Chapter 23: The Wedding Planning

Leo Vance

The days since I chose the cold, safe beauty of the Sculpture—since I chose Dmitri’s will over my own artistic voice—had settled into a terrifying routine. I was compliant. I sketched the perfect, sterile forms they wanted. I sat at meals. I let them touch me, and in the dark, I stopped fighting the terrible, consuming pleasure of being completely overwhelmed. I had become the perfect captive, the beautifully organized asset.

But nothing prepared me for the sheer, brutal absurdity of the afternoon.

My mother, Eleanor, was allowed a highly monitored, two-hour visit to the Residence’s sunroom—a vast, glass-enclosed space overlooking a fountain—for "wedding administration." She was bubbly, oblivious, and completely consumed by the details of her impending marriage to Arthur Volkov.

I sat across from her at a wide, polished table covered in swatches of silk and stacks of cream-colored stationery. I was there as her supportive son, the happy future step-son.

“Leo, darling, thank you for coming up here. Arthur insisted you needed the quiet time, but I need your aesthetic eye, truly,” Eleanor chirped, pushing a heavy, embossed invitation sample toward me. “The paper stock—is it too creamy? I feel like the font needs more weight, don’t you think? Something that says ‘enduring power,’ not just ‘pretty party.’”

I picked up the card, the thick, soft paper a devastating contrast to the hard, aching reality of my body. Enduring power. That’s what they sell.

My mind was a scream of panic and disbelief: I am sitting here discussing paper stock while my artistic soul is dead, my best friend hates me, and the men who claim ownership over my body are ten feet away, in the library, listening to every breath I take.

I could hear them. The library doors were slightly ajar, letting in the low, steady murmur of their voices.

“Too much flowery script,” I said, forcing my voice to sound professional and detached. “It needs a heavy seriff, Mom. Something classic that matches the architecture here. You want solid, old wealth, not frivolous expenditure.”

Eleanor beamed. “See? That’s why I need you! Now, look at the linen options for the reception. Do we go with the pale gold, or the deep, saturated crimson?”

I reached out for the fabric swatches. At that exact moment, Dmitri’s voice, deep and clear, cut through the wall from the library.

“Ivan, the Rinaldi contract is not secure until we eliminate the exit clause. It’s a foundational vulnerability. We will not proceed until that provision is removed.”

The words were so loud, so absolute. I flinched violently, dropping the gold swatch.

Eleanor didn’t even notice, too focused on the silk. “Crimson, Leo? Do you think it’s too much? It feels very Volkov, but maybe too severe?”

“No, the crimson is perfect,” I managed, my eyes darting toward the library doors. My heart was pounding. “It’s serious. It matches the foundational structure of the family. You need that weight.”

I was using their language now, weaponizing the vocabulary of control against my own mother's wedding plan.

Then, the second voice came. Ivan’s. He sounded thoughtful, amused, and dangerously close.

“Dmitri, the exit clause in Rinaldi’s contract is a small gesture of humanity. It’s what makes the deal appealing. We don’t need to eliminate it entirely; we just need to ensure the penalty for utilizing it is disproportionately high. We preserve the illusion of choice, while guaranteeing the cost of defiance is astronomical.”

The words—illusion of choice and cost of defiance—were a direct, personal assault. They weren't talking about Rinaldi; they were sending a message straight through the wall to me. They were reminding me of the price of my own surrender, all while my mother debated canapés.

I felt a wave of dizzying panic. My knuckles were white as I gripped the table edge. I couldn't breathe.

“Leo? Are you feeling alright, dear? You’ve gone terribly pale,” Eleanor asked, finally noticing the sweat on my brow.

“Just… the light,” I stammered. “It’s very intense in here. Too much sun exposure.”

I needed air. I pushed my chair back, intending to walk to the glass door for a moment's respite.

As I did, Ivan stepped out of the library, casually leaning against the doorframe. He held a glass of dark liquid—whiskey, perhaps—and was looking directly at me, his gaze full of dark amusement. He hadn't just been in the next room; he had been monitoring my proximity to the door.

“Leo, if you need a moment, take it,” Ivan suggested, his voice deceptively smooth, polite, and completely audible to Eleanor. “The aesthetic choices can be overwhelming when you lack a clear strategic objective.”

He walked slowly toward me, his attention fixed on my face, completely ignoring Eleanor.

“I’m fine, Ivan,” I replied, trying to force the perfect, neutral expression.

He stopped right beside me, close enough that his expensive scent—clean, cool, possessive—overwhelmed the scent of fresh flowers in the room. He leaned down, his mouth barely moving.

“Your hands are shaking, asset,” Ivan murmured, his voice too low for Eleanor to hear. “And your pulse is racing. Your body is screaming defiance, while your mouth is saying ‘crimson linen.’ The dissonance is inefficient, Leo. We must resolve it.”

He didn't wait for a response. He subtly, deliberately, pressed the side of his hand against my hip—the exact spot where Dmitri’s hand had rested during the lunchtime trap. The contact was brief, a spark of possessive heat, a devastating reminder of the night before.

I gasped, the sound lost in my chest. The forbidden touch, here, now, in front of my oblivious mother, shattered my composure. The shame was paralyzing, but the raw, visceral feeling of being claimed was an addiction.

Ivan straightened up, offering me a slow, cruel smile—the smile of a man who knows he controls every molecule of my nervous system.

“I was just telling my brother that Leo has a real eye for detail, Ivan,” Eleanor said brightly, completely unaware of the silent, brutal negotiation taking place inches from her face. “He says the crimson is perfect for the banquet.”

Ivan turned to Eleanor, instantly flipping the switch back to the charming, cold stepson. “Leo has an exceptional understanding of strategic visibility, Eleanor. He knows that in our family, every detail must project absolute stability. Crimson is the correct choice.”

He gave a small nod to Eleanor, a final, intense look at me, and then walked back into the library, leaving me trembling.

I looked down at the table, unable to meet my mother’s gaze. The wedding invitations, the symbols of a stable, happy future, suddenly felt like the biggest, cruelest lie of all. I was trapped between two worlds—the one where my mother planned a perfect future, and the one where her step-sons owned my past, present, and creative soul.

I sank back into my chair, the crimson swatches suddenly feeling heavy and suffocating. The cost of their opulence was not just the jobs of those seven thousand workers; it was the last

, desperate shred of my own reality.