Convenience of Marriage

The chandelier caught the light just so, scattering it like champagne across the polished floors of Maison du Ciel, a restaurant that catered to the rich and noble. Sophistication was in the air amongst the strong scent of lavender mixed with citrus coming from the candles lit in the reception area. 

Cecelia stepped lightly out of the car, tactically avoiding Sebastian's outstretched hand by grabbing her clutch with one hand and pretending to fix her earring with the other. 

Sebastian stood in a tailored navy suit, coat draped over one arm. His hair was perfectly styled, but his eyes already glittered with annoyance when he noticed Cecelia dodge his touch. 

The maître d' gave a tight smile and motioned for them to follow. He led them through the lobby, past several guests waiting to be seated while murmuring into crystal glasses.

But then, just before reaching the main dining room, the waiter escorting them was stopped by another. The two whispered amongst each other and the one escorting them did a small bow and hurriedly escaped the scene. 

Sebastian noticed.

"What's the hold-up?" he asked sharply.

The waiter's eyes flicked to the seating chart, then to Sebastian, then down again. "I—apologies, my lord. It seems there was—"

Sebastian's smile curved tight and dangerous. "There was what?"

Cecelia, standing a pace behind, watched the scene unfold. She pretended to be fascinated by a passing tray of oysters and chose this opportunity to practice selective blindness. 

The waiter's hands fidgeted with the silver-edged menu. "There may be a conflict in… reservation priority."

Sebastian's voice dropped. "I made this reservation two weeks ago."

"I understand, sir, but it's just that—"

Sebastian stepped forward, towering just enough to make the waiter flinch. "Do I look like a man who gets bumped off a list?"

Cecelia took a slow breath and turned her head away, her expression unreadable.

"Is there a problem here?" a smooth voice interrupted.

A man in a dark burgundy suit swept forward from the back hall, gold pin glinting on his lapel. The manager.

"No, sir," the waiter said quickly.

"There was a problem," Sebastian said, folding his arms. "But I'm sure now it'll be handled."

The manager gave a small, apologetic bow. "Lord Sinclair, please forgive the delay. Allow me to escort you personally to your table."

Sebastian offered a smug glance at the waiter and moved forward.

Cecelia followed, expression cool, her heels clicking like metronome ticks across the marble floor.

As they were led to the best seat in the house, a corner table beside a frosted-glass water feature and beneath a glittering chandelier.

The waiter whispered, just under his breath, as the manager turned back toward the podium.

"Sir, why are we seating him? Didn't he leave a debt here last month? Nearly six thousand credits, and he's never settled it."

The manager's face tightened.

He didn't whisper.

"Look at the woman beside him."

The waiter blinked.

"That's Cecelia Whitmore," the manager said, low but firm. "Daughter of Bennett Whitmore. Richest man in the empire. If Lord Sinclair doesn't pay…" He gestured subtly toward the dining room. "She will. And I won't have this place blacklisted in one of the Whitmore son-in-law's tantrums. Understood?"

The waiter's mouth opened. Then shut.

The manager walked off.

Back at the table, Cecelia adjusted her napkin, her gaze steady on the wine list.

Sebastian leaned back with a satisfied exhale. "See? People just need a little pressure."

Cecelia didn't answer.

She simply tilted her head, examined the wine options, and asked mildly, "Do you want to start with red or white?"

Dinner passed in a series of top grade courses, aged beef, wine pairings, and Sebastian talking far too much about politics he barely understood and people Cecelia didn't care for.

She smiled when expected, nodded when necessary to not let him onto the fact that she was in fact not processing a single word he was uttering, and let her fork scrape softly against porcelain while her thoughts wandered far, far away from the booth they were sat at. 

Then, just as dessert was placed in front of them, some delicate arrangement of figs, cream, and burnt sugar, Sebastian's phone buzzed.

Once.

Then again.

He glanced at the screen.

His posture shifted uncomfortably. He declined the call and went right back to talking away about things that sounded like absolute gibberish to Cecelia. 

"Frankly, if we let every minor province vote on trade tariffs, we'll be selling imperial silk for potato prices, aren't I right?"

The third buzz came, and he stood abruptly, nearly knocking his chair back.

Cecelia blinked at him lazily. "Something wrong?"

Sebastian forced a smile. "Just a quick thing. Business. I'll be right back."

She didn't answer.

He straightened his jacket, grabbed his phone, and strode off toward the back exit. Not the lobby.

Cecelia watched him go, expression unreadable. Then she returned to her dessert knowing full well that man was gone for good. 

The figs were suddenly perfectly sweet.

Twenty minutes passed.

Sebastian didn't return.

The waiter approached with a hesitant smile, check in hand.

Cecelia accepted it, unfolded it carefully, and took one glance before reaching into her clutch. She pulled out her card, slipped it into the leather folio, and passed it back.

"Settle all his tabs."

As the waiter left, she reached for her wine glass, swirling the ruby liquid absently.

"Father," she murmured under her breath. "Since you love this son-in-law so dearly, I'm sure you won't mind paying for his filet, his wine… and whatever dignity he left with. If he even has any dignity left."

She took a sip.

Delightful vintage.

Then, smoothing her dress with slow grace, Cecelia stood, adjusted her coat, and walked out with her heels tapping with a satisfying click clack pattern on the marble floor. Snow flakes dusted her coat and hair, one landing precisely on the tip of her nose. A gust of cold wind blew a few strands of hair over her eyes.