Chapter 4

Chapter 4

The cathedral bells ring nine times, each sound echoing through my chest like death. I stand in a side room of St. Margaret's Cathedral, staring at my reflection. My black tuxedo fits perfectly, custom-made, Italian fabric, gold cufflinks with the Lancaster crest. I look exactly like a man should on his wedding day. Only my eyes show the truth, empty, dead.

"Five minutes," my best man says, a second cousin chosen for family connections, not friendship. "Nervous?"

I adjust my bowtie. "No."

How can I be nervous about something that means nothing? This isn't a wedding. It's a business deal. A merger of families.

When he leaves, I touch the airplane ticket stub hidden in my pocket. Chicago. Seat 14A. The flight I didn't take two days ago. My escape route, crumpled but kept as a reminder of what could have been.

My phone buzzes. A text from an unknown number: *I hope you find peace someday.*

Elias. After two days of silence, these seven words cut deeper than any anger. No hate. No bitterness. Just a goodbye wrapped in a blessing I don't deserve.

The door opens without a knock. Grandfather enters, magnificent in his own tuxedo, silver cufflinks gleaming, Lancaster family ring heavy on his finger. At eighty-four, he still moves with purpose, back straight, eyes missing nothing.

"It's time," he says, looking me over critically. "You'll do."

"Grandfather," I say flatly. "I need to ask you something."

He checks his watch. "Make it quick. Six hundred guests are waiting."

"My father. You started to tell me something about him. The day you... the day we discussed this wedding."

His face hardens. "Not today."

"Yes, today. Before I walk out there and sell my soul to your legacy, I deserve to know. What happened to my father?"

For a moment, he looks his age, lines deepening under the weight of memories. Then he straightens again, mask firmly in place.

"Your father fell in love with someone inappropriate. Someone who would have damaged the Lancaster name." His voice turns cold. "I gave him the same choice I gave you. Duty or disgrace."

"And?"

"And he chose wrong. He chose her. Lost everything, position, inheritance, family. Then lost her too, when she realized he had nothing to offer but empty promises."

"My mother," I whisper.

"Not your mother. That came later, when he crawled back, begging for another chance. I arranged a suitable match. Your mother. A proper wife who gave him a son."

The floor seems to tilt under my feet. "So my parents' marriage..."

"Was exactly like yours will be. Practical. Proper. And in time, they found a certain happiness in accepting their roles."

"Until they died," I say, my voice strange to my own ears.

"Yes." Something flashes across his face, pain, maybe regret, gone quickly.

A knock at the door announces the wedding coordinator. "Mr. Lancaster, everyone's seated. The bride is ready."

Grandfather places both hands on my shoulders. "Your father was weak. You are strong. Remember that today."

The church opens before us, high ceilings soaring overhead. Six hundred faces turn as I take my place at the altar. Cameras flash despite requests against photos. This isn't just a wedding; it's a show. I scan the crowd, recognizing senators, judges, CEOs. My eyes catch on an empty seat in the back row. For a wild moment, I imagine Elias sitting there, watching this fake ceremony.

But Elias is gone. Probably on his way to Chicago already.

The organ begins. Everyone stands as one. The doors open, showing Celeste Moreau framed in the doorway, her father beside her. Her dress is elegant, silk and lace flowing around her slim frame. Her dark hair is pinned up with pearl clips, a long veil floating behind her. She is, objectively, beautiful. In another life, I might have appreciated that beauty without resentment.

As she glides toward me, I force my face into the right expression, awe, admiration, joy. I've practiced it in the mirror all week. Another mask to wear.

Her father places her hand in mine. Her skin is soft, her fingers shaking slightly.

"Hi," she whispers.

"Hi," I respond, the word sticking in my throat.

The ceremony passes in a blur. My mind drifts to Elias's apartment, to the taste of his skin, the sound of his breathing, the way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. To the life we could have built if I had been braver.

"Do you, Adrian Reginald Lancaster, take Celeste Marie Moreau to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

The question jerks me back to the present. Six hundred guests holding their breath. Grandfather watching, eyes sharp. Celeste looking up at me, trust written across her face.

"I do." My voice doesn't shake. Years of board meetings have taught me to sound confident even when lying.

Celeste's "I do" rings out clear and joyful.

We exchange rings, platinum bands blessed by the priest. I slide one onto Celeste's finger. She places the matching band on mine, the metal cold and heavy, a chain disguised as jewelry.

"By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife."

I kiss her gently. She kisses me back, soft and sweet and full of promise. Promise I'll never fulfill. Dreams I'll inevitably crush.

Outside, photographers wait, shouting our names. These people aren't celebrating love; they're documenting a business merger wrapped in white satin and flowers.

The reception is at the Whitelaw Hotel, the same place where I saw Elias just a week ago. The ballroom has been turned into a garden of white roses and crystal. I shake hands, accept congratulations, thank guests. I dance with Celeste, her body small in my arms. But she doesn't fit the way Elias did, like two pieces of the same puzzle.

"You're very quiet," Celeste says during our third dance.

"Just taking it all in," I reply. "It's a lot to process."

"We haven't had much time to get to know each other. A week of dinners isn't much foundation for a marriage."

"We have a lifetime ahead of us," I say.

A lifetime of pretending. Of lying. Of slowly dying inside.

"I want you to know," she says quietly, "I understand this wasn't entirely your choice. Our fathers arranged this match for business reasons." She hesitates. "But I believe we can make something real from it. Something good."

My step falters. She knows. Not everything, but enough. Enough to make her statement generous. Enough to make my deception even more cruel.

"You deserve that," I say truthfully. "Something real. Something good."

"We both do. We can learn to love each other, Adrian. I'm willing to try if you are."

The song ends before I can respond, saving me from another lie.

Later, Philippe Moreau, Celeste's father, pulls me aside. "My daughter is my greatest treasure," he says. "She believes this marriage can become a love match. She is young, still romantic despite her business education."

I nod, unsure where this is going.

"I am not romantic," Philippe continues. "I am practical. This union benefits both our families. But understand this, if you hurt her, if you humiliate her, if you fail to give her the respect she deserves, no amount of money or influence will protect you from me."

"I understand," I say.

As midnight approaches, we prepare to leave. Celeste changes into a cream-colored traveling suit. My phone buzzes: *Plane landed in Chicago. Starting over. Hope you find your way someday too.*

I stare at the screen, something breaking inside me all over again. Elias has really gone. Really left.

"Ready, husband?" Celeste appears at my side.

I pocket my phone. "Ready, wife."

We step outside into cheers, rushing toward the waiting limo. As we settle into the backseat, Celeste leans against me with a tired sigh. "Well, we did it."

"We did." I stare out the window.

"I know this isn't a fairy tale," she says. "I know marriages like ours are built on practical foundations, not passion. But I think.... I hope..... we can find happiness together, Adrian. Real happiness, not just the appearance of it."

Her honesty deserves honesty in return. But I can't give it. So I kiss her forehead instead, a gentle promise I'm not sure I can keep.

"Get some rest. It's a long flight to Paris."

She nestles against me and soon falls asleep. I continue staring out the window. Somewhere in those millions of lights is the apartment where Elias lived. Empty now. A ghost of what could have been.

The limo turns onto the highway, picking up speed. I feel myself being carried further from the life I wanted and deeper into the one chosen for me. The perfect husband. The perfect heir. The perfect liar.

I close my eyes, one hand still holding my phone with Elias's final message, the other gently holding my sleeping bride. Two worlds that can never exist together.

The wedding is over. The performance has begun.

And somewhere high above, on a flight to Chicago, the man who holds my heart starts a new life without me.