"I've been speaking with the Harringtons. We've agreed to move up the wedding date."
The world tilts. I grip the edge of the table, willing the room to stop spinning. "Move it up?"
"Three months from now should be sufficient." He drinks his coffee casually. As if he's discussing the weather. "Invitations go out next week."
"Three months?" I can't breathe. The air is too thick, too hot despite the coldness radiating from him. "But... I thought I had more time."
"Time for what, Viv?" He sets down his cup with that same deliberate click. "To continue your little art hobby? To gallivant around Europe on these so-called assignments?"
The way he saysassignments—dripping with disdain—makes my chest tight with rage.
"My work isn't a hobby." I force the words out through clenched teeth. "I have expertise in forgery identification. I've made a name for myself internationally. It's more than a passion, it's?—"
"It's a childish fantasy I've indulged far too long." He picks up his newspaper and snaps it open. Dismissing me. "The Faulks name carries weight. It's time you started living up to it."
Something snaps inside me. The fear, the careful restraint I've maintained my whole life—it cracks.
"And marrying Prescott is how I do that?" The words come out sharp, bitter. "Lie back, spread my legs, and pop out the heir you so desperately want?"
The newspaper lowers slowly. His eyes are ice.
"Don't be vulgar."
"Why not?" I laugh, and it sounds slightly unhinged even to my own ears. "That's all I am to you, isn't it? A womb to be filled. A pawn to marry off for business deals and family alliances."
"You are a Faulks." Each word is clipped, precise. "And you will behave accordingly."
"What does that even mean?" My voice rises. "Smile and stay silent while you auction me off? Pretend I don't have thoughts or dreams or?—"
The door opens.
Prescott strides in, all polished charm in a thousand-dollar suit. His cologne fills the room immediately. He bends to kiss my cheek, and I force myself not to recoil as his lips graze my skin.
"Good morning, darling." Smooth as silk and just as artificial. "You look radiant as always."
I force a smile. It stretches across my face like a mask, stiff and false. "Prescott. What a lovely surprise."
He takes the seat beside me—too close, his thigh pressing against mine under the table—and reaches for my hand. I let him take it, fighting the urge to yank it away. His palm is damp. Hot.
"I hope you don't mind the intrusion." He addresses Father. Not me. Never me. "I was eager to discuss some wedding details."
"Not at all." Father's voice warms, the ice melting into something almost pleasant. Almost human. "Your timing is perfect. We were just discussing the new date."
"We were discussing our family's history, actually." The words come out petulant, childish. I don't care.
"Viv. Enough." Father's eyes narrow.
"It's quite all right, sir." Prescott's thumb strokes the back of my hand, and my skin crawls. "Family history can be... complicated."
"You know about it." I turn to face him, pulling my hand free. "Don't you? The letters. The war. All of it."
His smile never wavers, but something flickers in his eyes. Something cold and calculating that reminds me of Father. "Of course I do."
"Of course you do." I laugh again, that same slightly unhinged sound. "Why am I not surprised?"
Prescott exchanges a glance with Father. Something passes between them—an understanding, an agreement. They're united, these two men who claim to care about me.
"Viv, darling." Prescott's voice drips with condescension. "There are aspects of both our families' pasts that are... sensitive. It's best not to dig too deeply into things we can't change."
