Chapter 19 Vivianne The Bees
NINETEEN
Vivianne: The Bees
The crystal chandelier bleeds cold light across the formal dining room, turning everything sharp-edged and clinical. Like an operating theater. Like a place where things get dissected.
Two and a half months since I posted that desperate plea on social media. Sixty-seven days of waiting. Of hoping. Of watching that hope curdle into something that tastes like despair.
Two weeks until the wedding.
No word from Paul.
I smooth my dress for the third time in as many minutes. The silk is cool under my fingers, already perfect, but my hands need something to do. Something to keep them from shaking. From reaching for the phone they took away.
From clawing at the walls.
Prescott sits to my left, radiating satisfaction like heat from a furnace. His cologne—too heavy, too sweet—coats the back of my throat. Makes me want to gag. He shifts, and his thigh presses against mine under the table. Deliberate. A reminder of ownership.
Father sits at the head of the table like a king holding court. Every line of his body speaks of control—spine straight, shoulders back, hands folded precisely on the table. Even the way he breathes feels calculated.
Donovan stands by the door. Silent. Watchful. Always watching.
The clink of silverware against china seems obscenely loud. I push a piece of lamb around my plate, leaving tracks in the sauce. The meat smells rich, perfectly seasoned. My stomach churns with nausea.
When did I last eat? Really eat, not just move food around until someone stopped watching?
"The lamb is exquisite." Prescott's voice cuts through the silence. He lifts his wine glass, swirls the dark liquid. "Don't you agree, darling?"
The endearment scrapes against my nerves like nails on glass.
"It's lovely." I force my mouth into something resembling a smile.
Father's gaze flicks between us. Assessing. Measuring. Finding me wanting, as always. He sets down his knife, the blade aligned perfectly with his plate.
"I'm glad you're both enjoying it. Now, about the final preparations—"
Prescott straightens in his chair. The movement is eager, puppyish. The chair scrapes against hardwood—too loud, making me flinch.
"Of course, sir." He leans forward, elbows on the table. "I've been in touch with the event planner. Everything's on schedule."
A single, economical nod from Father. "And the guest list?"
"Nearly finalized. All key players from both families. Plus a curated selection of business associates." Prescott ticks items off on his fingers. "Social connections that matter."
They continue talking. Numbers. Seating charts. Strategic positioning of guests. Their voices blend into a constant drone, white noise that makes my head ache.
I'm fading. Becoming invisible. Dissolving into the silk wallpaper and polished wood.
My fingers twitch under the table. Itching for my phone. For any connection to the world beyond these walls. But it's gone. Confiscated. Another freedom stripped away.
I clear my throat. The sound barely registers above the conversation.
"Perhaps we could—"
"The flowers will be white roses and lilies." Prescott barrels through my words like they don't exist. Like I don't exist. "Classic. Elegant. Befitting our status."
Our status. Not mine. Ours. As if I've already been absorbed.
"Good choice. What about the music?" Father nods again, and something that might be pride flickers across his face. Never directed at me. Never.
"String quartet for the ceremony. For the reception, that jazz ensemble you mentioned." Prescott preens, shoulders rolling back, chin lifting. "From the Harrington gala."
"Well done."
The praise washes over Prescott. He practically glows with it.
My stomach twists. Bile rises, sharp and acidic.
"I was thinking—" I try again. Push the words out harder this time.
"The menu." Prescott doesn't even glance my way. "Five courses. Seasonal delicacies. The chef comes highly recommended."
The conversation swirls around me. Past me. Through me. Decisions made about my wedding—my life—without a single question directed my way.
The walls inch closer. The chandelier's light sharpens, turns knife-edged. The air thickens until each breath feels like drowning.
Blood rushes in my ears, drowning out their voices.
"What about postponing?"
The words explode out of me. Too loud. Sharp enough to shatter the careful atmosphere they've constructed.
Silence crashes down.
Father's fork clatters against his plate. The sound echoes—china on china, metal on porcelain. His head swivels toward me, movements slow and deliberate. A predator noticing prey that dared to move.
Prescott goes very still. His hand, reaching for his wine, freezes mid-air. Then lowers. Slowly. His fingers curl into a loose fist on the table.
"Postpone?" The word drips from his mouth like venom. His eyes narrow to slits. "Why on earth would we do that?"
I swallow. My throat clicks, too dry. "It's just... everything is so rushed. Wouldn't it be nice to have more time? To make sure everything is—"
"We've discussed this." Father's voice is flat. Final. He doesn't raise it. Doesn't need to. The authority is bone-deep, bred into every syllable. "The date is set."
"But surely a few more months wouldn't—"
"Viv." Just my name. But the way he says it—a warning, a command, a threat all wrapped in two letters.
"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 said we. 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.
Movement catches my eye. Subtle. Barely there. Something flickering at the edge of the tree line.
My pulse skips.
The pull is instant. Visceral. Like a fishhook lodged under my ribs, tugging me toward the window. Toward outside. Toward air that doesn't taste like Prescott's cologne and Father's disappointment.
"I think I'll take a walk." The words come out before I think them through. "In the gardens. Before the sun sets."
Father's attention snaps to me. Sharp as a blade. His eyes narrow, calculating. Assessing threat levels. Escape routes.
"A walk?" He exchanges a glance with Prescott. Silent communication passes between them.
"I just need air." I force a shrug. Keep my voice light. Casual. Like I'm not screaming inside.
The silence stretches. Taut as a wire ready to snap.
Father's gaze slides to Donovan. A single nod—barely perceptible.
"Donovan will accompany you." Not a suggestion. A command. "And don't wander too far."
I bite back the response clawing up my throat. Angry words only make things worse.
"Fine." I stand, smooth my dress. The silk whispers against my legs.
Donovan moves into position. Not beside me—that would be too obvious. Behind. Just far enough to seem respectful. Close enough to grab me if I run.
The garden doors open, and cool air hits my face. Sweet. Clean. Everything the dining room isn't.
I breathe deep, pulling it into my lungs, letting it wash away the suffocating atmosphere. The scent of roses and jasmine. Fresh-cut grass. Earth.