27 - The night before Wedding
Crystal chandeliers bathed the grand hall of Blackwood Estate in a warm, honeyed glow, casting fractured beams across the gleaming marble like a rain of gold.
Every inch of the space radiated opulence—white and gold florals spilled in artful excess from tall pedestals, wrapped themselves around sweeping banisters, and crowned each table with delicate precision.
The air was dense with the scent of lilies and roses, interwoven with high-end perfume and the buttery undertones of hors d'oeuvres crafted to impress rather than nourish.
Waiters moved through the sea of designer gowns and tailored tuxedos with balletic grace.
Clad in black uniforms accented with subtle gold, they glided silently, offering champagne flutes on mirrored trays before guests could even think to ask.
It was a spectacle—one meticulously choreographed to honor a union that hadn't yet happened.
Scarlett Landon stood just inside the arched entrance, back straight but unmoving, her gown gathered lightly in one hand as if the silk might tether her to the floor.
Her other hand hovered near her throat, fingers brushing over bare skin beneath the weight of diamonds that didn't belong to her.
The dress shimmered with every breath—champagne-hued, beaded, ethereal—a masterpiece chosen not by her, but for her.
Mirrors framed the hall, their gilt edges reflecting her from every angle.
She didn't recognize the woman they showed.
There was something manufactured in her face tonight—flawless makeup artfully designed to appear effortless, hair pinned with surgical precision, lips glossed to a softness that didn't feel like hers.
The girl she knew had vanished beneath polish and protocol.
"Scarlett, you look unreal."
The voice at her side cut through the swirl of thoughts. Linda stood beside her, eyes wide with something close to awe, her voice a reverent hush despite their shared cynicism.
Scarlett turned slightly, muscles unclenching at the sight of her friend. "Thanks," she said, offering a small, contained smile. It didn't touch her eyes, but Linda didn't press. She never did.
Linda's presence was a comfort—familiar, grounding, real. Somewhere nearby, Alex lingered, the quiet counterweight to Linda's effusiveness. Together, they were Scarlett's anchors in a room full of strangers who all seemed to know her story better than she did.
But the illusion of calm cracked as the crowd shifted like tidewater, drawing back in reverence.
A corridor of attention opened across the hall.
Scarlett turned in time to see Sarah Blackwood and Clara Blackwood approaching, their movements almost synchronized—spines arrow-straight, heads held at an exact tilt of practiced superiority.
The two women—the matriarchs of the Blackwood name—wore expressions sculpted from restraint. Ethan's mother and grandmother, united by blood and steely resolve, assessed Scarlett with matching steel-gray eyes that missed nothing.
For once, their gaze wasn't entirely disapproving.
Sarah's lips curved upward, just slightly, as she extended her hands. "My dear, you look absolutely radiant," she said, voice raised just enough for nearby guests to overhear. The smile didn't reach her eyes, but it was warmer than anything Scarlett had received from her before.
Clara, regal in her eighties, offered a single approving nod.
Her silver hair was coiled into a perfect chignon, her dress a deep charcoal that glittered subtly under the lights.
Her gaze rested on the diamonds at Scarlett's neck—the Blackwood heirlooms presented that morning with a solemn ceremony, as if wealth alone could sanctify a union.
"A true Blackwood bride," she declared. "You will be a fine addition to our family. "
If only your grandson agreed, Scarlett thought, but her voice remained even. "You're both too kind," she replied with a composure she didn't feel.
Their approval—or the performance of it—left her cold. It wasn't warmth they offered, but welcome to a well-managed acquisition.
Across the room, Scarlett's eyes found her mother.
Emma stood in conversation with one of Sarah's event planners, her posture oddly confident.
Her navy dress, simple and worn with pride, marked her as an outsider, but she didn't seem to care.
Champagne in hand, she smiled like a woman finally invited to the ball.
Scarlett couldn't join her. Not tonight.
Her gaze swept the crowd—rows of polished heirs, their crystal-wearing wives, and polished strangers. Each familiar face confirmed the same truth with quiet finality.
Her jaw tensed. He'd insisted the pre-wedding dinner was critical, a show of unity. And yet, he hadn't bothered to attend. The hypocrisy was galling.
A soft rustle behind her; Sarah had returned, her voice pitched lower now, meant only for Scarlett. "Are you looking for Ethan?"
Scarlett hesitated, caught between pride and honesty. She gave a small nod. No use pretending.
Sarah's sigh was delicate, carefully measured. Her manicured fingers settled briefly on Scarlett's forearm. "He had a business meeting. He won't be joining us tonight."
The words landed like small, precise blows. A business meeting. On the eve of their wedding. Not surprising—but still cruel.
