Chapter 14 #2
His smile never wavers, but something flickers in his eyes. Something cold and calculating that reminds me of Father. "Of course I do."
"Of course you do." I laugh again, that same slightly unhinged sound. "Why am I not surprised?"
Prescott exchanges a glance with Father. Something passes between them—an understanding, an agreement. They're united, these two men who claim to care about me.
"Viv, darling." Prescott's voice drips with condescension. "There are aspects of both our families' pasts that are... sensitive. It's best not to dig too deeply into things we can't change."
"Can't change, or don't want me to know?" My voice rises. "What are you hiding? What else have you kept from me?"
"Nothing that concerns you." Prescott's grip on my hand tightens, fingers digging into my wrist. "But our wedding—now that concerns us both. Three months. I'm thrilled we won't have to wait so long to start our life together."
He turns to me, and his blue eyes gleam with something that makes my stomach turn. "Aren't you, darling? Excited to finally be mine? In every way?"
The words hang in the air, heavy with implication. My mouth opens, but nothing comes out. The weight of their expectations, their plans for my body, my future, my life—it presses down until I can't breathe.
I manage a weak nod.
"All I want—" My voice cracks. I clear my throat, try again. "Is one straight answer."
Father stands abruptly. His chair scrapes against the floor again, harsh and final. "That's quite enough. You're tired from your late-night snooping. Perhaps you should retire to your room and rest."
"I'm not a child." I stand too, facing him across the table. Broken porcelain crunches under my feet. "I deserve to know the truth about my family."
The air between us crackles with tension. His jaw works, that vein throbbing at his temple again.
"What you deserve—" He bites off each word. "Is to show gratitude for the life you've been given. The privileges. The opportunities. All built on choices made long before you were born. Choices you have no right to question."
"Let's not get carried away. Viv is naturally curious. It's one of the things I admire about her." Prescott rises, positioning himself between us like a referee. Or a jailer.
The lie is so blatant it would be funny if it weren't so horrifying.
"But perhaps—" His hand settles on my lower back, possessive. "We could focus on more pleasant topics? The wedding, for instance. I have some lovely ideas for the venue."
I sink back into my chair, defeat washing over me in cold waves. They're a wall. An immovable force. And I'm just... me. Small. Powerless. Alone.
"Of course." The words taste like ash. "The wedding. How lovely."
Father smooths his tie, composure restored as if the last ten minutes never happened.
"Finally. Some sense." He fixes me with a look designed to remind me of my place—beneath him, beneath Prescott, beneath the crushing weight of the Faulks name.
"You'll learn to let Prescott take the lead.
He speaks sense and understands his duty. "
He settles back into his chair and picks up his coffee cup. "The venue will be here, of course. The estate. I want to minimize any... distractions."
Distractions. He means me. My movements, my breath, my existence—all carefully controlled and contained.
"Everything will come to us." He waves a hand dismissively. "Caterers. Decorators. Florists. There's no need for you to be running around making arrangements."
Running around. As if I'm a child who might wander off and get lost.
"It's all for your ease, my dear."
My ease. My prison. Same thing, apparently.
I clench my fists under the table, nails digging into my palms hard enough to leave crescents. If I say anything, I know what will come. More lectures. More icy dismissals. But if I stay silent, I'm complicit in my own burial.
They drone on—flower arrangements, guest lists, seating charts. Trivialities that matter so little when my entire life is being snuffed out. Father's words wrap around my throat like hands, squeezing, choking.
I withdraw. Pull deeper into myself while they plan my funeral disguised as a wedding.
Paul. I have to contact Paul. Warn him about the accelerated timeline. Find some way to—
"Speaking of preparations." Father's voice snaps me back. "We'll need to ensure Prescott is comfortable here. The estate will be your home after marriage. May as well begin the transition now."
My stomach drops.
