"Of course, sir." He leans forward, elbows on the table. "I've been in touch with the event planner. Everything's on schedule."
A single, economical nod from Father. "And the guest list?"
"Nearly finalized. All key players from both families. Plus a curated selection of business associates." Prescott ticks items off on his fingers. "Social connections that matter."
They continue talking. Numbers. Seating charts. Strategic positioning of guests. Their voices blend into a constant drone, white noise that makes my head ache.
I'm fading. Becoming invisible. Dissolving into the silk wallpaper and polished wood.
My fingers twitch under the table. Itching for my phone. For any connection to the world beyond these walls. But it's gone. Confiscated. Another freedom stripped away.
I clear my throat. The sound barely registers above the conversation.
"Perhaps we could?—"
"The flowers will be white roses and lilies." Prescott barrels through my words like they don't exist. Like I don't exist. "Classic. Elegant. Befitting our status."
Ourstatus. Not mine. Ours. As if I've already been absorbed.
"Good choice. What about the music?" Father nods again, and something that might be pride flickers across his face. Never directed at me. Never.
"String quartet for the ceremony. For the reception, that jazz ensemble you mentioned." Prescott preens, shoulders rolling back, chin lifting. "From the Harrington gala."
"Well done."
The praise washes over Prescott. He practically glows with it.
My stomach twists. Bile rises, sharp and acidic.
"I was thinking—" I try again. Push the words out harder this time.
"The menu." Prescott doesn't even glance my way. "Five courses. Seasonal delicacies. The chef comes highly recommended."
The conversation swirls around me. Past me. Through me. Decisions made about my wedding—my life—without a single question directed my way.
The walls inch closer. The chandelier's light sharpens, turns knife-edged. The air thickens until each breath feels like drowning.
Blood rushes in my ears, drowning out their voices.
"What about postponing?"
The words explode out of me. Too loud. Sharp enough to shatter the careful atmosphere they've constructed.
Silence crashes down.
Father's fork clatters against his plate. The sound echoes—china on china, metal on porcelain. His head swivels toward me, movements slow and deliberate. A predator noticing prey that dared to move.
Prescott goes very still. His hand, reaching for his wine, freezes mid-air. Then lowers. Slowly. His fingers curl into a loose fist on the table.
"Postpone?" The word drips from his mouth like venom. His eyes narrow to slits. "Why on earth would we do that?"
I swallow. My throat clicks, too dry. "It's just... everything is so rushed. Wouldn't it be nice to have more time? To make sure everything is?—"
"We've discussed this." Father's voice is flat. Final. He doesn't raise it. Doesn't need to. The authority is bone-deep, bred into every syllable. "The date is set."
"But surely a few more months wouldn't?—"
"Viv." Just my name. But the way he says it—a warning, a command, a threat all wrapped in two letters.
