Velvet Chains

Chapter 1: The Deal With the Devil

The sound of Celeste’s heels echoed down the east corridor of the Moreau estate, sharp, deliberate, each step cutting into the silence like a scalpel. Normally, the house was never this quiet. The kitchen staff whispered, the assistants’ phones chimed with urgent calls, the garden crew hummed some half-forgotten tune while trimming the hedges. Today, silence had swallowed everything whole.

She slowed near the heavy oak door at the end of the corridor. A seam of light spilled from underneath, dust motes swirling lazily in the glow. The faint smell of cedar polish mixed with whiskey drifted into the hall. Her father’s study. Always locked, always private. Yet now, the door stood slightly ajar.

That alone put her on edge. Judge Remi Moreau did not tolerate cracks in appearances. A door left ajar meant intrusion. Weakness. He despised weakness.

Her hand hovered over the brass handle. Through the crack, she glimpsed navy fabric and a gleam of brass. Her breath caught. He wasn’t wearing his judge’s robes. He was in the military uniform.

She hadn’t seen it in years. Not since he had folded it into the back of the cedar wardrobe like a relic and declared his fighting days were done. It wasn’t nostalgia he kept it for. It was power, polished and preserved for the moments when he needed to remind everyone, including her, that his authority hadn’t been given. It had been taken.

Her pulse quickened.

She pushed the door open.

The study smelled of old smoke that had never been lit, leather, and the faint tang of ink. Bookshelves towered with heavy law volumes no one had touched in decades. A glass of water sat on the desk, untouched, beads of condensation sliding down the crystal like slow tears. Curtains muted the sunlight, leaving the room in an eternal dusk.

Her father sat behind the massive desk, back straight, hands folded neatly in his lap. His posture was military, his gaze down on some document he hadn’t turned in minutes. He looked like a statue carved from marble, unmoving, untouched.

“Close the door,” he said, not looking up.

Celeste obeyed. The door shut with a thud that reverberated through her ribs. She crossed the room, spine perfect, chin high, and lowered herself into the chair opposite his desk.

“I was told you wanted to see me.” Her voice was smooth, cool, as precise as cut glass.

Finally, he looked up. His eyes were gray like hers, but stripped of warmth, like storm clouds that had forgotten how to rain.

“We’ve come to an agreement,” he said.

Celeste tilted her head slightly. “We?”

“The court. The Valez family.”

The name punched through her like a shot of ice water.

“The Valez family,” she repeated softly, as if tasting poison. “As in the city’s most violent organized crime syndicate?”

“That would be the one.”

She let out a dry laugh, incredulous. “And what, exactly, did you agree to? A reduced murder quota? Joint custody of the ports?”

“You’re going to marry Lucien Valez.”

The sentence landed with surgical cruelty, no raised voice, no theatrics. Just cold finality.

Celeste stared. For a long moment, her brain refused to process the words. Then, slowly, her nails dug crescents into her palm.

“No,” she said at last. Her tone was level, deadly calm. “I’m not.”

“Yes. You are.”

Her lips parted, but no words came. The room tilted slightly. She forced a steady breath, then another, knitting composure over panic like stitches over a wound.

“You can’t be serious.”

“I am,” he said. “This marriage will end the blood feud between the courts and the syndicate. It will stabilize the city. Without it, we face collapse.”

Celeste’s laugh this time was sharp, jagged. “Collapse? Or just your reputation in the papers?”

His expression didn’t change.

“This isn’t ancient Rome, Father. You can’t trade your daughter like cattle.”

“You mistake this for a request,” he replied softly.

Celeste leaned forward, eyes narrowing to slits. “You can force me into an engagement, but you can’t force me to go through with it. I’ll leave. I’ll disappear. I’ll...”

“You won’t.”

Her father opened a drawer and withdrew a manila folder, thick and heavy. He set it down with deliberate care.

Her name was scrawled across the tab.

Celeste’s throat went dry.

“What is that?”

“Insurance.”

Her fingers twitched in her lap. She had buried that part of her life so deep she sometimes convinced herself it hadn’t happened. But of course, her father had it. He had everything.

“You wouldn’t,” she whispered.

His mouth curled into something that wasn’t a smile. “Try me.”

Celeste inhaled sharply, forcing the air into her lungs, forcing her face back into its mask of control. “You disgust me.”

“I raised you,” he said. “You should know by now disgust is irrelevant. What matters is power.”

She wanted to scream, to tear the folder in half, to claw at his face and finally break through that mask of civility. Instead, she sat perfectly still, her only betrayal the faint tremor in her hand as she adjusted her skirt.

“You want to preserve justice?” he asked. “Then become a symbol of it. A bridge. You and Lucien Valez, law and syndicate united.”

Her laugh was bitter. “A wedding photograph for the papers. That’s all this is.”

“History is built on photographs.”

Celeste stood abruptly, the chair scraping against the carpet. “I won’t do it.”

Her father’s gaze didn’t waver. He tapped the folder once, lightly. “Then this becomes public record.”

Her breath hitched. Images flashed, blood on her hands, the police station lights flickering above her, the whispers of lawyers negotiating silence. She was seventeen. A mistake, they called it. A moment of weakness. But mistakes didn’t vanish. They hid, waiting.

Her father leaned back, adjusting the crease of his uniform. “You are not innocent, Celeste. Stop pretending otherwise. This marriage is your chance to matter. To control the narrative instead of being crushed by it.”

She lowered herself back into the chair, movements sharp, mechanical. Her pulse roared in her ears. “You’d sell me to a criminal to protect your image.”

He tilted his head, the faintest trace of something, amusement? pride?, in his eyes. “Not a criminal. A king. Learn the difference.”

She clenched her jaw until her teeth ached.

The study door creaked open before she could answer. Celeste stiffened, turning. A voice floated from the hall, smooth as silk and twice as dangerous.

“Forgive the intrusion. I was told we were expected.”

The sound slid down her spine like ice water.

Her father’s expression softened, not into warmth, but respect. He stood. “Lucien.”

Celeste’s stomach twisted.

Footsteps approached. Slow, deliberate. A figure filled the doorway.

Lucien Valez.

He looked nothing like she expected. No gold chains, no gaudy arrogance. Just a tailored black suit, the cut sharp enough to slice, cufflinks glinting under the muted light. His dark hair was pushed back with casual precision. And his eyes, black as obsidian, unreadable, watchful.

The staff trailing behind him shifted nervously, as if the air itself grew heavier with his presence.

Celeste remained seated. If she stood, she might tremble. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

Lucien’s gaze found hers almost instantly. He didn’t smile, not at first. Just studied her, head tilted slightly, as though cataloguing every inch of her in silence.

Celeste’s chin lifted.

She extended her hand, fingers steady despite the quake inside her chest. “Celeste Moreau.”

Lucien stepped forward, taking her hand. He bowed his head just enough to brush his lips against her knuckles. Not a gentleman’s kiss. Something slower, heavier, charged.

When he looked up, the faintest smile tugged at his mouth. “And you’re mine. Legally, at least.”

The room went silent. Celeste pulled her hand back, but the ghost of his lips lingered like fire against her skin.

Her heart pounded once, twice, hard enough to bruise.