"That makes perfect sense, sir. Very practical." Prescott nods, completely unfazed.
Of course it does. To them.
"I'm not feeling well." I stand, and the room tilts. "I have a headache. I need to lie down."
Neither man seems particularly concerned. Father waves a dismissive hand, already turning back to Prescott.
"Go rest. We'll handle the arrangements."
Of course they will. They'll handle everything. My wedding. My life. My body.
I flee.
Back in my room, I pace, bare feet wearing tracks in the plush carpet. My thoughts spin, chaotic and desperate. I can't use my phone—it's undoubtedly monitored. Every call, every text, every search is probably reported straight to Father.
But social media. My rarely-used Instagram account that Father thinks is just vanity. He doesn't understand it, so he may not be watching it as closely.
My hands shake as I log in, craft a post that seems innocent but might—might—reach Paul.
"Feeling nostalgic today. Remembering that beautiful garden in Paris, with its hidden corners and secret pathways. How I long to walk those grounds again, to feel that sense of freedom and possibility. Perhaps in three months, when the roses are in full bloom? #ParisianDreams #GardenEscapes #CountdownToAdventure"
I stare at the words. Will he understand? Will he see the message beneath the message—three months until the wedding, a plea for help, for rescue, for anything?
I hit post before I can second-guess myself.
The walls feel closer suddenly. Suffocating. I need air. Need to move, to breathe something that isn't saturated with Father's cologne and Prescott's expectations.
I step into the hallway, intending to escape to the gardens, when voices stop me dead.
Hushed. Urgent. Coming from Father's study.
Curiosity overrides self-preservation. I move closer, pressing myself against the wall beside the door. It's slightly ajar—careless of them, or maybe they don't think I'm brave enough to eavesdrop.
"Viv is asking too many questions." Prescott's voice is low and tense.
"I'll handle my daughter." Father sounds bored. Dismissive. "You focus on your priorities."
"Yes, sir. But—" Prescott hesitates. "It might be wise to give her something small. An illusion of freedom. Quiet her until the wedding."
My blood runs cold.An illusion of freedom.Like I'm a pet that needs appeasing.
"I didn't ask for your opinion." The ice in Father's voice should be familiar by now, but it still makes me flinch. "Sentinelis at a turning point. It's time to finalize the family merger. We can't afford distractions."
Sentinel.The word drops into my consciousness like a stone into still water, sending ripples of dread outward. What is Sentinel? Why does it matter more than my questions, my rights, my life?
"Of course, sir." Prescott's voice drops lower. "I only meant—Viv is persistent. Already suspicious. For now, it might be easier to let her believe she's making decisions."
A pause. Long and weighted.
"I will not coddle her." Father's words are sharp, final. "She'll do as she's told. And you will ensure there's an heir as soon as possible. Sentinel takes priority over her whims."
Heir.The word makes my stomach churn. I press a hand over my mouth, fighting nausea.
Another pause. Then Prescott, his voice so low I have to strain to hear: "Since I'll be moving in... shall I take care of that before the wedding night? Or are we to wait?"
The audacity. The casual way he discusses my body, as if it's already his property. As if I'm a broodmare to be bred on command.
"She's still my daughter." Father's tone shifts—not warmth, but something close to possession. "We abide by tradition. You'll consummate the marriage on your wedding night. After that, I expect no delays."
