Her Salvation, His Damnation

#6.

The the silence in the office felt like a pressure against Grace’s chest. She looked at the door, then back at the man who had effectively dismantled her life in the span of ten minutes.

"Can I... can I go back home now?" Grace asked, her voice sounding small and fragile even to her own ears.

Tate let out a long, weary sigh and slumped back into his leather chair. The motion was fluid, but there was a rough edge to his exhaustion. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, his dark eyes fixing on her with a bluntness that made her flinch.

"It seems you aren't grasping the gravity of this, Grace," he said, his voice dropping into a low, terrifyingly calm. "If you so much as set foot on your doorstep, you’ll be dead before you can turn the key in the lock. They aren't looking to talk. They are looking to settle a debt I owe with your blood."

Grace felt the air leave her lungs in a sharp gasp. She gripped the arms of her chair, her knuckles turning a ghostly white. "But I didn't want any of this. All I did... all I did was help you. I saved you."

"I am aware," Tate replied. The coldness in his tone was like a splash of water. There was no gratitude in his expression, only the cold, hard logic of a man who viewed life as a series of strategic moves.

Grace shook her head, her mind reeling. The image of Liam’s face flashed in her mind—the life they had planned, the simple, quiet future that was now dissolving like mist. "I still can’t digest the idea of this. Marrying you? I have a fiancé, Tate. I have a man I actually love."

"Are you sure you love him," he countered, his gaze never wavering. "It’s for the best. At least for now. Unless you find the idea of a shallow grave more appealing than a marriage certificate."

Grace took a deep breath, trying to find some shred of hope to cling to. "Then this... this doesn't seem like a real marriage, right? It’s just paperwork. A facade."

Tate looked at her, his eyes tracing the movement of her pulse in her neck. A small, humorless curve touched his lips. "No. It isn't a real marriage. At least, not in the way your sentimental heart imagines it."

Grace felt a momentary swell of relief, though it was quickly followed by a fresh wave of anxiety. She stiffened, locking eyes with him again, her chin tilting upward in a flash of her usual spirit. "Good. Because I have absolutely no interest in sharing a room with you."

Tate paused, a genuine smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth—the first sign of amusement she had seen. He leaned forward, his presence suddenly more imposing. "I haven't come across a woman who would say that to me with such... boldness. You’re in luck, Grace. I never share my quarters with any female. That is my primary protocol, and I don't intend to break it for you." He raked a dismissive gaze over her, his voice turning coolly indifferent. "Don't get your hopes too high. You aren't exactly my type."

The words stung, an unexpected prick against her pride. Grace felt her face heat up, but she forced herself to shrug it off, refusing to let him see the bruise to her ego. "Fine. That works for me. I really hate every single part of this."

"You’ve made that clear," Tate cut her off, his tone shifting back to business. He stood up slowly, the movement predatory. "We wed tomorrow."

The words acted like a blow. Grace almost choked, her lungs seizing as she bolted upright from her seat. "Tomorrow? No! That’s too fast. I need time to... I need to process things. I can't just walk into a wedding tomorrow!"

Tate didn't look bothered by her outburst. He began to pace the small space behind his desk, his eyes traveling slowly over her, lingering on her flour stained sweater and worn trousers. "There is a great deal that needs to change, Grace. Starting with that. I can’t have my wife looking like she just crawled out of a bakery. Your fashion sense is... lamentable."

Grace’s mouth fell open, her indignation surging. "Excuse me? I’m wearing what I can afford, Not everyone spends their days in tailored suits and stolen luxury."

Tate ignored the jab. He walked over to a side table and poured himself a glass of water, drinking it slowly, his throat moving as he swallowed. He looked at her over the rim of the glass, his expression unreadable.

"Tomorrow night is the ceremony," he stated, setting the glass down with a final, echoing click. "I will have the makeup artists and dress designers here by morning to prepare you. You will look the part of a woman under my protection."

Grace collapsed back into the chair, the sheer weight of his will crushing her own. She felt like a bird caught in a net that was tightening with every second. If she couldn't stop the wedding, she could at least try to save a piece of her sanity.

"Even if I don't have a choice in this," she said, her voice sounding hollow, "I’d at least like to invite my best friend over. I need Rose. I can't do this alone."

Tate turned to her, his face hardening into a mask of iron. "No. In my world, Miss Grace, no one is to be trusted. Bringing outsiders in is a liability I won't entertain."

"She isn't an outsider!" Grace argued, her voice rising as she found her footing again. "Rose can be trusted. She was right there with me, Mr Tate! She helped your ungrateful ass just as much as I did. We both carried you into that house, unless you honestly think I have the superpowers required to lift a man of your size on my own?"