3. Gabriel
Gabriel
This isn’t the first time I’ve made this argument to my mother, but it’s the first time I’ve done it in front of the Beaumonts. With any luck, they’ll come to their senses and this whole cursed marriage will be over before it begins.
“This isn’t just unnecessary, it’s absurd, “ I say, doing my best to keep the desperation out of my voice. “A wedding between us will be laughable. It’ll be damaging for our reputations.”
My mother’s mouth presses into a thin line, and I can tell that she, at least, is mulling things over. The Beaumonts, on the other hand, are a different story.
“You can’t be getting cold feet now,” Mr. Beaumont protests, his voice rising in irritation. He crosses his arms, glaring at me as if I’m the one being unreasonable. “We’ve come too far for you to back out.”
I glance over at Mrs. Beaumont, hoping for a glimmer of understanding in her face, but she looks just as stern, her lips pursed in silent agreement with her husband.
They aren’t budging. This isn’t just a formality for them.
It’s a business deal, a merger between families that they’ve likely been planning for years.
“I’m not getting cold feet,” I argue, trying to keep my voice even. “I’m being realistic. Think about the headlines, the backlash. None of it will be good. We’ll both be dragged through the mud. Do you really want that for your family? For her?”
I don’t dare look at her—my supposed bride-to-be. I can feel her presence behind me, quiet and tense, but I don’t turn around. I can’t. Not now. This is my only chance to get out, and I can’t let the almost painful awkwardness of this situation stop me from trying.
Instead, I turn my gaze back to my mother. “Please. Mother. Think about—”
“Gabriel,” she sighs, interrupting me. “It’s you who needs to think here. If you don’t enter into the marriage your father arranged for you, you will be forfeiting your shares in Thorne Enterprises. You know that.”
Her tone is firm, unyielding, and my heart sinks.
“You do have a choice, you know. This isn’t being forced upon you. If you want, you can walk away from this.” She pauses. “But to do so would mean walking away from your inheritance, as well.”
“Mother—”
“There’s no way around this,” she says ruefully. “I’m sorry. I am the executor of your father’s will. I made a promise to him, and I intend to keep it.”
I should’ve figured it would go this way. My mother, when she wants to be, can be stubborn as hell. I just didn’t expect that the Beaumonts would dig their heels in quite so much.
My mother knows as well as I do that while this is technically a choice, it’s not a reasonable one. I would never walk away from Thorne Enterprises.
I’ve worked too hard, for too long, to lose this. The thought of forfeiting my shares in the company feels like a punch to the gut. Years of effort, sleepless nights, the constant grind—all for nothing? It’s not just a business. It’s my legacy, my father’s legacy.
I’m not an unrealistic person. I know that my attempts to pump the brakes on this wedding are all doomed to failure. This one was particularly desperate. We’re at the engagement shoot, for Christ’s sake. They’re not going to be talked out of this. We’re in too deep.
I had to try, though. Something came over me while I was holding Alexis in my arms for the camera—a fierce, sudden urge to pull away. To stop this, before it spirals out of control.
As I turn away from my mother and the Beaumonts, I take a deep breath, trying to marshal my frustration and banish the tension from my body.
If it has to be this way, then I’ll see it through.
Still, I can’t quite rinse the bitter tang of betrayal from my mouth as I trudge back toward Alexis, every step feeling like a mile.
How could you do this to me? I ask silently. The question is directed at my father, not at anyone present. How could you do this to her?
Alexis stands where I left her, looking lost and vulnerable in a way that punches straight through my carefully constructed walls.
She’s not crying. She’s not asking for help.
But there’s something in her posture, stiff, uncertain, like she’s holding herself together with nothing but sheer will, that makes my chest tighten.
She looks like someone bracing for impact, for whatever comes next.
And I hate that I might be the source of that dread.
A protective urge rises inside me, sudden and fierce. I want to shield her from the pressure and the ridiculous expectations that have been heaped on both of us. But the truth is, I can’t. Not really. The situation we’re in, the forced marriage, the legacy, this photoshoot—it’s inescapable.
