Convenience of Marriage

The Sinclair estate stood proud and towering under the wash of moonlight, its stone façade glowing faintly with the soft gold from the sconces that lined its balconies. The iron gates creaked open as the family car rolled in, tires crunching against the gravel drive.

Inside the vehicle, silence clung to the air like humidity. Sebastian sat in the back seat, jaw tight, fingers tapping against his thigh. Beside him, the Duchess looked out the window, her gloved hand resting elegantly on her lap. The Duke, ever composed, gave nothing away but even in stillness, the irritation even sitting was causing him was apparent.

The car hadn't even come to a full stop before the butler, Emery, came scuttling toward the steps like a man with a death sentence on his back. The moment the door opened, he was already bowing low, his voice a rushed, strained whisper as he leaned toward the Duke's ear.

"My lord, he's here. In the drawing room."

The Duke's entire demeanor shifted. Calm dissolved into urgency. "What?"

Emery nodded once, tight-lipped. "He arrived not long ago. Said he would wait."

The Duke Sinclair didn't waste a second. He brushed past the butler, coat flaring behind him, and made straight for the main doors. The Duchess followed with a faint frown. Sebastian slammed the door shut behind him and jogged up the steps.

Inside, the warmth of the estate's grand foyer did little to ease the tension that gripped the air. Emery struggled to keep up with the Duke's long strides.

"Did he say what he wanted?" the Duchess asked quietly.

"No, Your Grace. Only that he'd wait. He refused tea, but asked for coffee."

The Duke's jaw tensed.

As they turned the corner into the drawing room, the scene that greeted them was enough to make Sebastian's eye twitch.

Soren Sinclair, very much not dead nor lost in an orphanage overseas, was lounging in one of the velvet wingback chairs like he owned the place. A porcelain cup of coffee rested elegantly in his hand, steam curling lazily into the air. Across from him sat two of the younger maids, cheeks flushed pink as they giggled behind silver trays and tried very hard to remain professional.

Soren gave one of them a charming wink, prompting a stifled squeal.

Then his eyes turned to the doorway, and his smile changed, no less polite, but entirely different in temperature.

"Ah," he said smoothly. "I was wondering when the lord of the house would grace me with his presence."

The Duke didn't respond. He entered the room like a storm gathering, stepping in front of his wife and son with an expression that suggested as though preparing for war.

"What are you doing here?" the Duke asked, voice low and dangerous.

Soren rose from the chair in one fluid motion. Not a hair out of place, not a wrinkle in his pressed black coat.

"Catching up," he said simply. "Enjoying the hospitality. And reminding certain people that loose ends always find their way home eventually."

Sebastian narrowed his eyes. "You're not welcome here."

"Oh, I gathered that," Soren replied, sipping his coffee. "But I'm not here to be welcomed. I'm here because you owe me. All of you."

He placed the cup gently back onto its saucer, the soft clink sounding unnaturally loud in the heavy silence.

The Duke stared at him, eyes unreadable.

And Soren smiled with politeness that could be mistaken for something masking a sinister agenda. 

"Let's talk frankly, shall we?"

-----------

Outside the Whitmore manor, the gardens swayed gently in the breeze, moonlight sliding like silver over the hedges and roses. Inside, everything was quiet and serene on this particular night. 

Cecelia jolted upright in bed.

Her chest heaved, skin slick with sweat, and the lace of her nightgown clung to her back. Her breath came in shallow gasps as she blinked hard against the darkness of her bedroom, still caught in the throes of a dream that clung to her like smoke.

A hand flew to her mouth, muffling a gasp she hadn't realized escaped.

It took several seconds before her vision adjusted and before she remembered where she was. The carved canopy above her. The silk sheets tangled at her waist. The soft flicker of the candle she forgot to blow out. All of it familiar and yet felt so wrong. 

She dragged a hand across her face and whispered, "Damn you, Soren."

The name came out like venom and defeat all at once. Of course it was him. Of course his stupid ideas had crawled into her subconscious and disturbed the peace she had worked so hard to attain. 

Still shaking, Cecelia swung her legs out of bed and planted her feet on the plush rug. Sleep wouldn't return, not tonight. Not after that.

She stood and crossed the room to the grand closet door that took up half the wall. Ornate wood. Crystal handles. Inside, luxury stared back at her in the sense of layers of silk, tulle, and couture.

She ran her fingers over a blush pink gown custom-made in Milan, its bodice hand-beaded with freshwater pearls and white gold thread. Beside it, a crimson piece crafted by a designer so exclusive they only ever took five clients a year. A velvet cloak trimmed in fox fur imported from Finland. Shoes that cost more than entire villages. A jewel-toned cape with a collar so stiff and high she could never imagine wearing it.

It was too much. All of it.

And yet buried behind all this polished extravagance she found something jarring.

A black duffel bag. Old. Worn. Slightly dusty at the seams.

She blinked at it for a moment before reaching in and unzipping it. Inside were clothes she barely remembered stuffing in. A few soft T-shirts, a gray hoodie with a cracked logo on it, jeans with a hole near the hem. Price tags still clung to some of them. A five-dollar tank top. A clearance rack sweater. Disposable and worthless compared to everything else in the room.

And then, tucked into the side pocket, something small and glinting.

Cecelia reached in.

Her fingers closed around a single emerald earring.

It was shaped like a teardrop. Deep green. Beautiful in a way that was too painful to admire for long. The matching piece was gone. Left behind, lost, or taken. She didn't know which. She only knew what the piece was meant to symbolize. 

As soon as she saw it, her throat closed.

Tears came before she could stop them, sudden and hot. They spilled down her cheeks silently, no sobbing, no sound. Just the raw ache of memory. Of loss. Of knowing that she had once held something real and now stood surrounded by everything but.

Soon, she would marry. Not for love, not even respect was guaranteed. For a future she'd once promised herself she would never accept.

The kind of man she'd sworn she'd never walk the path of life with. 

She sat there in silence, the emerald earring curled in her palm, head bowed.

Then, slowly, Cecelia wiped her face with the back of her hand. The tears would dry. Her choices wouldn't change. And weakness had never looked good on her, anyway.

She stood again and continued rummaging through the bag, needing a distraction. Needing anything.

That's when her fingers grazed the edge of a thin folder.

She pulled it out.