16. CHAPTER 14 #4
The words should have felt like praise, but they didn’t. They felt like a warning, but she wasn’t done.
“Quite a shame for the Fernández girl,” she said, her voice dropping to a venomous, velvet-soft whisper. “She’s far too fragile to survive the version of you I just saw.”
She paused at the threshold, her fingers holding on to the door knob
“Do try not to break her too quickly, Orion.”
Then she was gone, leaving only the scent of her expensive perfume and the sound of a door clicking shut.
I watched the door like I was expecting it to open up again to more vile comments.
Do try not to break her too quickly?
I had no intention of breaking Léonie Fernández. She’d had enough of that from her family. I wanted to possess her… claim her. The rest was sematics.
I didn’t care about her love or the fragile state of her heart, I didn’t believe in those ghost stories. I only cared about ownership.
But as I stood in the silence of the room, my mother’s warning curdled in my chest. To her, Léonie was a tool. To me, she was a conquest. And my mother had just told me that I was a clumsy god... that I would destroy what was already mine.
All false words.
She thought she knew me. She thought that since I possessed my father’s steel, I would inherit his cruelty. She was wrong.
I wouldn’t give Léonie love, I wouldn't insult either of us with a lie that fragile. My only intention was to give her sanctuary, and a name that no one dared to touch. A life where she never had to flinch again.
My mother called her fragile, but I saw her as a sovereign asset, and I would protect what was mine with a savagery my mother couldn't comprehend.
I looked across to the east wing and it dawned on me terrifyingly that if my father never makes it out of that wing, there would be no one left to rein in the woman who was already planning the empire’s next move. Except me.
I paced until the ache in my chest dulled and the pulse in my throat became manageable, then I returned to my desk and tapped the tablet awake.
Three open panels. Reports. Calendars. A live feed from the east wing hallway outside my father's suite—installed after the construction was completed. I needed to know who came and went even when I wasn't there.
Without thinking, I tapped into the fourth.
The surveillance feed from the Fernández mansion streamed in crisp, high-definition. The formal sitting room showed its usual white walls and expensive vintage art. It was early afternoon, which made her presence unusual. Léonie was never home at this hour.
In all the weeks I’d spent monitoring her, she’d only ever returned under the cover of night.
I was convinced it was her way of ghosting through her own life, to avoid the family she shared it with, a sentiment I understood all too well.
It was the reason I’d had Severin station two of his men at a distance.
They were shadows on the perimeter, never entering her line of sight.
They weren't there to interact. They were there to account for her while she navigated the streets of Paris at night.
Her schedule for the past two weeks had been relentless: planners, fittings, tastings, floral consultations. A steady parade of choices she didn’t want, thanks to my mother and hers.
Every time I’d checked the feed, she’d been there in the middle of it, sitting upright like a prisoner who refused to slouch.
Always with that miserable expression, with no tears or tantrum in sight. Just a face that suggested they were dragging her toward her own death.
I shouldn’t have cared.
This wasn’t a romance, nor was it courtship. It was an alliance, a hostile takeover disguised as a holy union—signed, sealed, and due to be performed in public in two weeks.
Yet something about her muted repulsion irritated me more than I’d admit.
And no… it wasn’t because I wanted her enthusiasm. Her disgust felt rather… personal. My existence seemed to offend her.
I’d never spoken to her. At least not directly.
I had done my part, signed the truce, sent my terms. I’d given the Fernándezes an agreement clean enough to foster an understanding between both families. I had expected—almost looked forward to—the moment Léonie would request an audience.
I didn’t expect her to plead or beg. I expected a push back.
I'd imagined so many times, her calling my office demanding an audience. I expected her to come to me and confront the so-called unreasonable clauses and tell me, with that famous Fernández pride, that I was overreaching.
I wanted some of that fire she hid beneath her gentle frame. I'd watched her enough to have seen the few times she wielded it. It made me want to know what else she had hidden from the world.
But she hadn’t reached out.
No messages. No summons. No attempt to reclaim her dignity.
I refused to be the one to initiate it, because reaching out would mean asking for something beyond the contract. It would mean suggesting a meeting somewhere that wasn’t a meeting room or a negotiation table.
It would mean asking for a date, and I didn’t do dates. I preferred only real outcomes.
On screen, Léonie sat on the edge of the sofa while a planner spoke animatedly to someone off-camera, likely her mother. Judging by the angle and the way Léonie’s gaze kept flicking toward the far wall as if searching for an exit that didn’t exist.
She nodded at the right times, but her eyes weren’t in the room. They were somewhere else entirely.
There were thin folders on the coffee table, fabric swatches, seating charts, menus. Léonie’s fingers rested on them without touching it, as if she couldn’t bear the sensation of the future under her skin.
The planner moved closer, showing her something—perhaps a rendering, or a guest list.
Léonie’s eyes dropped briefly. When she looked up again, the slow blink that followed made her seem distant. Her full lips constantly pressed together in a likely attempt to control her emotions.
That was what I noticed first. The discipline in her displeasure. The way she held herself as though refusing to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing her falter.
The camera caught her thumb and index finger rubbing against the fabric of her skirt, a small, unconscious grounding gesture I’d noticed her doing repeatedly over the past two weeks.
She looked miserable the whole time, and the feeling it stirred within me was deeply unpleasant.
I thought of how my mother had discussed mistresses, contingencies… how easily she talked about heirs like they could be ordered online, and the way she’d spoken of my father's death as a scheduling inconvenience.
If she believed she could make Léonie uncomfortable when she moved into this estate, if she believed she could punish her without consequence… then she would have me to contend with.
The thought arrived fully formed and territorial. It shook a part of me, but I shrugged it off as it came.
My phone buzzed on the desk, pulling me out of my head. I didn’t look away from the screen as I picked it up.
Fitting Confirmation — Saturday 10:00 AM.
A message from one of my assistants. I dismissed it with a swipe.
Then I opened my messages and found Severin's name.
Me: Do we have confirmation on wedding security yet?