"I've arranged for the West Wing to be modified." He doesn't look at me. Doesn't ask. Just states facts, decisions already made. "It will accommodate both of you. Your marital suite will be there. No sense waiting until the wedding for Prescott to move in. He may as well settle in now."
The West Wing. Our marital bed. The words echo in my skull, each one a nail in my coffin.
"That makes perfect sense, sir. Very practical." Prescott nods, completely unfazed.
Of course it does. To them.
"I'm not feeling well." I stand, and the room tilts. "I have a headache. I need to lie down."
Neither man seems particularly concerned. Father waves a dismissive hand, already turning back to Prescott.
"Go rest. We'll handle the arrangements."
Of course they will. They'll handle everything. My wedding. My life. My body.
I flee.
Back in my room, I pace, bare feet wearing tracks in the plush carpet. My thoughts spin, chaotic and desperate. I can't use my phone—it's undoubtedly monitored. Every call, every text, every search is probably reported straight to Father.
But social media. My rarely-used Instagram account that Father thinks is just vanity. He doesn't understand it, so he may not be watching it as closely.
My hands shake as I log in, craft a post that seems innocent but might—might—reach Paul.
"Feeling nostalgic today. Remembering that beautiful garden in Paris, with its hidden corners and secret pathways.
How I long to walk those grounds again, to feel that sense of freedom and possibility.
Perhaps in three months, when the roses are in full bloom?
#ParisianDreams #GardenEscapes #CountdownToAdventure"
I stare at the words. Will he understand? Will he see the message beneath the message—three months until the wedding, a plea for help, for rescue, for anything?
I hit post before I can second-guess myself.
The walls feel closer suddenly. Suffocating. I need air. Need to move, to breathe something that isn't saturated with Father's cologne and Prescott's expectations.
I step into the hallway, intending to escape to the gardens, when voices stop me dead.
Hushed. Urgent. Coming from Father's study.
Curiosity overrides self-preservation. I move closer, pressing myself against the wall beside the door. It's slightly ajar—careless of them, or maybe they don't think I'm brave enough to eavesdrop.
"Viv is asking too many questions." Prescott's voice is low and tense.
"I'll handle my daughter." Father sounds bored. Dismissive. "You focus on your priorities."
"Yes, sir. But—" Prescott hesitates. "It might be wise to give her something small. An illusion of freedom. Quiet her until the wedding."
My blood runs cold. An illusion of freedom. Like I'm a pet that needs appeasing.
"I didn't ask for your opinion." The ice in Father's voice should be familiar by now, but it still makes me flinch. "Sentinel is at a turning point. It's time to finalize the family merger. We can't afford distractions."
Sentinel. The word drops into my consciousness like a stone into still water, sending ripples of dread outward. What is Sentinel? Why does it matter more than my questions, my rights, my life?
"Of course, sir." Prescott's voice drops lower. "I only meant—Viv is persistent. Already suspicious. For now, it might be easier to let her believe she's making decisions."
A pause. Long and weighted.
"I will not coddle her." Father's words are sharp, final. "She'll do as she's told. And you will ensure there's an heir as soon as possible. Sentinel takes priority over her whims."
Heir. The word makes my stomach churn. I press a hand over my mouth, fighting nausea.
Another pause. Then Prescott, his voice so low I have to strain to hear: "Since I'll be moving in... shall I take care of that before the wedding night? Or are we to wait?"
The audacity. The casual way he discusses my body, as if it's already his property. As if I'm a broodmare to be bred on command.
"She's still my daughter." Father's tone shifts—not warmth, but something close to possession. "We abide by tradition. You'll consummate the marriage on your wedding night. After that, I expect no delays."
A tense pause. Then Prescott again, and there's something dark in his voice. Something predatory.
"And if she resists?"
The question hangs in the air. I stop breathing, waiting for Father's response. Waiting to see if there's any line he won't cross, any protection he'll offer his only child.
The silence stretches.
And stretches.
And I realize with dawning horror that he's actually considering it. Weighing his options. Calculating whether tradition matters more than results.