My father continues to speak, his voice that familiar syrup—smooth on the surface, rotted underneath.
“At the end of the day, Vivian, we’ve found a solution.”
My mother flinches at the wordsolution. I almost laugh. Their version of a solution has never once in my life included me actually wanting it.
“We” means him. It always means him.
My father leans back, fingers tapping the armrest, eyes glinting with that particular kind of Laurent entitlement that has now cracked at the edges. “Our finances have…tightened.” Another lie dressed in silk. “But we’ve been offered an opportunity. A partnership that will preserve the family, the business, everything.”
My stomach drops, even though I already know this won’t be something I can refuse.
“And what kind of partnership?” I ask, even though the answer sits heavy in the air like smoke.
My father smiles. Slow. Poisonous.
“A marriage contract.”
My breath stutters.
My mother’s head drops, shoulders tightening, and finally she whispers, “Vivian…” but her voice breaks before she can finish.
Of course she won’t look at me. Because she knows what this means. Because she let it happen. Because she’s too conditioned—too terrified of him—to stop it.
I straighten, spine stiffening. “I’m not marrying someone to save your legacy.”
My father chuckles. Actually chuckles. “My dear girl, this isn’t about legacy. It’s about survival.”
“Then survive without using me.”
“You are a Laurent,” he says sharply. “Your life has always belonged to this family.”
The words land like a slap.
I laugh—sharp, stunned, ugly. “You’re selling me.”
He doesn’t deny it.
“You’ll thank me,” he says smoothly, “when you’re living in Paris instead of bankruptcy court.”
My stomach twists. My mother sits on the edge of the chaise, spine perfectly straight, refusing to look at me. Coward.
“Who is he?” I demand, my voice tighter than I intend. “If you’re auctioning my life, I should at least know the buyer.”
My father gives the kind of smile men wear when they’re drowning but pretending it’s a swim. Thin. Strained. Arrogant.
“The suitor will remain anonymous until the agreement is finalized.”
“Anonymous?” My voice cracks, then hardens. “You expect me to marry a stranger whose name you won’t even tell me?”
“He’s an international investor with impeccable connections,” he says, every syllable dipped in false calm. “A man whose alliance will stabilize this family.”
My skin crawls.
The world I’ve spent my life curating—the poise, the control, the illusion of choice—feels like it’s splintering around me, cracking like thin glass under a boot.
“All you need to do,” my father finishes, folding his hands like the decision is holy, “is accept the privilege.”
Privilege.
