17. CHAPTER 15 #2
I laughed then, the sound short and hoarse. Tears threatened to spill, so I tilted my head back, staring at the ceiling until the sting receded. I wouldn't let it ruin my make up or Orion Kade’s precious Dior.
He laughed too, but the sound was heavy with the things we couldn't say.
“Ready?” the planner chirped.
No.
“Yes,” I said.
Madame Devereaux handed me my bouquet; white peonies and garden roses bound to an ivory silk ribbon. I wrapped my fingers around it and held it tight enough till my knuckles ached.
“See you out there,” Blaise said, then walked out of the room.
Realisation dawning that there was no going back from here.
My mother fussed with my veil as if adjusting a signal flare, her touch more indifferent than maternal.
“Head high,” she whispered, which in our house means smile like you chose this.
I caught my reflection. A woman dressed in neutral tones and finer things. A diamond necklace sat on my throat like a weighted collar, and my eyes remained wide and dry. I refused to give them the theater of my tears. If I squinted, I looked like the perfect bride. I just didn't look like myself.
I didn’t feel like myself either.
“Breathe,” I slowly eased out a breath from my mouth.
My mind drifted briefly and I let myself imagine I was in the dress I wanted, marrying a man who loved me. I let myself imagine that this was the wedding of my dreams… then I let it go. Not because it didn’t matter, but because the show must go on.
Annette was adjusting the end of my veil when the door opened.
I turned, irritation already climbing my spine. It curdled into something else entirely when I saw who stepped in.
Orion Kade walked in.
His frame filled the door and the frantic energy of the room—the planner’s rambling, my mother’s fussing—simply died.
He was dressed in a dark suit, the fabric so matte it seemed to absorb the light, and no tie.
The open collar of his shirt felt less like a casual choice and more like a calculated dismissal of the day’s formalities… or maybe not.
I couldn’t tell from my pulse trying to steady itself.
Why was he here?
I had prepared myself for meeting him at the ceremony. I saved all my courage for it infact. Nothing prepared me for him barging into the bridal salon.
Behind him, one of the coordinators fluttered, obviously panicking.
“Monsieur Kade, vraiment, you can’t be here, it’s—”
“It’s my wedding,” he said, without even looking at her. His voice was low-pitched, smooth, unhurried. “I think I qualify for access.”
The words rolled through the room like a formal decree. The coordinator flushed, looked at me helplessly, then at the open doorway, as if some etiquette god might appear and smite him.
My mother stood by the door, a puzzled look on her face. “It’s bad luck to see the bride before—”
“Close the door,” he said, still not raising his voice.
It wasn’t loud, but everyone heard it. Two of the staff standing near the threshold exchanged glances. The planner flinched.
“Out,” Orion ordered, with a faint tilt of his lips that wasn’t quite a smile. “Just for a moment. I’d like a word with my bride.”
My bride.
The phrase slid under my skin unwelcomed.
The corridor fell into a tense shuffle of movement. éliane couldn’t hide her sudden irritation as our gazes met over his shoulder. Her eyes were tight with disapproval.
“Two minutes,” she said to him in French. “We are already late.”
He inclined his head. His demeanor reflected how much he didn’t care.
The door shut.
The room immediately fell into a silence so thick, a knife could cut through.
For the first time since his name had become the axis of my life, we were in the same room.
He turned fully to face me. His eyes met mine but I didn’t look away.
I’d seen his face a dozen times in photographs. None of them had done the slightest justice to what it felt like to stand in front of him while his attention pinned me in place.
His eyes were darker than the pictures suggested—rich brown gone almost black under the weight of his full lashes.
The editorials had captured the geometry of his face—the sharp fade, the deep, obsidian waves of his hair, the rich tan of his skin, but they had failed to capture the gravity of him.
He wasn't just handsome; he was overwhelming. The photos hadn’t warned me that being near him would feel like standing too close to danger.
There was no softness to him anywhere; even still, he looked like he’d just walked off some editorial spread about power and sin.
I stood there in full bridal couture, and for seconds, maybe minutes, I forgot how to move.
He studied me openly. No attempt at politeness. His gaze travelled the length of me, slowly, like he was absorbing every detail for reasons he didn’t bother disguising.
Heat crept up my neck. I lifted my chin in a bid to reinforce my stance; forcing my spine straight.
