"It's all happening too fast." The words tumble out now, desperate and graceless. "Too close to the engagement. People will wonder. They'll think—" I force myself to say it. "They'll think it's a shotgun wedding. That I'm pregnant."
One eyebrow rises. The corner of his mouth lifts—not quite a smile, more like a sneer. "And what if they do?"
The casual dismissal hits like a slap. Physical. Stunning.
"It wouldn't be such a bad thing." He picks up his wine glass and swirls it. Studies the legs running down the crystal. "If it were true."
My stomach lurches. For a second, I think I might be sick right here at the table. All over the fine china and perfectly arranged roses.
Prescott's hand slides across the tablecloth. His fingers find mine. Close around them. Not gentle. Possessive. Claiming.
"The sooner we're married—" His thumb strokes across my knuckles. The touch makes my skin crawl. "—the sooner we can start our family."
We.He saidwe.As if pregnancy is something we do together. As if I'm not the one who'll carry it. Birth it. Bleed for it.
I blink, stunned into silence. The room tilts. Spins.
"But the invitations haven't even been sent." I grasp at straws. Anything. "No one will be able to come on two weeks' notice. They'll have other commitments?—"
Father's fork hits his plate. Sharp. Deliberate. The sound cuts through my words like scissors through paper.
"You think anyone would dare miss this event?" His eyes narrow.
"If they're already booked?—"
"If I snapped my fingers—" He demonstrates. The snap cracks through the room. "—and told them the wedding was tomorrow, they'd drop everything. Cancel vacations. Postpone surgeries. Reschedule their entire lives to be here."
He leans forward. The light catches his face, turning it harsh and angular. "The Faulks name commands attention. We don't need a long engagement. We certainly don't need your approval to move forward."
Each word lands like a blow. Calculated. Precise. Meant to hurt.
"But the caterers, the florists?—"
"Silence."
One word. Absolute authority. No room for argument.
My throat closes. The air vanishes from the room.
"There's no need to delay." He picks up his knife and fork. Cuts into his lamb with meticulous precision. "Everything is in place. This wedding proceeds as planned."
The finality of it presses down. A physical weight crushing my chest.
I look between them. Father, cold and immovable. Prescott, smug and satisfied. The walls contract further. The noose tightens.
There's no escape.
The realization settles over me like a lead blanket. Heavy. Suffocating.
Prescott's hand closes over mine again. Tighter this time. His fingers dig in just enough to bruise. A reminder of who holds the leash.
"Now—" His voice smooths out, takes on that practiced charm. "—let's discuss the honeymoon arrangements."
Honeymoon.The word makes my skin crawl.
They launch back into planning. Details that have nothing to do with me. My gaze drifts to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the gardens.
The sun hangs low. The sky bleeds orange and purple, like a bruise spreading across the horizon. Long shadows stretch across the manicured lawn.
