THE WEEDING NIGHT

CHAPTER 3: THE WEEDING NIGHT

The Laurent Estate looks like it's made of moonlight and glass.

We drive for two hours in silence. Dominic spends most of it on his phone, typing emails with his jaw clenched. I watch the city lights fade into darkness, then reappear as we hit the Hamptons coastline.

The house sits on a cliff overlooking the ocean. Floor-to-ceiling windows reflect the stars. Everything is sharp angles and clean lines, more museum than home.

A woman in her fifties meets us at the door. She has kind eyes and gray hair pulled into a neat bun.

"Mrs. Chen," Dominic says. "This is my wife."

The word sounds foreign in his mouth. Wrong.

"Welcome, Mrs. Laurent." Mrs. Chen's smile is warm. "I've prepared the master suite and the guest room next door."

My stomach twists. Guest room?

Dominic catches my expression. "I thought you'd prefer your own space. At least initially."

"Oh." Relief floods through me, followed by something else. Something that feels uncomfortably like disappointment. "Thank you."

He nods once, already moving toward the stairs. "Mrs. Chen will show you to your room. I have work to finish."

Just like that, he's gone.

Mrs. Chen leads me up a curved staircase to a bedroom twice the size of my entire apartment. The bed could fit four people. French doors open onto a balcony where I can hear waves crashing against rocks.

"There's food in the warmer if you're hungry," she says gently. "Mr. Laurent mentioned you didn't eat much at the reception."

Because I was too busy trying not to throw up from nerves.

"Thank you."

She leaves me alone in the massive room with its ocean views and expensive furniture. I find the dress zipper and wrestle myself out of the silk prison. My skin is marked with red lines from where the bodice dug in all day.

The food is some kind of pasta with vegetables. I eat standing at the window, watching moonlight paint silver streaks across the water. My wedding ring catches the light. I twist it around my finger. It's loose. Felicity's hands are smaller than mine.

I should feel something. Happy, sad, scared. Instead, I just feel tired.

The bed is soft enough to drown in. I sink into Egyptian cotton sheets and close my eyes, but sleep doesn't come. My brain won't stop replaying Dominic's voice. "Something feels off."

How long until he figures it out? How long until this whole charade falls apart?

I wake to my phone's clock reading 2:47 AM.

My throat is desert-dry. The water bottle on the nightstand is empty. I consider going back to sleep, but thirst wins.

The house is dark except for subtle floor lighting that guides me downstairs. My bare feet are silent on cold marble. The kitchen is all stainless steel and black granite, professional-grade appliances that probably cost more than a car.

I find a glass in the third cabinet I try. The water from the tap is ice-cold, perfect. I drink the whole glass in one go.

"Can't sleep?"

I spin around, water sloshing over my hand.

Dominic leans against the kitchen doorway. He's wearing dark pajama pants and nothing else. His chest is bare, muscled in a way that comes from actual work, not just a gym. A scar cuts across his left ribs, pale against tanned skin.

"I was thirsty." My voice comes out breathless. I set the glass down before I drop it. "Sorry, I didn't mean to disturb you."

"You didn't." He moves into the kitchen, and the space suddenly feels smaller. "I was working."

"At three in the morning?"

"Sleep is a luxury I rarely afford myself." He opens the fridge, pulls out a bottle of water. His movements are efficient, controlled. Everything about him is controlled.

He unscrews the cap but doesn't drink. Just watches me with those storm-cloud eyes.

"You're not what I expected," he says finally.

My pulse kicks up. "You mentioned that at the reception."

"Did I?" He takes a step closer. "What I should have said is that you're nothing like the woman I met three months ago."

Three months. Felicity met him three months ago.

"People change," I try.

"Not that drastically." Another step. He's close enough now that I can smell cedar and something darker, like smoke. "The woman I met was loud. Opinionated. She talked constantly about fashion and society gossip. You haven't mentioned either once."

My back hits the counter. "Maybe I was trying to impress you then. Now we're married. I can relax."

