Chapter 29 Vivianne Vows and Violations
TWENTY-NINE
Vivianne: Vows and Violations
The aisle stretches before me like a guillotine's scaffold, every step taking me closer to my execution.
Five hundred faces turn to watch my descent into hell, their expressions ranging from envious to pitying to coldly calculating.
Mrs. Astoria Vanderbilt dabs at her eyes with a lace handkerchief—not from emotion but from the pollen of the ten thousand white roses Father insisted on.
Senator Blackwood whispers something to his mistress, both of them eyeing my dress with the appreciation of people who know exactly how much misery costs.
Fifty thousand dollars of Belgian lace. Seventy thousand dollars of hand-sewn pearls. A four-hundred-thousand-dollar dress for a marriage worth thirty million in merged assets.
They've turned me into a walking spreadsheet.
Father's grip on my arm is a vise wrapped in paternal affection.
His fingers dig into the flesh above my elbow, finding the exact pressure point that sends shoots of pain up to my shoulder without leaving marks that would show in the wedding photos.
He's perfected this hold over years—the loving father guiding his daughter while simultaneously dragging her to her doom.
"Smile." He whispers through his own practiced expression of joy. "Every camera in France is watching."
He's not wrong. Hundreds of phones rise, their black eyes recording every second of my humiliation for posterity and social media. The official photographer—a woman with sharp eyes—circles us like a predator, her camera clicking in rapid succession.
Each step is carefully measured to match the processional music—Pachelbel's Canon—because Father lacks the imagination to choose something original for selling his daughter.
My train trails behind me, six feet of silk and suffering that my cousin's daughters carry with sticky fingers that will undoubtedly leave chocolate stains before this farce is over.
I catalog faces as we pass each row, my mind desperate for anything to focus on besides the altar ahead.
Row five: The Bernardis, who made their fortune in weapons manufacturing and now pretend they've always been old money.
Row twelve: Senator Dubois with his third wife, who's younger than his eldest daughter and already eyeing the groomsmen.
Row eighteen: My finishing school classmates, their faces carefully neutral because they know exactly what this is but would never dare say it aloud.
Row twenty-three: Mrs. Holloway, standing at the edge in her best dress, her eyes meeting mine with something that might be sorrow or might be resignation.
And then, scattered throughout like hidden promises, faces I don't recognize. The photographer whose movements are too precise, too aware. A caterer near the gift table whose shoulders suggest military training. A security guard scanning the crowd rather than watching the ceremony.
Hope flickers in my chest, dangerous and desperate.
But then the altar comes into view, and hope turns to ash.
Prescott stands there like he's posing for a portrait of conquest. His coat fits perfectly, every hair in place, his eyes bright with anticipation that makes my stomach revolt.
He watches me approach the way a spider watches a fly entering its web—patient, certain, already savoring the meal to come.
His best man, Thomas Ashford, leans in to whisper something that makes Prescott's smile widen. Probably discussing their plans for the bachelor party they held last week, the one where Prescott assured his friends that after tonight, I'd be "properly broken in."
The altar itself is a monument to excess. Roses, lilies, and gardenias create an archway with a scent that is overwhelming, cloying, like being buried alive in a florist shop. White silk drapes every surface, turning God's altar into a display of wealth that has nothing to do with love or sanctity.
The priest stands in the center of it all. His face serene, willfully blind to what he's really doing here. The Church has been well-compensated for his selective vision.
Three more steps.
Two.
One.
My father stops at the base of the altar, finally releasing my arm. The blood rushes back into the bruised flesh, pins and needles of returning circulation that I hide behind my bouquet—white roses for purity I lost long ago, not to Prescott but to the truth about what my family really is.
"Who gives this woman to be married?" The priest's voice carries across the silent garden.
"I do." Father announces, loud enough for the back rows to hear. Proud. Possessive. Final.
He lifts my veil, his lips brushing my cheek in a kiss that looks tender but feels like a brand. "Don't disappoint me." Quiet enough that only I can hear.
Then he places my hand in Prescott's.
The touch is an immediate violation. Prescott's palm is damp with anticipation, his fingers closing around mine with the grip of ownership.
He pulls me up the two steps to stand beside him, and I'm close enough now to smell his cologne—too much, as always, trying to cover the scent of his excitement that borders on arousal.
