Chapter 5

Chapter 5

CELESTE POINT OF VIEW

I stand at the bedroom window watching morning sunlight spill across perfect gardens, but all I see is my reflection in the glass, a ghost woman in a house that doesn't belong to her.

Two weeks. Two weeks since I became Mrs. Adrian Lancaster. Two weeks of Paris cafés where my husband ordered for me without asking what I wanted. Two weeks of museum visits where he walked three steps ahead, checking his phone while I pretended to admire art. Two weeks of sleeping next to a stranger who touches me like I'm made of porcelain and might break.

Or maybe like I'm something distasteful he has to endure.

Behind me, Adrian sleeps soundly, one arm thrown above his head. He looks different when he's not awake, younger, softer. For these few minutes each morning, I can almost pretend we're a real married couple. That he chose me. That this ring on my finger means something more than a signature on a contract.

Then he wakes up, and the walls go back up.

I wrap my silk robe tighter against the morning chill. This bedroom, our bedroom, feels like a hotel room. Everything new, nothing personal. No photos, no worn books, nothing that tells me who Adrian Lancaster really is beyond the perfect heir everyone sees.

In my dressing room, bigger than my entire dorm room at Wharton when i was still in college, I catch sight of myself in the full-length mirror. I look small. Lost. Like a little girl playing dress-up in her mother's clothes.

*This is your life now,* I tell my reflection. *Better get used to it.*

I dress carefully in cream and navy, conservative but fashionable. The Lancaster wife must always look appropriate. My father-in-law hasn't said this directly, but I feel his cold eyes judging every outfit, every smile, every word that comes out of my mouth.

When I return to the bedroom, Adrian is awake, sitting on the edge of the bed staring at nothing. He does this a lot, disappears into his own head where I can't follow. Sometimes I wonder if he's thinking about another life. One where he didn't have to marry a stranger.

"Good morning," I say, forcing brightness into my voice like I'm auditioning for the role of happy wife.

Adrian blinks, coming back from wherever his mind goes. "Morning." He attempts a smile that looks painful. "You're up early."

"I thought I'd explore the gardens today. The roses are beginning to bloom."

He nods like this is fascinating information instead of desperate small talk. "Sounds nice. I have meetings until evening. The Yoshida contract needs finalizing."

Always meetings. Always contracts. Always excuses to be anywhere but here with me.

"Perhaps we could have dinner together?" I suggest, trying to sound casual instead of pathetic. "Just the two of us?"

Something flickers across his face, discomfort? Guilt? Fear? I can't read him. That's the problem. After two weeks of marriage, my husband is still a complete mystery.

"Of course," he says finally. "I'll be home by seven."

Another lie. I can feel it in my bones. Last night he came home after nine with some excuse about a conference call. The night before, a client dinner he couldn't reschedule. Always perfect excuses delivered with perfect regret.

I watch him disappear into his dressing room, the door closing like a wall between us. Separate dressing rooms. Separate lives. We share a bed but nothing else.

The bed. God, the bed. Adrian is gentle, considerate, technically skilled. But it's like making love to a mannequin. His body is there, but his soul is somewhere else entirely. Sometimes I catch him staring at the ceiling afterward with such sadness in his eyes that I want to shake him and scream, "What are you thinking about? Who are you thinking about?"

But I don't. Good wives don't make scenes.

I open my day planner, scanning today's schedule. Tea with Margaret Whitmore from the children's hospital committee. One of many connections Reginald Lancaster has instructed me to cultivate. "The Lancaster name opens doors," he told me. "Your job is to walk through them gracefully."

My job. As if being Adrian's wife is a position I applied for, complete with duties and performance reviews. Which, in a way, it is.

Adrian emerges from his dressing room in a perfectly tailored gray suit, adjusting gold cufflinks that match his wedding band. He's beautiful, I can admit that. Beautiful in a way that still makes my breath catch, despite everything.

"You look beautiful," he says, noticing me watching him.

