But there's nothing.
Just silence.
TWENTY-TWO
Vivianne: Five Hundred Names
ONEWEEK
"Viv." My father's voice pulls me back from the window. The garden blurs back into focus—empty flowerbeds, no bees, no messages. Nothing.
"Are you listening?"
"Yes." I turn, smoothing my features into a neutral expression. Compliant.
His eyes narrow. He's been watching me long enough to know better. "Five hundred guests."
The number lands in my stomach like a stone. Five hundred witnesses. Five hundred people who'll smile and congratulate and never once ask if this is what I want.
"That's quite a lot."
Prescott shifts in the armchair—the one that was Grandmother's, the carved mahogany with the needlepoint she stitched herself. His jacket drapes across the arm now. His tie hangs loose. He's stretched his legs out like he's been coming to this house for years instead of months.
"The Vanderbilts had four hundred. We can hardly do less."
Father nods, already moving on. "You'll need to address the invitations. All of them."
The words take a moment to penetrate. "Address by hand?"
"Is that a problem?" Something in my tone makes Father's jaw tighten.
Back down. I should back down."It's just... there's only a week. Five hundred envelopes, that's over seventy a day, and with the fittings and?—"
"You will do it." He doesn't raise his voice. He's never needed to. "Etiquette demands it. Unless you're suggesting we send printed invitations like we're hosting a garden luncheon?"
Heat climbs my neck. "No, of course not. I only meant?—"
"Then we're settled." He glances at his watch—platinum, a gift from Prescott after they finalized the merger. The merger that required a marriage to seal it. "Prescott and I need to finalize the contracts. You'll start this afternoon."
The dismissal is clear. I should nod, should murmur agreement, disappear to my room where I can address invitations until my hand cramps and five hundred strangers know exactly when to arrive to watch me sign my life away.
"I can't."
The words escape before I can stop them. Quiet, but they land in the silence like breaking glass.
Prescott's posture changes. Nothing dramatic—just a subtle shift forward, weight redistributing. His expression doesn't harden. That would be simpler. Instead, something almost like pleasure flickers across his face. Like I've done something unexpectedly entertaining.
"Can't?" He rises from the chair. Not quickly. Not with any visible aggression. Just... purposefully. The way a cat rises when it's spotted movement. "That's an interesting word choice, darling."
My spine wants to curve, wants to step back. I lock my knees. Stepping back would be blood in the water.
"I meant I don't have time. To do it properly."
"Ah." He crosses the room. Each step deliberate. "See, that's better. Much more... reasonable."
He stops close enough that his cologne hits me—something expensive and cloying that's started to make me nauseous. His hand finds my elbow. To anyone glancing in, it might look affectionate. Possessive in the way engaged couples are possessive.
His thumb presses into the soft underside of my arm. Steady pressure. Not bruising. Not yet. Just enough to send a clear message:I could.
