Convenience of Marriage

The murmur of the party swelled behind her as Cecelia picked up a crystal fork and delicately sampled a rose-petal tart, utterly unbothered.

Her fingers, however, trembled slightly barely visible, but there all the same.

From across the room, Lady Harcourt's face burned red with embarrassment, humiliated in front of women who wouldn't dare admit they were enjoying every second of it.

"She's bold," someone whispered.

"She's dangerous," another said.

"She's unfit," Lady Harcourt hissed under her breath.

But no one moved to comfort her.

Meanwhile, Cecelia simply turned her back on them, letting the silence finish the job her words had started.

"Whitmore," came a softer voice from beside her. Cecelia turned to see Lady Orielle Redwyne, who she recognized as a quiet and calculating daughter of one of the Seven Great Houses, holding a champagne flute and eyeing her like she was some rare, sharp-edged jewel.

Orielle's skin had a warm, sun‑kissed bronze that caught the ballroom light like polished honey. Her hair thick and coiled in tight, sculpted curls was swept up into a structured updo, with a few deliberate spirals left to frame her face. Her eyes, deep mahogany with a faint amber rim, were slightly upturned at the corners. A slender nose, full lips with a natural pout.

She wore a gown of deep forest green silk that clung to her frame like it had been poured on. The neckline was subtle, but the excellent craftsmanship was undeniable threaded with fine gold embroidery in the shape of climbing ivy that curled around her shoulders and trailed down her back. Delicate cuffs of sheer tulle wrapped her arms, fastened with tiny emerald studs that shimmered when she moved. 

Her necklace featured pear cut diamonds arranged to loosely resemble butterfly wings with an enormous yellow diamond vested right above her cleavage. Tear drop shaped yellow diamond earrings completed the set. 

"Do you always make enemies so fashionably?" Orielle asked with a faint smirk.

Cecelia offered a tiny smile, her tone light as sugar. "Only the boring ones."

Orielle took a slow sip of her drink, her eyes never leaving Cecelia's face. "You don't belong here with nobles. Not really. But I'm starting to wonder if that's exactly why you're the most dangerous one in this room."

Before Cecelia could respond, a soft chime rang out. One of the servants gently tapped a glass, announcing the start of the next dance.

"Will you be dancing?" Orielle asked, arching a brow.

Cecelia tilted her head slightly, the corners of her mouth lifting in a manner that was neither yes nor no. "I only dance when I feel like bleeding."

Orielle blinked. And then laughed. A real laugh. 

"You're funny," she said, stepping away.

As the music started up again, Cecelia allowed herself one last bite of the tart and turned to glance at the grand ballroom.

Her gaze swept over the crowd and then, for just a moment, caught on the edge of the balcony where Soren had stood minutes earlier.

Gone.

Of course.

The ember of his cigarette had long since faded and something in her chest smoldered.

A voice in her head whispered: You left me.

She shut her eyes for a second longer than necessary, pushed the thought away, and smoothed the front of her gown.

She wasn't here to dwell on ghosts.

Not tonight.

Not ever again.

Cecelia turned back toward the ballroom just as a pair of footsteps approached that sounded, as she would describe it, filled with entitlement. 

"Darling," came a smooth, familiar voice behind her. "You're not trying to escape your own engagement party, are you?"

Sebastian.

 A golden pin, his family's crest, now glinted at his chest. But Cecelia only saw the arrogance in his smirk, the entitlement in the way he took her arm like it belonged to him.

"I was sampling the desserts," she said, plastering on a perfect, practiced smile. "Unless I now need permission to eat, my lord?"

He chuckled lowly, clearly amused by her edge rather than wounded by it. "Of course not. But I prefer sweeter company to accompany my sweets."

Lady Orielle, still standing nearby, watched the exchange with thinly veiled interest, one eyebrow quirked, like she was collecting gossip in real time.

Sebastian leaned in, dropping his voice. "Though if I'd known you'd be making such a spectacle by putting Lady Harcourt in her place, I'd have joined sooner."

Cecelia's jaw tightened, ever so slightly.

"You were watching?"

He gave her a crooked smile. "Let's just say... I always keep an eye on what's mine."

A flicker of something darker crossed her eyes, but it vanished just as quickly.

"Yours?" she echoed sweetly, taking a step closer. "I wasn't aware possession extended to women who signed no such contract."

Sebastian's smile faltered just for a beat.

"You are to be married to me. You are almost my wife. Notice how I said the word my? And come now. Let's not pretend. You know the role you've stepped into. The name, the wealth, the title. It all comes with expectations too. Just because you didn't sign a contract does not mean that you aren't mine."

Cecelia let out a soft breath. Her voice dropped to a whisper only he could hear.

"Ah. So that's what you see me as. A possession. You think just because I'm to be your wife that I'm your property?"

Sebastian blinked. "I didn't mean—"

"But you did," she said, her tone flat.

Before he could recover, the orchestra swelled, and the dance floor began to fill.

"Shall we?" he asked, extending his hand.

The eyes of half the ballroom were already on them. Cecelia knew refusing him would start rumors again. But accepting was just another kind of surrender.

She placed her hand in his.

But just before he could lead her into the waltz, she leaned in, lips brushing the air by his ear.

"If I ever catch you embarrassing me in public again," she murmured softly, "I will rip that golden crest from your chest and shove it down your throat. Smile, Sebastian. The whole room is watching."

He stiffened.

But he smiled.

They glided into the dance like nothing was wrong.

And from the edge of the ballroom, in the shadows behind the balcony curtains, Soren watched with a face carved from stone, his gaze fixed not on Cecelia's dance but the grip Sebastian kept on her waist.