Chapter 4
Elena
The reception passes in a haze of forced smiles and glasses of my family’s lowest-calorie white wine thrust into my hand by my mother.
Everything feels too bright, too loud, too much.
The lights reflect off the chandeliers above, casting rainbows across tablecloths that I know cost far more than what’s reasonable — I’ve ordered them before for other events.
I go through the motions as I try to pretend like I’m not drowning, accepting congratulations from blurred faces, air kisses from women whose names I should probably remember, and firm handshakes from men who eye me with something like calculation.
Everyone wants their time with the bride who married the wrong groom.
“Elena, darling, you look radiant,” someone coos, someone who looks exceptionally like my mother’s stepsister I’ve met maybe twice before in my life. Radiant. How she’s come to that conclusion when I feel shellshocked and barely held together baffles me.
The rest of my family gleams with new money.
Expensive dresses by top-name designers shimmer under the lights, stupid hats like we’re at the Kentucky derby, suits that cost more than my car fitted perfectly around shoulders, everything exact to scream we’ve made it as they desperately claw at belonging.
Meanwhile, the Highcourt’s extended family and friends exude effortless elegance from generations of wealth — understated jewelry, no overly flashy outfits, watches that have been passed down from father to son. They have nothing to prove here.
Sarah appears at my elbow, pressing a glass of definitely-not-diet-friendly champagne into my hand.
“You okay?” she whispers, her eyes wide, her lower lip red from biting down on it.
She maneuvers herself in front of me, blocking out what I can only imagine is Mom’s overbearing gaze, hiding the flute.
I want to tell her no. I want to tell her that I just went through the motions of marrying a man eighteen years older than me, a man who was supposed to be my father-in-law, and that it will be made legal in the morning.
I want to tell her that my life is spiraling out of control because I couldn’t bear to see the same happen to her.
Instead, I nod.
“Just overwhelmed,” I lie.
She squeezes my hand and taps my other, the one wrapped around the cold, thin crystal flute, a silent order — drink before Mom sees. I down it in a matter of seconds.
“Mrs. Highcourt.” The name sounds foreign, but I turn regardless, the empty flute plucked from my hand by Sarah’s quick fingers as I lock eyes with my father. He’s wearing his signature look, the one that means business, and my throat closes.
He guides me to a quieter corner, away from Sarah, away from my only rock here, and it's like the room is closing in on me again. “The contracts will be adjusted tomorrow after you two go to the courthouse,” Dad says quietly. “Everything will transfer as planned.”
Of course. Heaven forbid he gives me a second to breathe.
“This is better, actually,” he continues. “Harry’s more established, better connected. The merger will be stronger.”
I blink at him, my eyes narrowing at the man who’s meant to love me, protect me, support me. “Is that genuinely all you care about? The merger?”
Dad’s nostrils flare. “Don’t be naive. You’ve known this would be how this worked for fourteen years.”
I have known it. I was raised on it, bred for it, a lamb to the slaughter, a perfect daughter groomed to smile and seal deals with my presence.
If I hadn’t, it would’ve been Sarah up there on that pulpit, and I wouldn’t have been able to live with myself.
But knowing and living it are different things.
“There’s one more matter,” Dad says, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. Dread pools in my stomach. “The marriage needs to be legitimate. Consummated, tonight.”
Heat floods my cheeks. I take a step back, but I meet the wall, nearly knocking the wind out of myself. “Excuse me?”
“If there’s any question about validity—”
“This isn’t the seventeenth century,” I hiss, the words sharp enough that I catch a few stray glances from nearby guests. “What are you expecting? Someone to hold up a lightly bloodied sheet tomorrow morning?”
“Keep your voice down.”
“I think I can decide what happens in my bedroom.”
His jaw tightens. “Can you? Because I think we both know that your judgment isn’t exactly sound.”
He cannot be serious.
I showed up.
I talked Harry into this mess.
I walked down the aisle, eyes open, before he could drag Sarah into it like a lamb to the slaughter.
I said I do to a different man than I thought I would this morning.
I saved his precious deal—
“Elena.” Harry’s voice cuts through my rising anger, smooth and commanding, appearing beside me and gently dragging his knuckles down my upper arm. I turn to my side, just enough to see his charcoal suit and the flash of silver along his jaw. “Ralph. I hope you’re not troubling my wife.”
My wife.
The words send a shiver down my spine.
Dad’s expression morphs from irritation to courtesy. “Just discussing evening arrangements.”
Harry’s eyes flick between us, hovering longer on my tense muscles, my pursed lips, the anger rippling off me in waves.
I don’t bother to hide it, and it’s easy to spot the moment it clicks for him.
His jaw ticks, just once, so quick I almost miss it.
“I think that’s entirely between Elena and me. Don’t you?”
Despite the intonation, it doesn’t sound like a question at all.
Dad hesitates but nods, curt and tight, and melts back into the crowd behind him. Harry lingers beside me, his presence enough to set me on edge — power seems to leak from him whether he’s grinning at guests or whipping my father into something that resembles a decent dad.
It makes my pulse race in a way that warms my cheeks more than it should.
“You want to go back to your room?” he asks, low enough only I can hear it.
“Think my parents will riot if I leave,” I murmur.
He offers his arm. “Not if I go with you.”
And all I can think about is what he looks like under his suit.