Chapter 22 Vivianne Five Hundred Names
TWENTY-TWO
Vivianne: Five Hundred Names
ONE WEEK
"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.
"The invitations are your responsibility, Viv." Father's voice comes from behind his phone now, already scrolling through messages. Not even watching. "You'll make time."
"And you'll be gracious about it." Prescott's thumb finds the spot where my pulse hammers against skin. "Won't you?"
The pressure increases. Just slightly. Just enough.
I meet his eyes. Mistake. There's something eager there, something waiting to see if I'll push back again. Hoping I will.
"Of course." My voice comes out steady. Small victory.
"Good girl." He releases my arm, but his hand trails down to capture my fingers. Brings them to his lips. The kiss is brief. Proprietary. His eyes never leave mine, and there's a promise there that makes ice flood my veins. "We want this to be perfect for you. Don't we?"
"Your mother would have wanted this." Father's voice cuts across whatever Prescott was about to say. "A proper ceremony. Your grandmother certainly did, before she passed."
The invocation of my grandmother hits exactly as he intended. She would've been relieved that I'd be taken care of, that the family legacy would continue. She would roll in her grave if she knew what her son was willing to do to secure a business alliance.
"Of course." I force the words through numb lips. "I'm sorry. I'm just... overwhelmed."
"Overwhelmed." Prescott's breath ghosts across my ear. His hand stays locked on my waist. "That's one word for it."
Father checks his watch again. "The two of you can discuss the details. I have a conference call in ten minutes. Viv, those invitations need to start today."
He's halfway to the door before pausing. "And Viv? The servants have been gossiping about your... mood. I won't have it. Whatever personal feelings you may have, you'll keep them private. This family's reputation depends on it."
The door closes behind him with a decisive click.
I count the beats of silence that follow. One. Two. Three. Four.
Prescott's hand slides from my waist to the small of my back. "Alone at last."
I try to step away. His hand becomes a bar.
"We should discuss the wedding night." His voice is conversational. Pleasant, even. "I want to make sure we understand each other."
"There's nothing to discuss." My voice barely works.
"Oh, I disagree." He turns me to face him. Both hands on my waist now. Heavy. Inescapable. "See, I've been very patient. Very... restrained. Your father insisted. No intimacy before the wedding. No... marks."
The way he says marks makes my skin crawl.
"But after?" He leans closer. "After, you're mine. Legally. Completely. I intend to make full use of my rights as your husband."
"Rights." The word tastes like ash.
"God-given rights." His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "A husband's authority over his wife. Her body. Her obedience."
Submission. Duty. Honor.
The words sound so different in Prescott's mouth. Twisted. Weaponized. He says them like they're chains he's owed, shackles he has every right to lock around my wrists.
Paul uses the same words, but they come wrapped in protection, in devotion, in the kind of reverence that makes me want to give it.
He earns every ounce of my surrender with the way he looks at me—like I'm something precious he's been entrusted to guard.
Like my willingness is a gift he'll spend his whole life being worthy of.
Prescott demands. Paul cherishes.
Prescott takes. Paul receives.
One wants to break me. The other would bleed himself dry before letting me crack.
"You're a monster." The words come out as a whisper.
"Perhaps." He doesn't look offended. If anything, he looks pleased. "In seven days, there won't be a single thing you can do about it."
His hand comes up to cup my face. Gentle. Tender, even. His thumb brushes my cheekbone.
"Our wedding night—" His voice drops lower. "—I'm going to strip you out of that white dress. Lay you down in our marriage bed. And I'm going to take what's mine. Every inch."
My breath catches. Can't help it.
"And here's what I want you to understand." His thumb traces my jaw now. "If you fight me—and God, I hope you do—it will only make me enjoy it more. Your father wants a grandson. An heir. And I'm going to spend our wedding night buried inside you until I've given him one."
Bile rises in my throat.
"In fact..." His eyes darken with something that makes me want to shower for a week. "I'm hard right now, just thinking about it. Just imagining you struggling beneath me, that pretty mouth forming all those protests that won't matter anymore."
"Let go." I barely recognize my own voice.
"Not yet." But his hands drop. He steps back, adjusting his tie, his expression smoothing into something almost respectable. "You should get started on those invitations. Five hundred is quite a lot, after all."
He collects his jacket from Grandmother's chair and shrugs into it. Buttons it with careful precision.
At the door, he pauses. "Oh, and if you embarrass me in front of our guests—if you show anything other than devotion—I'll make sure our wedding night lasts for days. Do we understand each other?"
I don't answer. Can't.
His smile says I've given him exactly what he wanted. "I'll see you at dinner. Wear the blue dress. I prefer you in blue."
The door closes. His footsteps recede down the hall. The front door opens and closes.
Silence.
My legs give out. I sink onto the sofa—not Grandmother's chair, can't sit there now that he's touched it—and stare at my hands. They're shaking. My whole body is shaking.
Five hundred invitations.
Seven days.
I turn back to the window, searching the garden with desperate eyes. Empty flowerbeds. No bees. No messages.
Where are you, Paul?
The afternoon sun slants through the window, warm on my face, and I'm so cold I might never be warm again.
Seven days until I become Prescott's wife.
Seven days until I stop being Vivianne entirely.
Unless Paul comes. Unless the rescue he promised materializes from nothing. Unless—
"Miss Faulks?"
I jump. Mrs. Holloway stands in the doorway, her expression carefully neutral. She's been with the family since before I was born. She loved my grandmother. Adored my mother when she came and made this place her home. She knows exactly what's happening here.
"Your father asked me to bring you the guest list. For the invitations." She sets a leather portfolio on the side table. Doesn't quite meet my eyes. "And the calligraphy supplies."
"Thank you."
She hesitates. Opens her mouth. Closes it.
"Mrs. Holloway?"
"Nothing, miss." But her hand trembles slightly as she smooths her apron. "Will you be taking lunch in here?"
"I'm not hungry."
Another hesitation. "You should eat something. Keep your strength up."
For what? For addressing five hundred invitations to people who'll watch me marry a monster? For surviving a wedding night that Prescott's already promised will break me?
"I'll have tea. Thank you."
She nods and withdraws, closing the door softly behind her.
Five hundred names to write. Five hundred envelopes to address. Five hundred witnesses to summon to my execution.
I pick up the calligraphy pen. My hand still shakes.
The first name on the list: Mr. and Mrs. William Vanderbilt.
I dip the pen in ink. Press it to paper. Form the first letter.
And count down the hours until Paul comes to save me.
He will come.
He has to.
Because if he doesn't, in seven days, I'll cease to exist.