Chapter 2 – Vivian
The Laurent townhouse is too quiet.
Not the comfortable, expensive kind of quiet I grew up with—the soft hush of money and order and polished marble—but something colder. Accusatory. Like the walls themselves are listening and waiting to see what I’ll do.
I sit in the parlor with my hands in my lap, nails digging into my palms. The chandelier overhead throws fractured light across the room, scattering gold across my dress in a way that feels mocking.
My father sits opposite me, legs crossed, holding a glass of whisky he hasn’t even tasted.
My mother hovers by the window, pretending to admire the terrace flowers when, in truth, she’s avoiding looking at me.
She hasn’t looked at me since I walked in.
My father continues to speak, his voice that familiar syrup—smooth on the surface, rotted underneath.
“At the end of the day, Vivian, we’ve found a solution.”
My mother flinches at the word solution. I almost laugh. Their version of a solution has never once in my life included me actually wanting it.
“We” means him. It always means him.
My father leans back, fingers tapping the armrest, eyes glinting with that particular kind of Laurent entitlement that has now cracked at the edges.
“Our finances have…tightened.” Another lie dressed in silk.
“But we’ve been offered an opportunity. A partnership that will preserve the family, the business, everything. ”
My stomach drops, even though I already know this won’t be something I can refuse.
“And what kind of partnership?” I ask, even though the answer sits heavy in the air like smoke.
My father smiles. Slow. Poisonous.
“A marriage contract.”
My breath stutters.
My mother’s head drops, shoulders tightening, and finally she whispers, “Vivian…” but her voice breaks before she can finish.
Of course she won’t look at me. Because she knows what this means. Because she let it happen. Because she’s too conditioned—too terrified of him—to stop it.
I straighten, spine stiffening. “I’m not marrying someone to save your legacy.”
My father chuckles. Actually chuckles. “My dear girl, this isn’t about legacy. It’s about survival.”
“Then survive without using me.”
“You are a Laurent,” he says sharply. “Your life has always belonged to this family.”
The words land like a slap.
I laugh—sharp, stunned, ugly. “You’re selling me.”
He doesn’t deny it.
“You’ll thank me,” he says smoothly, “when you’re living in Paris instead of bankruptcy court.”
My stomach twists. My mother sits on the edge of the chaise, spine perfectly straight, refusing to look at me. Coward.
“Who is he?” I demand, my voice tighter than I intend. “If you’re auctioning my life, I should at least know the buyer.”
My father gives the kind of smile men wear when they’re drowning but pretending it’s a swim. Thin. Strained. Arrogant.
“The suitor will remain anonymous until the agreement is finalized.”
“Anonymous?” My voice cracks, then hardens. “You expect me to marry a stranger whose name you won’t even tell me?”
“He’s an international investor with impeccable connections,” he says, every syllable dipped in false calm. “A man whose alliance will stabilize this family.”
My skin crawls.
The world I’ve spent my life curating—the poise, the control, the illusion of choice—feels like it’s splintering around me, cracking like thin glass under a boot.
“All you need to do,” my father finishes, folding his hands like the decision is holy, “is accept the privilege.”
Privilege.
The word tastes metallic.
The Laurents are collapsing, and they plan to break me first so they don’t have to feel the impact.
“I’m not agreeing to anything until you tell me who he is,” I insist. My pulse is a hammer in my throat. “You don’t get to hide this from me.”
“You will speak respectfully,” my father snaps.
“I will speak like someone whose life you’re trading like a stock you over-leveraged.”
His eyes harden. “Vivian—”
“Tell me his name.”
“No.”
“Tell me.”
“There’s nothing more to discuss.” His voice cracks like a whip. “You will do this.”
I open my mouth—whether to scream or laugh or beg, I don’t know—but he cuts the moment short. He rises abruptly, the movement sharp, final.
“This conversation is over.”
And he walks out, leaving the faint scent of his cologne and the echo of his cowardice behind.
The lingering silence is suffocating.
I turn to my mother.
She sits perfectly still in her chair, silver-blonde hair twisted into an immaculate chignon, a pale Chanel suit hugging her frame, a vintage silk scarf knotted elegantly at her throat. Her kitten heels are crossed at the ankles, posture flawless.
She looks like a woman sculpted from cold marble and old money. The kind of mother who believes appearances matter more than happiness.
More than truth.
More than me.
I shake my head slowly. “Are you happy?” I ask her. “With any of this?”
Her lashes flutter, but her face doesn’t break.
“We’re your parents,” she says quietly. “This is for your own good.”
I laugh under my breath—soft, bitter, exhausted. Of course that’s what she’d say. That’s what she always says when she doesn’t want to choose me over him. I rise, every muscle tight, my heartbeat a mix of fury and disbelief.
“It’s not for my own good,” I whisper. “It’s for yours.”
And I walk away before she can say anything else—because if I stay a second longer, I might start screaming.
I storm up the stairs, heels hitting the marble hard enough to echo through the entire townhouse. By the time I reach my bedroom, my pulse is pounding in my ears.
I slam the door shut, lock it, and press my back against it, dragging in a long, shaky breath.
Then another.
Then I start pacing—back and forth across the room, past the silk drapes, the crystal vanity, the curated perfection of a life that has never actually belonged to me.