"Hmm." That sound again. The one that means he doesn't believe me. "Where's your engagement ring?"

The question lands like a punch. I look down at my bare right hand. Felicity had an engagement ring. Of course she did.

"I took it off," I say quickly. "For the wedding."

"The wedding was twelve hours ago."

"I forgot to put it back on."

"You forgot a five-carat diamond?" His laugh is sharp. "Try again."

Panic climbs my throat. "I don't know what you want me to say."

"The truth would be refreshing." He's directly in front of me now, close enough that I have to tilt my head back to meet his eyes. "What did you order the first time we met for coffee? The café on Fifth Avenue."

My mind goes blank. Coffee. Fifth Avenue. I have no idea. Felicity could have ordered anything. A latte, a cappuccino, tea, water, nothing.

"I..." The lie won't come. I've never been good at lying.

"You don't remember." His voice is soft now, dangerous. "Because you weren't there."

The silence stretches between us like broken glass.

"Who are you?" he asks.

The truth sits on my tongue, heavy and inevitable. I could keep lying. Could make up some story. But I'm so tired of pretending, and those gray eyes see right through me anyway.

"Iris," I whisper. "Iris Hartley. Felicity's sister."

His face doesn't change. "Half-sister."

"You knew?"

"I suspected during the ceremony. Your tells are different. The way you stand, the way you breathe." He reaches up, and I freeze, but he just tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture is almost gentle. "The way you kissed me like you'd never been kissed before."

Heat floods my cheeks. "Felicity ran away this morning. My parents needed someone to take her place. I agreed to protect her."

"How noble." The bitterness in his voice could strip paint. "So the Hartley family sent me the spare daughter. The backup plan."

"It's not like that."

"Isn't it?" He steps back, running a hand through his dark hair. "This is perfect. My father will have a field day when he finds out. Another Laurent failure. Another poor decision."

"It doesn't have to be." The words tumble out before I can stop them. "The contract just requires a wife. It doesn't specify which Hartley daughter."

"You think I care about the contract?" His laugh is hollow. "My company is bleeding money, Iris. This merger was supposed to save it. But it won't work if my father-in-law realizes his precious heir escaped and I got stuck with the knockoff version."

The words sting, but I push past the hurt. "I can help you."

"How?"

"I'm an economics major. I've studied corporate finance, market analysis. Let me look at your numbers. Give me three days to prove I can be useful." I meet his eyes, willing him to see me as more than just a poor substitute. "If I can't help, annul the marriage. Tell everyone I'm not who you thought. Let it all fall apart."

He studies me for a long moment. "And if you can help?"

"Then we stick to the three-year plan. Business arrangement, nothing more."

"Nothing more," he repeats. His gaze drops to my mouth. "Is that what you want?"

My breath catches. "What I want doesn't matter."

"It matters to me." He closes the distance between us again, and this time when his hand finds my waist, it burns through the thin silk of my nightgown. "What were you expecting tonight, Iris? On your wedding night?"

"I don't know." My voice shakes.

"Were you afraid I'd consummate this farce of a marriage?" His thumb traces my hipbone, a touch so light it could be accidental. "Claim my rights as your husband?"

"I..." Words fail me.

"You've never been touched like this, have you?" His other hand comes up, fingers ghosting along my jaw. "Never been wanted."

"No."

The admission hangs between us. His thumb brushes my bottom lip, and electricity shoots straight through me. For a second, I think he might kiss me. Really kiss me, not like the brief press of lips at the altar.

Instead, he steps back.

"Three days," he says. "Seventy-two hours to prove you're worth keeping. If you succeed, we continue this charade. If you fail..." He pauses at the kitchen doorway. "Then you become what you've always been, Iris Hartley. Invisible."

He leaves me standing there, heart racing, skin still tingling from his touch.

I look at my phone. 3:14 AM.

Seventy-two hours. Four thousand three hundred and twenty minutes. Two hundred and fifty-nine thousand two hundred seconds until my fate is decided.