Chapter 4

They stopped at the small clinic on the outskirts of the city. Her mother had been moved there for closer monitoring after the stress induced collapse.

Iris walked the white halls with her father at her side, a bouquet of fresh flowers in her hand.

Her mother was asleep when they arrived, thin and pale, hooked to an IV, but her breathing was steady, peaceful.

Mr Hargrove reached for her hand and kissed it gently.

“You'll be okay, darling,” he whispered. “We're getting our life back. One step at a time.”

Iris stood at the foot of the bed, silently watching her mother.

Her chest tightened.

“One step at a time,” She echoed.

But she wasn't sure which direction those step were leading.

As they walked back to the car, Iris glanced down at her phone again–no new messages.

Still, her finger hovered above Marx's contact.

She didn't know why.

She didn't plan to call but something inside her wanted to call him to hear his voice again.

“No. Stop it,” she told herself. He's not your savior, he's just playing his part.

****************************

The dinning table was quiet except for the soft clink of cutlery against ceramic. Iris pushed her food around , her appetite buried under a hundred thoughts.

Her father finally broke the silence.

“You've barely touched your plate.”

“I'm just tired,” Iris muttered.

“It been a long week for all of us,” he said gently, reaching for his water glass. “But things are getting better. Thanks to Marx.”

Her jaw tensed. There it was again — that name. That complicated, cold man who played saviour with a smirk.

Before she could respond, the doorbell rang.

Iris glanced at her father, who nodded for her to get it.

At the door stood a sharply dressed man with silver- framed glasses, holding a sleek black briefcase.

“Miss Iris Hargrove?” He asked with a professional smile, “my name is Gerald Vaughn. I'm Mr Danver’s personal attorney.”

“Attorney?” Iris stepped aside to let him in.

They moved to the sitting room, her father trailed behind, confusion growing.

Mr Vaughn opened his case and handed over a thick folder.

“This?” He said, “is the official marriage agreement between Mr Marx Danver and Miss Iris Hargrove. It outline the terms of the arrangement, property clause, confidentiality and public appearances.”

“So formal of him,” her father mumbled , taking a seat.

Iris sat down across from the lawyer , flipping open the document. Her eyes scanned the clauses.

-No disclosure of the nature of agreement to third parties

- minimum of two year cohabitation.

- public presentation as a romantic couple.

- limited physical expectation, unless in public places.

- no interference with Mr Danver's business affairs.

“It's a lot,” Iris murmured.

“Mr Danver is thorough,” the lawyer replied cooly, “he want to ensure both parties understand what this union means- publicly and privately.”

Iris glance at her father who nodded slowly.

She hesitated for only a moment, then reached for the pen.

Her hand shook slightly as she signed her name on the last page.

Iris Hargrove.

It was done.

The lawyer slipped the file back into his briefcase, he handed her a small, elegant envelope.

“This,” he said, “ is your access card to the gown collection at Monarave Atelier. Your dress is ready for pickup tomorrow. A stylist will be available in site.”

“Thank you, “ she said softly.

“Congratulations,” the lawyer said, rising to his feet. “We'll be in touch with the wedding itinerary shortly.”

And then he was gone.

Iris sat back on the couch, staring at the white envelope in her hands. Monarave Atelier, only the richest in the country shopped there.

“You okay?” Her father asked.

She nodded but didn't speak.

Because deep inside her heart, something stirred.

Not excitement.

Not fear.

Just a feeling she couldn't name.

One that whispered.

This man is controlling everything.

And she had just agreed to let him.

****************************

The interior of Monarave Atelier gleamed with elegance – crystal chandeliers, ivory walls, and a fragrance that smelled expensive.

Iris had never stepped foot in a place like this. Her fingers tightened around her access card.

Beside her, Dina whispered, “Girl….this place screams, ‘you don't belong here’”

“We're not here to belong,” Iris replied, swallowing her nerves, “we're here for the dress .”

A receptionist in a champagne - gold suit approached them with a bright, courteous smile.

“Miss Hargrove, we've been expecting you. Right that way.”

She led them through a velvet-drapped hallway into a private showroom.

A snow white wedding gown shimmered under the soft lightning – satin lace and Swarovski crystals. It looked like something torn out of a fairytale.

“Oh my God,” Dina whispered, “that dress probably cost more than your father while company.”

Iris took a deep breath and approached it slowly. She couldn't deny it.

She looked stunning in it. But it felt surreal, like playing dress up in it.

“Go on,” Dina grinned, “try it on.”

But just as the stylist handed the dress to Iris. The door swung open