Convenience of Marriage

The engagement had been announced, the return banquet held, and the press had gorged themselves on photographs of the "reunited couple" like vultures at a feast. But those with sharp eye could see it. Cecelia and Sebastian Sinclair had no warmth between them expected of a loving couple. 

So Bennet, in his usual ironclad fashion, had laid down the law that they were to spend time together every day and must share at least one meal.

"A routine like that breeds fondness," he said, as if Cecelia were a wild animal that might be tamed with enough repetition.

That evening, Cecelia stood in the center of her room, swathed in a winter coat the color of bone china, its collar and cuffs dusted in soft white fur. Gold buttons glinted faintly along the seam, catching the light each time she moved. A matching beret rested neatly on her head, her dark curls spilling beneath it like ink. She held a pale far purse against her stomach, fiddling with the fur on the handle. 

She looked like something from a painting appearance wise. But inside, her thoughts were roiling. Sharp, coiled, panicked.

The Seraphim file haunted her like a ghost in the corner of her eye. She could still see the words etched in sterile black ink. The numbers and description of procedures came to haunt her in every bit of slumber she has had since then. It twisted something in her gut just remembering it.

And yet even that horror couldn't fully block out the way Sebastian had behaved last night. The arrogance. The entitlement. The way he had waved off the sommelier and snapped at the waitstaff like they were beneath his notice. And worse was how he had paraded her in front of his friends like she was a prize he had finally managed to reclaim.

"My wife must…"

"A proper lady should…"

"You'll learn, darling."

No. She wouldn't. She could but she wouldn't. 

She needed out. Not just from this engagement, but from the trap around it. She needed to find Soren. She needed to destroy Project Seraphim from the inside out. But she had no starting point. No resources. No allies. No cell phone. No accounts in her name. Everything she touched, received, and sent were screened personally by Bennet. 

The Whitmore estate was just a prettier kind of prison. 

That's when she realized something. She had her brothers and her mother. 

"Nathaniel is father's loyal guard dog. He definitely wouldn't help me against father's wishes. Callum and Alden would help but I can't bring them down again. Last time they helped me escape, I can't use them again. And mother....forget about it. She needs to protect herself from father's unpredictable temper."

A soft knock stirred her from her thoughts.

"Come in."

Lyla, one of the younger maids, stepped inside with careful grace, holding the velvet-lined jewelry box they'd used earlier while dressing Cecelia. Her braid bounced slightly with each step as she placed the box delicately back into the armoire.

Cecelia turned toward her. "Lyla."

The girl paused, hands folded in front of her. "Yes, Young Miss?"

"Do you know where Lord Sinclair is right now?"

Lyla's eyes lit up instantly. "Oh! I believe he said he was going down to the townhouse for a check-up on his grandmother. Rest assured, he will be on time to pick you up, Young Miss."

Cecelia gave a soft nod, feigning mild curiosity.

Lyla's smile grew. "He sent orchids this morning, didn't he? He really is so devoted. Even after all those years you were apart… everyone said he never truly let go. My aunt works for the Sinclair household as staff in the study and she swears he kept your portrait in the study the whole time."

Cecelia let out a quiet hum, her expression unreadable.

"It's rather romantic," Lyla added wistfully. "We were all saying how rare it is these days. Love like that."

Cecelia offered a small, careful smile. "Yes… rare."

The girl seemed pleased with herself, finished tucking the last of the earrings into their drawer, then curtsied and left the room.

The moment the door clicked shut, Cecelia's entire face changed.

Romance? No. It was possession dressed up as devotion.

She stared at her reflection again, at the flawless coat, the perfect silhouette, the glossy hair. She looked like a woman living a dream but in reality she was just a ghost in a painted cage, dressed for dinner with a man who she couldn't help but loathe. 

Cecelia sighed, stood up, and walked toward the easel. She picked up the palette, her fingers slipping through the curved handle like muscle memory, and dipped her brush into a swirl of lilac and mauve.

The orchids on the canvas were halfway complete, left as they were right before the maids came to get her ready, petals stretching open like sighs, their softness a subtle rebellion against everything rigid in her life.

She dragged the brush across the white space, blending color into bloom. Her strokes were slow, thoughtful. Controlled. Painting was one of the few things she still owned entirely. No overly strict governess that would criticize even her breathing if they were allowed to breathing down her neck during the process. Just her and the paint in the silence. 

The brush paused. She stared at the orchid in progress.

He sent orchids this morning.

Cecelia's jaw tightened.

She'd loved orchids. However, when they came from Sebastian, it felt like an eyesore to her. She did not know if it was just because of the type of orchids or just her annoyance at the giver but it emitted a foul odor. 

Still, she painted. She painted as if painting could pull her out of this place. As if each petal she layered on the canvas might peel away a piece of the prison around her. She was careful not to stain her clothes in order to avoid yet another lecture from the governess about always appearing clean.