"Thank you." *For lying*, I want to add. *For being kind even when it hurts us both.*

He crosses the room and kisses my cheek, a habit that feels rehearsed, like he's following a script titled "How to Be a Husband."

"Seven o'clock," I remind him as he reaches the door, hating how desperate I sound.

Adrian pauses, and for a moment his mask slips. I see something raw in his eyes, pain, maybe guilt. Then it's gone. "Seven o'clock," he confirms.

The footsteps fade down the hallway, leaving me alone in our beautiful, empty bedroom.

I spend the morning walking through gardens that feel like a museum exhibit, perfect, untouchable, not mine. Every flower, every statue, every bench was chosen by generations of Lancasters. I'm just the latest decoration they've added to the collection.

At the Silver Teahouse, Margaret Whitmore dissects me with her eyes while discussing the hospital gala. She wants my father's European contacts, my mother's aristocratic connections. Not me, my value as a commodity.

"The Lancasters have always been generous supporters," she says, stirring her tea with surgical precision. "Reginald and Adrian understand the importance of community visibility."

*Image. Perception. Appearance.* The holy trinity of Lancaster life.

"You'll be co-chairing with me this year," Margaret continues, sliding a thick folder across the table. "The Moreau-Lancaster connection opens new donor possibilities."

There it is. I'm not Celeste anymore. I'm a connection. A networking opportunity. A door to new money.

"How are you settling into married life?" Margaret asks with fake concern. "The transition must be... challenging."

She's fishing for gossip about our rushed marriage. Everyone knows it was arranged. Everyone's waiting for the scandal to break.

"Wonderfully," I lie. "Adrian is everything I could hope for in a husband."

*Distant. Cold. Possibly in love with someone else.* Everything I hoped for.

By the time I escape to my car, my face aches from smiling.

"Home, Mrs. Lancaster?" James asks.

*Mrs. Lancaster.* The name still sounds foreign. Like wearing someone else's clothes.

Back at the estate, I throw myself into committee work, organizing donor lists and event timelines. Anything to stop thinking about my husband's sad eyes, his careful kisses, the way he holds me like I might disappear.

By six-thirty, I've changed into a simple blue dress, arranged dinner in the intimate dining room, selected wine from the cellar. I even dismissed most of the staff so we could be alone.

Seven o'clock comes and goes.

At seven-thirty, I call his office. "Mr. Lancaster left at five," his assistant says, sounding surprised. "He mentioned dinner plans with you."

My hands shake as I hang up. He left at five but never came home. Where is he? Who is he with?

I try his cell. Voicemail.

By eight, the dinner is cold. By nine, I've given up and retreated to the library with the wine I chose so carefully.

This is Adrian's space, the one room that feels genuinely his. Dark wood, worn leather chairs, books that look actually read instead of just displayed. Here, finally, are pieces of the man I married.

I run my fingers along book spines, reading titles. Philosophy. Architecture. Art history. Subjects we've never discussed. A whole interior life he's never shared with me.

*Who are you, Adrian Lancaster?* I whisper to the empty room. *And who did you leave behind to marry me?*

Standing in our bedroom later, I study my reflection. Mrs. Adrian Lancaster looks back, perfectly groomed, perfectly poised, perfectly miserable.

Two weeks of marriage, and I'm already talking to myself in empty rooms. Two weeks, and I'm already wondering if this beautiful prison will slowly drive me insane.

But I'm a Moreau. We don't break. We adapt.

I'll master the committees and charity galas. I'll learn to navigate Lancaster society. I'll become the perfect wife this family expects.

And maybe, eventually, Adrian will tell me why he always looks so sad. Why he touches me like penance instead of passion. Why I sometimes catch him staring at his phone with the expression of a man watching his heart walk away.

Maybe someday he'll trust me enough to tell me about the life he gave up to marry me.

Until then, I'll play my part. I'll be patient.

But God, it hurts more than I expected it would.