"Can't change, or don't want me to know?" My voice rises. "What are you hiding? What else have you kept from me?"
"Nothing that concerns you." Prescott's grip on my hand tightens, fingers digging into my wrist. "But our wedding—now that concerns us both. Three months. I'm thrilled we won't have to wait so long to start our life together."
He turns to me, and his blue eyes gleam with something that makes my stomach turn. "Aren't you, darling? Excited to finally be mine? In every way?"
The words hang in the air, heavy with implication. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. The weight of their expectations, their plans for my body, my future, my life—it presses down until I can't breathe.
I manage a weak nod.
"All I want—" My voice cracks. I clear my throat, try again. "Is one straight answer."
Father stands abruptly. His chair scrapes against the floor again, harsh and final. "That's quite enough. You're tired from your late-night snooping. Perhaps you should retire to your room and rest."
"I'm not a child." I stand too, facing him across the table. Broken porcelain crunches under my feet. "I deserve to know the truth about my family."
The air between us crackles with tension. His jaw works, that vein throbbing at his temple again.
"What you deserve—" He bites off each word. "Is to show gratitude for the life you've been given. The privileges. The opportunities. All built on choices made long before you were born. Choices you have no right to question."
"Let's not get carried away. Viv is naturally curious. It's one of the things I admire about her." Prescott rises, positioning himself between us like a referee. Or a jailer.
The lie is so blatant it would be funny if it weren't so horrifying.
"But perhaps—" His hand settles on my lower back, possessive. "We could focus on more pleasant topics? The wedding, for instance. I have some lovely ideas for the venue."
I sink back into my chair, defeat washing over me in cold waves. They're a wall. An immovable force. And I'm just... me. Small. Powerless. Alone.
"Of course." The words taste like ash. "The wedding. How lovely."
Father smooths his tie, composure restored as if the last ten minutes never happened. "Finally. Some sense." He fixes me with a look designed to remind me of my place—beneath him, beneath Prescott, beneath the crushing weight of the Faulks name. "You'll learn to let Prescott take the lead. He speaks sense and understands his duty."
He settles back into his chair and picks up his coffee cup. "The venue will be here, of course. The estate. I want to minimize any... distractions."
Distractions.He means me. My movements, my breath, my existence—all carefully controlled and contained.
"Everything will come to us." He waves a hand dismissively. "Caterers. Decorators. Florists. There's no need for you to be running around making arrangements."
Running around.As if I'm a child who might wander off and get lost.
"It's all for your ease, my dear."
My ease. My prison. Same thing, apparently.
I clench my fists under the table, nails digging into my palms hard enough to leave crescents. If I say anything, I know what will come. More lectures. More icy dismissals. But if I stay silent, I'm complicit in my own burial.
They drone on—flower arrangements, guest lists, seating charts. Trivialities that matter so little when my entire life is being snuffed out. Father's words wrap around my throat like hands, squeezing, choking.
I withdraw. Pull deeper into myself while they plan my funeral disguised as a wedding.
Paul. I have to contact Paul. Warn him about the accelerated timeline. Find some way to?—
"Speaking of preparations." Father's voice snaps me back. "We'll need to ensure Prescott is comfortable here. The estate will be your home after marriage. May as well begin the transition now."
My stomach drops.
"I've arranged for the West Wing to be modified." He doesn't look at me. Doesn't ask. Just states facts, decisions already made. "It will accommodate both of you. Your marital suite will be there. No sense waiting until the wedding for Prescott to move in. He may as well settle in now."
The West Wing. Our marital bed. The words echo in my skull, each one a nail in my coffin.