"Of course he does," Scarlett muttered, her voice edged with acid.
Sarah's fingers tightened slightly—a warning—then released. She turned with practiced grace and slipped back into the crowd, the picture of diplomacy.
Scarlett exhaled, tight-lipped. Linda and Alex reappeared at her side, concern etched across their faces.
"He's really not coming?" Linda asked, incredulous.
Scarlett shook her head, her voice brittle with irony. "Apparently, the empire needs him more than I do."
Linda's mouth opened to respond—but then the air shifted.
A hush fell over the room like a curtain. Conversations trailed off. Heads turned.
Scarlett felt it before she saw it—that electric change in pressure, the weight of attention funneling toward the entrance.
Ethan Blackwood had arrived.
He stood in the doorway like a sculpture in motion, dressed in a black suit that fit like armor.
His shirt was crisp, white against his olive skin.
His dark hair was artfully tousled, a little imperfect, like he'd just run a frustrated hand through it—and the effect was devastating. Calculatedly uncalculated.
His gaze moved across the room with cool detachment, then landed on her.
Scarlett's breath caught.
He made his way toward her with measured ease, pausing to greet the powerful and polished, kissing cheeks, murmuring pleasantries. His voice—low and smooth—wafted across the marble in elegant fragments.
"...the Shanghai deal is..."
"...market projections suggest..."
"...quarterly growth should exceed..."
Corporate poetry. Then she noticed the earphones on Ethan's ears.
By the time he reached her, Scarlett had cloaked herself in steel. Her face was composed. Her spine, iron.
She turned slightly, ready to walk away, when his fingers closed firmly around her wrist.
He leaned in. The scent of him—warm, woodsy, expensive—wrapped around her like a net.
"Why are you making it so obvious?" he murmured, voice low and sharp. "Have you forgotten the contract? You're supposed to act like my wife."
Scarlett turned her head just enough that her lips nearly brushed his ear. "Does that clause only apply to me? Because if you want me to behave, maybe you should start first."
She felt him go still. Just for a second. A slight hitch in his breath.
Then he moved. Scarlett took this chance to get away from him. But instead of releasing her, he slid his hand from her wrist to her fingers and laced them together. A possessive, public gesture wrapped in a veil of intimacy.
Scarlett stiffened as he pulled her closer, until they stood nearly chest to chest. "Why are you this close?" she asked, barely audible.
His lips tilted, not quite a smile. "The contract didn't say I can't."
The smugness in his tone struck a nerve.
"What do you want now?" she whispered.
Ethan extended his free hand, palm up. "Hold my hand. Act like my wife."
Scarlett hesitated. She could walk away. But the price—her family's security, her father's fragile dignity—would be higher than her pride.
She placed her hand in his. It fit uneasily, like a key turned the wrong way.
"Better," he said, his voice brushing smugly against her ear.
Together, they moved through the hall like dancers trained in silence. His hand stayed at her back, a guiding weight. His thumb traced slow circles against her spine—comfort to onlookers, a leash to her.
"The Hendersons," he murmured. "He's on the board. She collects orchids."
Scarlett approached the couple with a smile that barely wavered. "Mrs. Henderson, I've heard so much about your greenhouse," she said, and the older woman beamed.
From couple to couple, they performed: the heir and his perfect bride, all polished affection and seamless charm. She spoke when prompted, laughed when required, touched his arm when needed. And all the while, her heart coiled tighter in her chest.
Only the trembling in her hand when he let go, and the tightness at the corners of his eyes, betrayed the lie.
As the night wore down, guests filtered out with laughter and well-wishes. Emma approached, cheeks flushed with champagne, her eyes sparkling.
"You two should slip out early," she said. "Tomorrow is a big day."
Scarlett nodded. "It's been a long day."
Ethan offered no response, just placed his hand at the small of her back again, guiding her toward the exit.
They paused beneath the domed ceiling of the grand foyer, painted with gods and monsters. The sounds of the party had dimmed, leaving a heavy, charged silence.
Their hands remained linked, though the reason had passed.
Scarlett looked up at him. His profile, carved and unreadable, gave nothing away. Tomorrow, they'd vow to each other in front of hundreds. Rings, photos, papers—all forged in obligation, not affection.
He turned, catching her looking. And for one brief second, something passed between them—not understanding, but recognition. They were both trapped.
The moment shattered as the driver approached.
"The car is ready," he announced.
Ethan's hand slipped from hers. The loss of contact chilled her fingers.
"Until tomorrow, then," he said, voice cool and practiced.
Scarlett gave a single nod, unable to summon words.
As he walked away, the weight of what was to come settled around her shoulders like a cloak.
This was only the beginning.