Chapter 3: The Groom

"Celine’s POV"

The black town car glided through the iron gates of the Thornhart estate like a hearse carrying me to my own funeral.

I sat rigid in the back seat, hands folded so tightly in my lap that my nails dug crescents into my palms. Three days had passed since I had signed the marriage contract under my parents’ cold stares and the silent threat of the guards. Three days since I had abandoned the half-packed suitcase on my bedroom floor and accepted the only door still open to me.

Escape had been an illusion.

They had made sure of that.

The Laurent mansion was no longer home. It was a cage I had been traded out of, only to be delivered into another. Every mile the car traveled away from my family felt like another chain tightening around my throat. Xavier’s voice still echoed in my head at night, a porcelain doll, boring, forgettable and Clara’s mocking laughter followed me into sleep. My own parents had looked me in the eye and chosen to institutionalize me rather than let me walk away.

I had no money of my own. No friends powerful enough to help. No future that wasn’t already written in someone else’s name.

So here I was. Celine Laurent, the burden daughter, sold to the Thornharts to clean up a public scandal and secure a shipping alliance. A glorified nanny for a man the entire elite world whispered was mentally broken.

The estate rose ahead of us, a sprawling cliffside mansion of pale stone and dark glass, far more imposing than the Laurent home. Waves crashed against the rocks below, the sound distant and indifferent.

The driver stopped beneath a grand portico. Before I could reach for the door, it opened from the outside.

A woman in her mid-sixties stood there, silver-streaked hair pulled into a neat bun, hazel eyes warm behind wire-rimmed glasses. She wore a simple navy dress and carried herself with quiet authority.

“Miss Laurent,” she said softly, offering a hand. “I’m Mrs. Eleanor Hargrove, head of the Thornhart household. Welcome. You must be exhausted after everything.”

Her voice was gentle, almost maternal. The kind of tone I had never heard from my own mother. For one treacherous second my eyes stung. I blinked hard and took her hand, letting her help me from the car.

“Thank you,” I managed, my voice thinner than I wanted.

She studied me for a brief moment, something kind and knowing in her gaze. “This house has seen its share of pain, my dear. But it also knows how to look after its own. Come inside. I’ll show you to your rooms before the formal introductions.”

I followed her through the wide entrance hall, my heels echoing on marble floors. The air smelled of salt and polished wood. Everything felt colder than the Laurent mansion, yet somehow less hostile. Mrs. Hargrove’s steady presence beside me was the only warmth I had felt in days.

She led me up a sweeping staircase and into a suite overlooking the sea. The room was elegant soft blues and creams, a large bed piled with pillows, French doors opening onto a private balcony. It was beautiful. It was also a beautiful prison.

“You’ll be comfortable here until the wedding,” she said, setting my small bag on a velvet chair. “If you need anything at all, ring the bell by the bed. I’ve been with the Thornhart family for many years. I know how heavy new beginnings can feel.”

Her words nearly undid me. I turned away quickly, pretending to admire the view so she wouldn’t see the fresh tears gathering.

Before I could thank her, voices drifted up from the hallway below.

A soft, childish laugh. Then a low mutter.

Mrs. Hargrove’s expression remained calm, but I caught the faintest tightening around her eyes.

“That will be Master Lucien,” she said gently. “Shall we go down? He’s eager to meet you.”

Eager. The word felt wrong.

I followed her back downstairs on legs that felt wooden. In the grand sitting room, Lucien Thornhart waited.

He was taller than I remembered from the gala, six-foot-two, lean and athletic, with sharp features and those piercing steel-gray eyes. For one heartbeat he looked every inch the powerful heir of a shipping empire. Then the mask settled.

He rocked once on his heels, laughed at nothing, and muttered something under his breath like a child talking to an imaginary friend. His broad shoulders slumped slightly, as if the weight of simply standing was too much.

Beside him stood Lucas Knight tall, dark-haired, with an easy charm that seemed to hold the room together. Lucas placed a supportive hand on Lucien’s shoulder and offered me a polite smile.

“Miss Laurent,” Lucas said smoothly. “Or should I say future Mrs. Thornhart? We’re honored.”

Lucien’s gaze lifted to mine. For a fraction of a second something razor-sharp and entirely lucid flickered behind the haze. Then it vanished. He giggled softly and rocked again.

I stood perfectly still, the same graceful mask I had worn my entire life locked firmly in place. But inside, my emotions churned like the sea beyond the windows, rage at my parents, grief for the life I had just lost, and a cold, creeping dread about the man standing in front of me.

This was the husband they had forced on me. A man the world believed was mentally fragile, spoiled, unpredictable. A man whose family carried its own dark whispers: a yacht accident years ago, a mother left vegetative, a father dead from complications, a fortune built on tragedy.

And yet… something in the way those steel-gray eyes had sharpened for that single instant made my pulse stutter.

I was trapped. No suitcase. No escape. Only this new cage and the strange, broken man I was now bound to.

Mrs. Hargrove touched my arm lightly, her voice soft. “Would you like tea, my dear? You look as though you could use a moment to breathe.”

I nodded, unable to speak.

One prison had closed behind me.

Another had just opened its doors.

And I had no choice but to walk inside.