All Chapters of THE PROXY BRIDE: His bride. Her Secret. : Chapter 1 - Chapter 10

The Mediterranean wind slipped through the open terrace doors of the Veyron villa like a thief in the night, carrying the scent of salt and jasmine—and something darker. Desperation.Amara Veyron stood in the shadow of a marble column, unseen, as always. The grand salon shimmered with the cold elegance of old money: gilded moldings, crystal chandeliers that scattered light like shattered diamonds, and furniture so pristine it looked untouched by human hands. It was a stage, and below, the performance had begun.Her stepmother, Marcella, sat poised on a velvet chaise, a vision of calculated grace. Her silver-blonde hair was swept into a chignon so severe it seemed to hold her secrets in place. Across from her, a man in a charcoal-gray suit—impeccable, expressionless—held a leather-bound document. The Drevane family attendant. No name, no warmth. Just authority wrapped in silk and silence.Between them, on a lacquered table inlaid with mother-of-pearl, lay the contract.It wasn’t just pa

Amara didn’t breathe.She stood frozen on the balcony of Drevane Hall, the storm-cold marble biting through the thin silk of Selene’s borrowed gown. Below her, the French Riviera unfurled like a stolen dream—the Orada sea, a churning expanse of liquid mercury under a bruised twilight sky, cliffs plunging into waves that shattered against ancient rocks. This isn’t real, she thought, her knuckles white on the railing. No one lives like this. Not people like me.She’d grown up in the dusty quiet of her mother’s library—a cottage with sagging bookshelves, the scent of aged paper and rain-soaked earth clinging to every corner. Her world was ink-stained fingers and the weight of silence, not this: a fortress of glass and steel perched on the edge of the world, where the air itself tasted of salt and power.She turned slowly, taking in the house.Drevane Hall wasn’t a home. It was a declaration.A monolith of floor-to-ceiling windows and polished steel, it clung to the cliffside like a predat

The saffron foam had barely congealed on my plate when Grandma Drevane snapped her poodle-cane against the floor. “Enough frivolity. The wedding.”Wedding? I nearly choked on my scallop. We just met. I’m wearing a wig made of lies and bleach fumes.Victor Drevane tapped his spoon—the signal for execution, not dessert—and a servant materialized with a leather-bound portfolio. As if I weren’t sitting there, breathing, bleeding.“Three days,” Grandma declared, slapping a finger on the table. “The Founder’s Moon rises Thursday. Tradition demands it.”Three days. The number hit me like a physical blow. Who marries in three days? Not royalty. Not even desperate socialites. This isn’t a wedding. It’s an extraction.Julian leaned back, swirling wine like he’d won the lottery. “The Monaco Yacht Club is booked. White roses, champagne towers, the whole blonde fantasy.” He winked at me. “You’ll wear the Drevane tiara, of course. Heavy little thing. Snaps necks if you’re not careful.”Not careful.

The Orada Sea tasted different here—sharper, wilder—than the gentle Mediterranean waves that lapped against my childhood villa in Monaco. This isn’t home, I reminded myself. Home was cobblestone streets and lemon trees. Home was the Mediterranean.Below, the Orada churned against cliffs draped in wild lavender and olive groves—a slate-gray beast where the Mediterranean had been a sapphire cradle. Cassian’s estate perched on this remote stretch of coast, miles from the Riviera’s glitter, where the only sound was the sea’s hungry roar. Of course they’d hide me here, I thought bitterly. Where even the water feels like a cage.Back inside, I kicked Selene’s platinum wig into the corner like trash. Let it gather dust. Then I turned the lock—one sharp click—and the sound echoed through the suite like a vow. No one gets to see me like this. Not the wig. Not the tears. Not the girl who bleached her soul to survive.I crawled into the vast, white bed—the one that felt less like a sanctuary and

I was still on the floor, wig askew and soul shattered, when the knock came again. Thud. Thud. THUD. Like a war drum."Mademoiselle Veyron!" A voice sharp enough to slice caviar. "Grandma Drevane demands your fattening!"Fattening.This time, I heard correctly.I scrambled up, heart hammering. Not fittings. FATTENING. Last night’s sleepy mixup had become a nightmare. Are they going to stuff me like a holiday goose? Is this how Drevanes prepare brides? I yanked the wig straight, smoothed Selene’s robe, and flung open the door.Grandma Drevane stood there—a tiny hurricane in a pearl-gray suit, monocle glinting like a sniper’s scope. Behind her, two butlers carried a silver cart groaning under things that should never be near a human:A tower of caviar blinis dripping with crème fraîcheFoie gras sculpted into actual swans (RIP, little guys)Truffle-dusted steak tartare in a gold-leaf bowlA decanter of liquid so red it looked like bloodAnd a single, terrifying syringe labeled "Drevane V