at her eyes."
"What about them?"
"They’re the eyes of someone who’s seen too much too young. They don’t trust the world."
I clench my jaw. "I didn’t ask for your analysis."
She closes the folder slowly. "I’ve seen that look before. In the mirror. Right after my mother left."
Jessica and I have history — not romantic, but messy. We grew up in the same world of cold dinners and colder parents. She gets it. That’s why she worries.
"Don’t mess her up, Richard. Especially if she’s already halfway there."
"You think I’m that kind of man?"
"I think you stopped knowing what kind of man you are a long time ago."
She leaves me alone again. And I hate that her words linger longer than they should.
---
That Night
I try to sleep, but my mind won’t shut off. I sit on the edge of my bed, staring out the window. The city never stops moving, but inside me, everything is still. Paralyzed.
A flicker of memory presses its way in —
I was nine. My mother was laughing with someone on the phone. Her voice warm, soft. I remember creeping down the hallway, hearing a name I didn’t recognize. The door wasn’t fully shut. I peeked inside.
She wasn’t alone.
And from that moment, love became a language I refused to learn.
---
Morning
The restaurant is too quiet. Too polished. I arrive five minutes early, already regretting agreeing to this. But my father made it non-negotiable.
He wants me to see her. To look into her eyes and pretend like we’re a fairytale.
Then I see her.
She walks in with her head slightly bowed. She looks... fragile. Like a glass doll that’s been dropped too many times but refuses to shatter.
Peach dress. No makeup. Simple earrings. Everything about her says, "I didn’t choose this."
We exchange pleasantries. Our parents talk too much. Smile too wide. My father’s hand is firm on my shoulder — a reminder.
Then, mercifully, they leave us alone at the table.
"So," I say. "Do you talk, or just... nod?"
She looks up. Her eyes are... bottomless. Deep and unreadable.
"I talk," she says softly.
That voice — gentle, low — hits me harder than I expected.
"Do you want to be here?"
She shakes her head. "Do you?"
I laugh dryly. "Not particularly."
She leans back in her chair, folding her hands in her lap. "So what now?"
"We pretend."
"And after the wedding?"
I pause. "We survive."
She tilts her head slightly, studying me. "Do you always sound this cold, or am I just lucky today?"
That startles a real laugh from me. It’s short, rough. "Maybe a little of both."
We fall into silence again.
She fiddles with her spoon. "I don’t believe in love."
I nod. "Good. That makes two of us."
She looks away then, but not before I catch something flicker across her face — pain, maybe. Or relief.
And suddenly I don’t feel like pretending anymore.
"Why don’t you believe in it?" I ask before I can stop myself.
She hesitates. "Because love is expensive. And I’m too poor to afford it."
Her words feel like a punch to the gut. I don’t know what she means exactly, but I know the feeling.
We don’t talk much after that. But something’s shifted. The air feels different.
Not warm. Not cold.
Just... real.
After Lunch
I walk outside and watch her leave with her mother. She doesn’t look back.
I don’t expect her to.
Back in the car, I sit in silence before pulling out my phone.
Dad: “Did she pass your test?”
Test?
I want to type: She’s sad. Too sad for someone her age. She carries pain like a second skin.
But instead I write:
Me: “She’ll do.”
Thumbs up.
That’s all he sends back.
I close my eyes. The leather seat creaks as I shift. For a second, I imagine her sitting beside me. Silent. Guarded.
Just like me.
And for the first time in years, I’m scared.
Not of her.
But of what she might see when she looks at me long enough.
Not the tailored suits. Not the titles.
But the hollow man behind them.
Maybe neither of us is ready for this.
But maybe — just maybe — we’re both tired of pretending we are.
- Writer
