Forced marriage: Mr Flynn darling wife

Chapter Five

LUCA’S POV

I adjusted the cufflinks on my sleeves, my eyes drifting to the mirror as I took a final look at myself. Business parties had become routine, filled with the same faces and monotonous conversations. But tonight, felt different. Maybe it was the anticipation of seeing Celeste. She had been quieter these last few days. I couldn’t put a finger on why, even though it bothers me a little.

Celeste appeared at the top of the stairs like something out of a dream. She wore a crimson gown that hugged her figure in all the right places, her dark hair cascading over one shoulder, catching the light in subtle waves. She looked… striking, and for a moment, I simply stared.

She met my gaze with a quiet confidence, one brow arched as though daring me to say something. I cleared my throat, forcing myself to regain my composure.

“You… look nice,” I said, the words feeling inadequate as I extended my arm.

Her lips curved up slightly. “Thank you.”

On the drive to the party, silence lingered between us, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. In fact, I found myself oddly at ease with her presence, something I hadn’t anticipated. I caught glimpses of her reflection in the window, the city lights casting a soft glow on her face. There was a depth in her eyes, a softness that I hadn’t noticed before, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that there was much more to Celeste than I had assumed.

At the event, she was poised and elegant, moving through conversations with a natural charm that surprised me. I watched as she handled my business associates effortlessly, making them laugh with her subtle humour, drawing them in with her genuine interest. Even men who usually cared for little beyond profits seemed captivated by her presence.

“She’s impressive, Luca,” one of my associates remarked with a nod in her direction. “You’ve chosen well.”

I simply nodded, though the words echoed in my mind. I hadn’t chosen her at all; our marriage was purely practical, a convenience for both sides. And yet, I couldn’t ignore the growing curiosity gnawing at me. She was more than she appeared to be—poised yet layered with a quiet strength, a surprising depth that had me questioning what I thought I knew about her.

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CELESTE’S POV

Two days after the event, the weekend arrived, leaving the house strangely empty. Luca had left early that morning, and I found myself with little to do. I’d wandered through the rooms, familiarising myself with my surroundings, but the mansion felt unusually quiet and, for the first time, a bit lonely.

As I moved through the hallway, my footsteps light on the polished floors, I noticed a door at the end that I had never opened before. Something about it felt different—isolated, as if it held secrets the rest of the house had long forgotten. A fleeting memory sparked in my mind: a small brass key I’d seen on the kitchen counter one morning. It had seemed out of place then, but now it felt like it might be connected to this door.

I returned to the kitchen, retrieving the key, a thrill of curiosity building within me. Back at the door, I turned the key in the lock, feeling a slight resistance before it clicked open. As I pushed the door, a cloud of dust greeted me, and I stifled a cough. The room was shadowed and stale, the air thick with neglect.

Cobwebs clung to the corners, and old-fashioned furniture lay beneath white sheets, forgotten relics of a time long past. I ventured inside, a strange sense of familiarity prickling my skin as if the room held memories of someone who once meant everything to Luca. My gaze fell on an ornate vanity, a single photograph sitting on its edge, surrounded by a light layer of dust. It was a younger woman with a warm smile and eyes that, oddly enough, mirrored Luca’s.

“His mother.”

The realization sank in, and I found myself sitting down slowly, careful not to disturb the objects on the vanity. My fingers brushed against a small leather-bound diary, its cover cracked and worn. I knew I shouldn’t pry, that this room and everything within it belonged to a part of Luca he hadn’t shared with me. But an inexplicable urge compelled me to open it. I wanted to understand this woman, the one who’d likely left a permanent mark on his heart.

I turned the fragile pages, my eyes skimming over lines of graceful handwriting, entries from another time. She spoke of Luca, of her love and pride for him, even her fears and hopes. Each word seemed to breathe life into the woman whose presence was felt in every corner of this house.

Lost in her words, I barely heard the faint sound of footsteps approaching. My heart yearned as I flipped to another page, an entry that felt somehow heavier, as if she’d written it during a moment of profound sadness. The words blurred as I leaned closer, her quiet confessions filling the room with an intimacy I could hardly describe. I’d just started to read her account of one particular day when she wrote about Mr Flynn, Luca's father. A story seeming like the one Helen narrated to me.

Then, a shadow fell across the doorway.

I looked up, heart thudding, to find Luca standing there, his gaze locked onto mine. His face was a mask of restrained emotion, something dark and unreadable flickering in his eyes as he took in the scene—the unlocked door, the diary in my hands, the remnants of a past he had never meant for me to see.

“Celeste,” he said, his voice cold, almost threatening. The warmth I’d seen in him at the party was gone, replaced by an intensity that made my pulse quicken, though not entirely out of fear.

“I… I’m sorry,” I stammered, feeling the weight of the moment pressing down on me. But his expression didn’t soften; if anything, his jaw clenched tighter, his eyes hardening as they fixed on the diary.

“What do you think you’re doing?” His voice was low, a quiet danger simmering beneath his words.