Bound by hate, undone by him

Chapter 5 The first meeting

Thursday arrived faster than Celeste was ready for.

She'd changed her outfit three times before finally settling on a deep emerald dress that hugged her figure without trying too hard, her collarbone bare, her hair swept over one shoulder. Pretty but not fragile. Elegant but not cold. She wanted to walk into that restaurant looking like someone who had chosen this, even if every nerve in her body was screaming otherwise.

The venue Lucien had sent was, unsurprisingly, one of the most exclusive restaurants in the city, the kind of place with a two-month waitlist and a strict dress code enforced by a host who looked like he could smell budget clothing from across the room.

Of course. She smoothed her dress as the valet took her car. What else would a billionaire's son consider a reasonable place for a first meeting?

She was led through the dim, elegant dining room toward a private table near the back, and she saw him before he saw her.

He was seated with the kind of stillness that drew attention without asking for it, one arm draped casually over the back of the empty chair beside him, dark hair combed back, jaw sharp enough to cut glass. Even from a distance, she could see the expensive cut of his suit, the way it fit him, like it had been made specifically to remind everyone in the room exactly how much money was sitting at that table.

How can a man be so beautiful, she thought, and immediately hated herself a little for thinking it.

She hadn't even finished the thought before his cologne reached her, something warm and expensive that made her stomach do something traitorous and unwelcome.

Oh God. He smells amazing too. This is unfair.

She pushed the thought down hard and approached the table, extending her hand with as much composure as she could manage. "Hi. You must be Lucien. I'm Celeste."

He looked up at her slowly, unhurried, the way a man looks at a contract he's already decided to sign but wants to appear unbothered about it anyway. "Hi," he said, taking her hand for exactly as long as politeness required and not a second longer. His voice was flat, almost bored. "Sit."

Not please sit. Just sit.

She sat.

The silence that followed was, without question, the most uncomfortable thirty seconds of her adult life. She reached for the water glass in front of her, mostly for something to do with her hands, and glanced around the restaurant like the artwork on the walls might offer some kind of escape route.

Lucien, for his part, seemed entirely unbothered by the silence, studying her with an expression she couldn't quite place. Assessing, maybe. Or simply unimpressed.

She was still trying to think of something to say when he finally spoke, cutting straight through whatever pleasantries she'd been about to attempt.

"You understand this is a deal." It wasn't a question. "I don't do romance. I don't do love. If you're expecting either of those things from this marriage, you should know now that you're signing up for a loveless one."

Celeste blinked, caught off guard by the bluntness of it, though some small, tired part of her was almost grateful. At least he wasn't wasting her time with false warmth.

"I know," she said evenly. "I wasn't expecting either."

"Good." Something in his posture eased, marginally, as though her answer had passed some invisible test. "Then let's be clear about terms. We draft a contract. One year. At the end of it, we divorce, cleanly, with no complications. No feelings attached. Just two people who achieved what they needed and walked away."

It sounded, if she was honest, like the best possible version of a terrible situation. No pretending. No performance beyond what was strictly necessary. Just an arrangement, clean and transactional, exactly the kind of thing she could survive for twelve months if she kept her expectations low and her guard higher.

"That sounds fair," she said.

Is this really the man I'm going to marry? She thought, studying the cold, unreadable set of his jaw. God help me.

Thank goodness he'd been the one to bring up the terms first. She could barely imagine tolerating dinner with this man, let alone an entire year of marriage, if he'd shown even a flicker of interest in pretending this was something it wasn't. Cold, she could work with it. Cold had rules. Cold, at least, was honest.

"When am I signing the contract?" she asked.

"Monday. My office." He said it the same way he might confirm a meeting time with a business associate, already reaching for his own water glass, the conversation apparently concluded in his mind. "Ten o'clock. Don't be late."

"I won't be."

He set the glass down and looked at her properly for the first time since she'd sat down, something sharper entering his gaze. "One more thing."

"Yes?"

"The one-year clause. The divorce. None of it goes beyond this table." His voice dropped slightly, low and deliberate, leaving no room for negotiation. "Not my father. Not your grandfather. Not anyone. As far as the rest of the world is concerned, this is a real marriage. Understood?"

Celeste held his gaze, matching the steadiness in his voice with her own. "Understood."

"Good." He finally reached for the menu, flipping it open with the same detached efficiency he'd used for everything else so far. "Order whatever you'd like. This dinner, at least, is genuinely on me."

She almost laughed at that, the first almost-human thing he'd said all evening, though she caught herself before it showed on her face. She picked up her own menu instead, grateful for something to look at that wasn't the unreasonable symmetry of his features.

They ate in near silence after that, exchanging only the barest necessary logistics: where she currently lived, when she'd need to move her things, whether she had any dietary restrictions he should inform his household staff about. It was, Celeste thought, less like a first date between two people about to be married and more like an onboarding meeting for a new hire.

She found, to her own quiet irritation, that she didn't hate it.

There was something almost restful about his coldness, about knowing exactly where she stood with him from the very first sentence. No guessing. No performance. No pretending this was anything other than what it was.

She just hoped, driving home later that night with his cologne still faintly clinging to the collar of her dress, that she could keep telling herself that.