His For Hire

Chapter 5

The house buzzed with quiet urgency. Servants moved like ghosts through the corridors, hands laden with garment bags, trays of sparkling jewelry, and fabric samples too expensive to name.

No voices were raised. No orders were shouted. Everything happened with a seamless efficiency that left Sheila disoriented.

It had only been two days since she’d arrived. Two days since she stepped out of one nightmare and into another. And now… a wedding. Her wedding.

She sat on the edge of her bed, watching as a seamstress carefully adjusted the bodice of a gown that wasn’t hers, wouldn’t ever truly be hers, no matter how perfectly it fit.

“Hold still,” the seamstress murmured, sliding pins into place with delicate fingers. Sheila obeyed, though her heart thudded like a trapped bird in her chest.

The gown was stunning—ivory lace and silk, delicate beadwork glimmering under the soft lights. It was the kind of dress little girls dreamt about, the kind meant for fairy tales.

But Sheila felt none of that magic.Only weight.

Freda watched from across the room, arms crossed, her sharp gaze missing nothing.“She’ll need earrings,” Freda said coolly, not even bothering to address Sheila directly.

“Something modest. We don’t want her looking like she’s playing dress-up.”The seamstress gave a small nod, making a note. Sheila said nothing.Words were useless here.

Freda moved closer, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor.

“You’re quiet,” she remarked, her voice low, but edged with something sharper. “Nervous?”Sheila met her gaze in the mirror.

“I’ve learned it’s better to be quiet in unfamiliar places,” she replied, her voice steady but soft.

Freda’s smile didn’t quite reach her eyes.“Smart,” she said, though the word didn’t sound like praise.

“But don’t mistake silence for safety, Mrs. Jonas.”She let the name linger between them, like a warning.

Sheila’s throat tightened. Mrs. Jonas. It wasn’t real. None of this was. But tomorrow, the world would see it that way.

The day passed in a blur of fittings, meetings, and rehearsals. Everything had been arranged with military precision.

The guest list had been carefully curated—high society figures, business moguls, and family allies who cared more about the merging of names than the people behind them.

Sheila moved through it all like a shadow, her body present, her mind somewhere far away.

She’d expected coldness from Lance, but his level of detachment still stunned her.

He didn’t speak to her unless necessary. Didn’t ask for her opinion on anything. He simply observed—from across the room, from behind closed doors—watching her with those unreadable eyes, like a king inspecting a piece of land he’d just acquired.

And yet… she could feel him. Every time he entered a room, the air shifted.The staff stiffened. Conversations quieted. And Sheila’s skin prickled, aware of his gaze before it even landed on her.

He had that kind of presence. Dangerous. Magnetic and utterly terrifying.

Later that evening, after most of the staff had retired and the mansion had quieted, Sheila found herself standing alone in the grand dining hall.

She wasn’t sure why she’d wandered there. Perhaps it was the quiet. Perhaps it was the weight of tomorrow pressing too hard against her chest.

The room was breathtaking—high ceilings, crystal chandeliers, and a long mahogany table that could seat twenty. It smelled faintly of polished wood and expensive wine.

She trailed her fingers along the edge of the table, feeling small and misplaced.

“Trying to memorize your new kingdom?”The voice sliced through the quiet. She froze.

Lance stood in the doorway, his hands casually tucked into his pockets, watching her with that same unsettling calm.

“I wasn’t—” she started, but he cut her off with a slight raise of his hand. “I don’t care,” he said smoothly, stepping into the room.

“This house will never be yours.”His words weren’t cruel. They were simply… factual. Like stating the weather.

Sheila’s jaw tightened, but she said nothing.

He walked past her, pouring himself a glass of whiskey from the sideboard.

“You’ll play your role,” he continued, his back to her. “You’ll smile, say the right words, and look the part. But don’t mistake this arrangement for anything more.”She swallowed hard, her hands curling at her sides.

“I never did,” she whispered.

“Good. You'll meet my grandfather tomorrow before the wedding. Make sure he accepts you or else you and that senseless husband of yours will pay."Silence stretched between them, heavy and thick.

Finally, Sheila gathered what little courage she had left.“Why me?” she asked, her voice quiet but firm.

“You could’ve chosen anyone. Why buy me?”He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he walked toward her, slow and deliberate, stopping just close enough for her to feel the heat of his presence.

“My grandfather has… particular tastes,” he said, his tone laced with something darker. “He values humility. Grace. A quiet kind of beauty. You,” his eyes dragged over her face, unreadable,

“fit that mold.”Sheila’s breath caught, but she stood her ground.“So that’s it?” she asked, her voice tight.

“I’m here because I fit a description?”Lance’s lips curled into the faintest ghost of a smile.

“You’re here,” he said softly, “because you were available.”And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving her standing alone in the vast, empty room.

The morning arrived too quickly. The mansion was a storm of activity, every corner buzzing with last-minute details and whispered orders.

Sheila sat in front of the vanity, staring at her reflection. Her hair had been swept into an elegant updo, soft curls framing her face. Her makeup was flawless, her skin glowing under the lights.

She looked like a bride. But her eyes…Her eyes looked hollow.

Freda appeared in the mirror’s reflection, her expression unreadable."It's time to meet Sir Jonas” she simply stated.

Sheila nodded anyway, rising on unsteady legs.Freda led her through the halls to a room with double doors like the one she was first introduced to.

There, she met an old man seated on the bed like he was waiting for her to come in.

"Hello, Grandpa," Sheila greeted, crouching to her knees.

"Hello. What's your name?," Greg asked.

"I'm Sheila. Sheila Brooks," she replied with a warm smile. Greg looked over his shoulders at Freda and nodded with a smile,

"I approve of this one." He said. Still smiling.

"Let's go," Freda said, tugging Sheila softly as they left the room.

As they walked, Freda spoke—softly, but with intent.“Whatever you’re feeling right now,” she said, not looking back,

“you need to bury it.”Sheila’s steps faltered slightly, but she kept moving.

“There’s no room for hesitation in Mr. Jonas’s world,” Freda continued. “Emotions are weaknesses. And weaknesses get replaced.”They reached the grand staircase, where the ceremony was set to take place.

Dozens of guests filled the space below, their chatter a low hum of greed and curiosity.

Sheila’s heart pounded in her chest. Freda finally turned, her gaze sharp and cold.

“Smile,” she commanded softly. “And remember—this isn’t your fairytale. It’s his transaction.”The music began.

And Sheila walked. Step by step, toward the man waiting at the altar. Toward the life she never chose.

Lance stood at the end of the aisle, immaculate in a tailored black suit, his expression carved from stone.

Sheila’s breath hitched as their eyes met. He didn’t smile. Didn’t blink. Just watched her, as if daring her to falter.

She didn’t. She reached him, her hands trembling as she placed them in his.

The officiant began to speak, but Sheila barely heard the words. It was all a blur—vows that weren’t meant, promises that were lies, and applause that sounded more like thunder. And then it was done.

They were married. Legally. Publicly. And irrevocably.

Lance leaned in, his lips brushing her ear as the guests cheered. “Welcome to your new life,” he murmured, his voice like silk over steel.

Sheila noticed Greg's smile and how cheerfully he clapped as he heart broke. She smiled right back at him. But internally, she was screaming.