"You look exquisite." His thumb strokes the inside of my wrist in a way that makes my skin crawl. "Worth the wait."
The priest opens his ceremonial book, its pages edged in gold that catches the morning sun. "Dearly beloved, we are gathered here today in the sight of God and these witnesses to join this man and this woman in holy matrimony..."
The words wash over me like water over stone, meaningless sounds that herald my imprisonment. My mind drifts, desperate for escape even if my body can't achieve it.
Where is Paul?
"Marriage is a sacred covenant." Father Francis continues. "Ordained by God, witnessed by the Church, and blessed by the community..."
Prescott's grip tightens, pulling me imperceptibly closer. To the crowd, it must look romantic. To me, it feels like drowning in slow motion.
"Prescott James Harrington—" The priest addresses him. "—will you take Vivianne Amelie Faulks as your lawfully wedded wife? Will you love her, comfort her, honor and protect her, forsaking all others, keeping only unto her for as long as you both shall live?"
"I have prepared my own vows." Prescott produces a card from his pocket with a flourish that draws approving murmurs from the crowd.
Of course, he has. Another performance in this theatrical production.
He turns to face me fully, taking both my hands, his grip ensuring I can't pull away without making a scene.
"Vivianne." His voice is pitched to carry to the back rows. "From the moment I first saw you at the Autumn Gala three years ago, I knew you would be mine."
Would be mine. Not that he would love me. Not that we would be together. That I would be his.
"Your beauty, your grace, your impeccable breeding—everything about you spoke to what I wanted in a wife. Someone to stand beside me as I build my empire. Someone who understands that marriage is about legacy, about power, about creating something permanent in an impermanent world."
The crowd seems to think this is romantic. Actual sighs from some of the women.
"I promise to provide for you, to protect what is mine, to ensure our children want for nothing.
I promise to shape you into the perfect wife, the perfect mother, the perfect partner for the life I've planned for us.
You will never have to worry about anything except pleasing me and raising our family. "
My stomach turns. Every word is a bar in the cage he's building.
"I will possess you, body and soul." His eyes burn with something that isn't love but hunger. "I will guard you jealously, completely, ensuring no other man ever questions who you belong to. You are my greatest acquisition, and I will treasure you accordingly."
He lifts my hand to his lips, kissing my knuckles while maintaining eye contact. The possession in his gaze makes me want to run, but Father's presence behind me is a wall I can't cross.
"These are my vows to you,” Prescott concludes. "To keep you, and make you mine in every way that matters."
The applause is immediate and enthusiastic. They think they've witnessed a declaration of love instead of a declaration of ownership.
Father Francis clears his throat, looking slightly uncomfortable—perhaps even his willful blindness has limits. "Yes, well. Beautiful. Vivianne, would you like to share your vows?"
I haven't prepared anything. What would I say? I promise to die a little more each day. I vow to dream of freedom every night. I swear to hate you with every breath I take.
"She's overwhelmed." Prescott answers for me, his hand moving to the small of my back in what looks like support but feels like a shackle. "We discussed keeping her vows traditional."
We discussed nothing. He decided. Father approved. I was informed.
"Very well." Father Francis returns to his script. "If anyone here knows of any reason why these two should not be joined in holy matrimony, speak now or forever hold your peace."
The silence stretches.
One heartbeat.
Two.
Three.
I scan the crowd, desperate. Someone. Anyone. Please.
The photographer shifts slightly. The security guard's hand moves to his earpiece. The caterer takes a step forward.
But no one speaks.
The moment passes.
"Then let us continue." Father Francis says, and I taste copper where I've bitten my tongue hard enough to draw blood.
"Vivianne Amelie Faulks, will you take this man to be your lawfully wedded husband?
Will you love him, comfort him, honor and obey him, forsaking all others, keeping only unto him for as long as you both shall live? "
The words stick in my throat like broken glass.
Everyone is watching. Waiting. The silence stretches again, but this time it's wrong, uncomfortable.
"Vivianne." Prescott's fingers dig into my back. A warning.
I open my mouth. Close it. Can't make the words come.
"She's nervous." He tells the crowd with a laugh that doesn't reach his eyes. "Stage fright."