“Could you give us a moment?” I say to the photographer. “We’ll be right back.”
Without waiting for an answer, I turn to Alexis. “Would you like to take a walk with me?”
She blinks, seeming startled, like the offer hadn’t even occurred to her as a possibility. For a tense moment, I’m convinced she’s going to say no. That she won’t want to be alone with me, especially not after the awkwardness that’s settled between us like fog.
After a small beat, though, she nods. “Sure.”
We step away from the shoot, our footsteps quiet against the sun-warmed sand.
The salty breeze brushes past us, lifting strands of her hair and carrying the rhythmic hush of waves crashing along the shoreline.
The sound is oddly soothing. Grounding. I don’t look back, and I’m relieved that no one calls out to stop us.
We finally have a moment away from the endless scrutiny, the expectations, the suffocating performance of being something we’re not yet ready to be.
“Where are we going?” Alexis asks, glancing up at me.
“I just thought we could have a moment to breathe,” I say. “No cameras. No pressure. Just… a bit of space.”
She nods again, more easily this time. Her expression shifts slightly, still guarded, but less rigid.
Her shoulders seem to lower by a fraction.
I steal a glance at her as we walk, watching the way the sunlight glints off her copper hair, an almost metallic sheen.
It frames her delicate face like a painting, a halo of light around her. I have to force myself to look away.
“I hope the sh-shoot is going well,” she says, stammering a bit. She’s been doing that a lot. I wonder if it’s a nervous habit, if the pressure is getting to her.
“Seems like it is,” I say. “They’re professionals. How do you think it’s going?”
She lets out a tiny breath of a laugh. “I just hope they got some decent shots.”
“I’m sure they did.”
“My parents hired the b-best photographer they could find,” she continues, her voice quieter now. “So if anyone can pull it off—”
I let out a snort of laughter before I can stop myself. “It won’t take an expensive photographer to make these pictures good. Your smile is like sunshine. You’ll light them up all by yourself.”
She ducks her head to hide it, but I can still see the flush of pink that creeps across her cheeks at the compliment. There’s a moment of silence between us as she keeps her gaze fixed on the sand.
Fuck. There you go again, making her uncomfortable. It’s bad enough that Alexis is being pushed into this arranged marriage. I don’t have to make it worse by flustering her. I should be trying to alleviate the pressure, not pile it on.
I sigh, running a hand through my hair. “Sorry.”
She frowns. “Sorry? For what?”
“Sorry that there isn’t an easy way out of this,” I tell her, my tone rueful, apologetic. “I tried my best. I’m sure you’ve tried too. I wish things were different.”
There’s a long pause, filled only by the rush of the tides. She looks pensive, her gaze still fixed down and forward.
After a long moment, she lets out a breath, an exhausted sigh that takes me by surprise. It’s too world-weary for someone as young as she is.
“It’s okay,” she says. “I’ve known my marriage would be arranged since I was little. I never expected anything else.”
My brows pinch together involuntarily. That strikes me as incredibly sad. It sounds like she’s never really had a choice.
“That’s… horrible,” I say, before I can stop myself.
“Is it?” She shrugs. “It’s just the way things are. You know it as well as I do.”
“It shouldn’t be.” I stop in my tracks, and she follows suit. Around us, the crashing waves have drowned out everything but our voices.
She hesitates, then lifts her shoulders again in another half-hearted shrug. “There’s no point in feeling sorry for myself.”
Unable to stop myself, I turn to her, reaching out to tilt her chin up. Connecting our gazes—holding eye contact with her. “You should. You deserve to marry someone who could love you.”
There’s a flicker of desperation in the depths of her eyes that sends a rush of guilt through me. She swallows, then speaks, her voice tentative and careful. “And… could you…?”
Fuck, I wish I could disappear into the sand. I feel like a monster, but I don’t want to start this off—whatever this is, whether it’s three years of cohabitation or an even more miserable failure—by lying to her, sowing hopes where there aren’t any.
I need to be honest with her, or this will never work.
So I inhale slowly and shake my head. “No,” I tell her, trying to keep my tone gentle. “I don’t see myself ever falling in love again.”