I’ve always known this was coming.
That I won’t marry for love. I’ll marry for strategy, for legacy, for the preservation of a name that was already crumbling before I was born.
But I thought—God, I thought—I would at least know him.
A face.
A name.
A voice I could learn to ignore or obey.
Something.
Instead, they’re throwing me into a marriage with a stranger. A nameless investor. An anonymous suitor whose identity is being kept from me like I’m too fragile—or too irrelevant—to be trusted with it.
It was better to be forced into engagement than auctioned off.
At least an engagement meant a choice was made for you.
This? This feels like being paraded on a stage while men raise numbered paddles.
My chest tightens. The humiliation burns hot enough to sting behind my eyes, but I blink hard, refusing to let the tears fall.
It hurts. It hurts so much I feel it in my ribs. But I’m cornered.
There’s nothing I can do. No escape. No leverage. No voice strong enough to override a family drowning in debt and pride.
I stop pacing and press my palms against my vanity table, staring at my reflection.
This is the price of being a Laurent.
And now…I have to pay it.
I snatch my phone from the vanity table and unlock it with trembling fingers. There’s only one person I can talk to. Only one person who’s lived through anything even remotely close to this madness.
I type quickly: You home?
Elara Chang.
My best friend since college. The girl who survived the same world of heirs, etiquette, and suffocating expectations. The girl who shocked every single inner-circle socialite when she married into the one dynasty even scarier than her own.
The Bratva.
Everyone in high society whispers about them.
Everyone in low society fears them.
Russian Mafia.
Men who supposedly drink blood, who kill without blinking, who rule with brutality and bullets. Men you avoid because being caught in their snare almost always ends in ruin.
But Elara didn’t get ruined.
Elara got Roman.
A Bratva prince. A man who looks at her like she’s all the softness he’s allowed to touch. A man who would burn the world to ash before letting anyone hurt her.
She’s the only person who can tell me what to do when the life you’re born into starts closing its fist around your throat.
My phone buzzes immediately.
Elara: I’m home. You okay?
No.
Not even close.
Me: I’m on my way.
I grab my bag from the chair, shove my phone inside, and walk out of the room before I can lose my nerve.
If my parents want to sell me, they can do it without my tears. I’m done crying in this house.
I arrive at Elara’s townhouse in thirty minutes, and she’s already standing at the entrance, arms folded, worry etched across her face.
Her expression softens when she sees me.
“Viv?” she calls out, stepping forward. “What’s wrong?”
The moment I reach her, she opens her arms, and I let her pull me into a quick hug before she grabs my hand and guides me inside. Her living room is warm and softly lit, nothing like the cold, echoing luxury of my parents’ home. Everything here feels lived-in. Safe.
We sink onto the couch, and she studies me closely.
“Talk to me,” she says. “Are you okay?”
I force a small smile. “I’m fine.”
Elara just lifts one eyebrow.
I crumble instantly.
I take a shaky breath, press a hand to my forehead, and stare at the patterns on the rug as if they might help me find the words.
Then everything spills out.
I tell her about the marriage contract already in motion. About being sold like a strategic asset. About the humiliation curling like smoke in my chest. About the panic. The helplessness. About the fact that I’m supposed to marry a man whose name my father won’t even say out loud.
Elara listens without interrupting, her expression darkening with every sentence. By the time I finish, she’s gripping the edge of the couch like she’s trying not to break something.
“Oh my God,” she whispers. “Viv.”
I swallow, throat thick. “They’re not even giving me a name, Elara. I’m being married off like a…like a portfolio they want to unload quietly.”
Her jaw clenches.
“Who the hell does your father think he is?” she mutters. “He can’t just—Viv, this isn’t the nineteenth century. You can’t be auctioned off because your family screwed up their finances.”
I exhale shakily, sinking deeper into the couch. “Apparently, I can.”
Her eyes soften with sympathy and anger tangled together.
“Okay,” she says quietly, reaching for my hand again. “Then we figure this out together.”
I close my eyes for a moment, breathing in the soft lavender scent that always hangs in Elara’s living room. It settles my nerves just enough to let the words escape.
“Tell me the truth, Elara.” My voice cracks around the edges. “Why do I have a feeling that this…can’t be fixed?”
Elara exhales, a long, heavy sigh that sounds like she’s been holding it in for years.
“Because sometimes,” she says quietly, “power doesn’t give you choices. Just cages.”
The words land exactly where my father’s had—sharp, painful, but honest in a way the Laurents never are.
My shoulders sag. “I wish….” I swallow hard. “I wish I hadn’t been born into the Laurent family.”
Elara actually lets out a soft laugh—warm, sympathetic, a little bitter. “Tell me about it,” she says. “You’re talking to someone who had her entire life mapped out by other people. All we can do sometimes is hope the man we end up with is a good one.”
I make a small, disbelieving sound. “Hope? That’s all I get now? Hope?”
She squeezes my hand. “You deserve more. I know.”
But that isn’t enough for me. Not today. Not ever.
I shake my head, fire curling low in my stomach. “No. I’m not signing anything without knowing who he is. I don’t care what my father thinks—I’m done being a pawn. Not again.”
Elara’s eyes sharpen, approval flickering across her face.
“Good,” she whispers. “Then we start there.”