“If you were worried the dress wouldn’t fit as you’d like,” I broke the silence, my voice firmer than I felt inside, “you could have asked for the measurements. That’s usually how fittings work.”
A trace of amusement, maybe—touched his lips.
“Good,” he murmured. “You can speak.”
“I do it on special occasions,” I replied.
We looked at each other for a moment too long. It almost felt like a staring contest. One of those games where anyone who looked away first would lose.
It was ridiculous, how aware I was of everything—the way his suit sat perfectly across his shoulders, the faint stubble on his jaw, the watch at his wrist that probably cost more than most people’s houses.
The controlled stillness of him that scared me.
The fact that even just standing there, he felt like the center of gravity.
“What do you want, Monsieur Kade?” I asked flatly. “We’re not due at the altar for another… what…” My eyes turned to the clock on the wall. “Fifteen minutes? I assumed that’s your preferred time for ambushing people.”
“Orion.”
I blinked. “What?”
“My name,” he clarified. “If you’re going to insult me, you might as well do it properly.”
I almost smiled. The audacity on this man I barely knew.
“What do you want, Orion?” I repeated. Mentally stopping myself from dragging out the latter.
He watched me for another heartbeat, then moved further into the room, closing the distance between us until he was standing a few steps away. Close enough that I could smell his cologne. Clean, expensive, and threading the air.
“Many things, Léonie,” he said calmly. “I want many things.”
He didn't wait for an invitation. He adjusted his cuff with a terrifyingly calm precision, then sat in the chair opposite where I stood. Taking control of the room like he owned the space.
I placed my bouquet on the dressing table and released the stems quickly before the trembling in my hands became obvious.
“But today, I thought I’d start with something simple. A conversation.”
“A conversation,” I said. “Now?”
“The timing works perfectly,” he replied his gaze never leaving me.
“I was hoping to hear from you after we signed the truce and laid out the terms. You never reached out.”
I stared at him. He expected me to reach out? We weren’t even on speaking terms.
My family hadn’t even shown me the contract, let alone laid out anything. I was shut down everytime I asked about it. My father had said it was under control, and said I was only required to play my part. My mother had told me to focus on wedding planning and flower samples.
If only he knew how in the dark I actually was.
He watched my face as though he could see every thought moving.
“Don’t you have terms of your own?” he asked before I could say anything.
Terms.
He wanted me to list out terms like an equal party at the table instead of an insignificant object in the room. That's surprising.
I glanced at the clock on the wall again. “We have seven minutes before someone bursts in here and starts panicking.”
“I don’t see anyone else getting married today,” he said, his eyes still on me. “They can wait.”
He leaned back, crossed one leg over the other, and adjusted his cufflink like we were discussing dinner reservations.
“Go on,” he said. “You start.”
I stared at him. “You’re serious.”
“I’ve just renegotiated half of your family’s future, Léonie. I don’t waste time on hypotheticals. You have terms. Say them.”
He wasn’t even looking at me now. His attention was apparently on the tiny, detailed movement of gold on his wrist. As if he were bored, and this was a minor administrative step before heading downstairs to sign more papers.
Infuriating doesn’t begin to describe what I felt. I hated how calm he was.
“All right… terms.”
His fingers stilled, but he didn’t look up.
“I will not be humiliated in public,” I began. “Not by you, or your family. If you have an issue with me, you bring it to me directly.”
He nodded.
“I keep my work,” I continued. “My projects. My independence. I’m not quitting anything just because my last name changes.”
He nodded again. His eyes still on his cufflinks like it held some magical powers.
“And I’m not a… weapon,” I added, the word sour in my mouth. “You don’t get to punish my father through me, or punish me through my father. You have a problem with Demola Fernández, deal with Demola Fernández.”
Something stirred behind his eyes, but it was gone almost immediately.
“I don’t need you to tell me how to deal with your father,” he said evenly. “But go on.”
I had half a mind to ask what that meant, but I let it go… for now.
“You don’t get to isolate me,” I made sure to emphasize this one. “Céleste, Isolde, my friends…they’re not negotiable. Neither is Madame Devareaux. If you’re planning to uproot me, those ties stay.”
He finally lifted his gaze from his cuffs.
“Devareaux?”
“Our housekeeper,” I said. “She has been with us since I was young. I’d like to maintain our relationship.”
The corner of his mouth slanted. “Is that all?”
I raised my chin higher. “Those are my terms.”