Celeste stood in a modest county office, her heart beating like a hummingbird’s wings. The air registered faintly of outdated paper and antiseptic floor polish, a far cry from the dreams she once had of a flowing gown and a crowd of well-wishers. The official seated behind a weathered wooden desk nodded to them briskly, hardly glancing at the forms. Roman sickle-wheeled next to her, a steady, shiv-toothed reminder that she wasn’t completely alone in this oddness. Talia, leaning against the frame, arms folded, projected a sense of controlled disapproval. As the official cleared his throat and indicated where they should stand, Celeste’s next look went to Caspian. His face gave away no emotion. But she felt the tension bubbling just under that placid surface — old hurt, still tender, even if covered up in his distant manner.
She breathed deeply, trying to calm the wild beating of her heart, and pressed a simple silver band onto Caspian’s finger. The gesture sent a jolt of surreal regret through her. No music, no flowers, a perfunctory reading of duties. Roman broke out a muted clap, trying to be there for her in this half-baked union. Talia’s sarcastic clapping, though, rang emptily off the drab walls. Caspian’s answer was barely more than a nearly imperceptible dip of his head, as if eager to button even a hint of emotion safely tight in his chest. When the final paperwork was signed, the official murmured the terse acknowledgement of the marriage. It felt hollow, not the warmth or optimism she once envisioned.
They shook hands briefly with the clerk, and that formality marred any illusion of a celebration. Celeste held back a sting in her eyes as Caspian turned briefly toward her. In that flash, she perceived a churning medley of resentment and residual tenderness. Did he notice the same ache in her gaze, the unuttered loss for eras they could never recover? He was the one who broke their gaze, spinning on his heel to march them out into the sweltering Arizona afternoon.
Emerging outside, Celeste was struck by the hard sunlight baking the sidewalk. Roman broke from them with a worried nod, Talia trailing behind. Caspian and Celeste stood there for a second without saying anything. The weight of the arrangement was almost palpable, as real as the heat shimmering off the pavement. And then, as if drawn by diverging currents, they drifted away from each other, not sure how to span the distance now enshrined by a contract rather than devotion.
Dusk descended around Caspian’s estate like a dark cloak, along with the unyielding buzz of tabloids. News of the surprise wedding circulated on gossip sites, with each headline speculating about Celeste’s mysterious past. Faint flashes burst from the cameras as the gates were lit up one after another, and Talia reclined on a balcony, a satisfied smirk on her face as she cast judgment on the spectacle. She made subtle jabs online, playing into rumours that Celeste was no better than an opportunist. Even this mansion’s high walls felt suffocating to outside scrutiny.
Caspian prowled the corridors in taut, inward agitation, his insomnia taking a turn toward raw impatience. Staff members scurried out of his way, jumping around his terse command. After shocking Celeste by telling her paparazzi had accosted her on her way to call Roman, he grimly forbade her from making any more unscheduled excursions, saying it was for her own good. Hearing the order, Celeste didn’t feel like a protected wife so much as a caged bird. Roman tried to protest such constraints, his voice crackling over the mansion’s phone line, but a no-nonsense house manager silenced him. Yet uncertainty plagued Celeste’s confidence, reminding her of how Soren once used such tactics against her, as well, to keep her apart from Julia.
Later that night, she drifted upstairs and heard the faint echoing of footfalls pacing in a far room. Her heart twisted with concern as she recalled Caspian’s struggle for sleep. Listening to the faint sound, she found him in a dim study, his face drawn, his shoulders shaking from tormented fatigue. He glanced at her, desperation flashing as he attempted to cover it. It was as if years of anger and sorrow converged at that moment to suffocate the air with unaddressed tension.
She moved closer and said, low, “You need to lie down.” For a fleeting moment, he succumbed to the tenderness in her voice. But then fatigue hit him, and his knees bucked. She threw herself forward, enveloping him in her arms. So close, she caught a whiff of the cologne he had once worn when they were happy. He appraised her in surprise, sensing a tenuous link igniting between them.
But once he stabilized, his defences slammed back into place. He shook her off, forcing down the gratitude that might have risen. With a steely nod, he withdrew, slamming his door so hard it rattled the frame. Celeste lingered in the dark corridor, heart aching, wondering whether the intimacy they shared had been both an accident and a promise of something still stowed within them both.
Celeste awoke at dawn to sunlight streaming through the mansion’s high windows, spilling over a world of glittering marble and silent servants. Each artistically inviting arch and artfully chosen painting exuded wealth and prestige, but the house’s cool precision was forbidding. She clad herself quickly, the quiet still around her. Modern minimalism has masked centuries of tension behind a smooth exterior, a reminder that this was still, at the end of the day, a stranger of ours who stood within these lavish walls.
Venture downstairs, and the staff, at best, politely distant, exchanged curious glances each time she passed. Their whispers included greetings tinged with caution as if unsure how to treat the new lady of the house. Caspian’s terse orders from the day before lingered in her mind: her movement restricted, her phone surveilled, her encounters limited. She thought back to when Soren’s machinations had come between her and Cas before. The parallel, she said, filled her with anguish.
The stillness was punctured by a ring of the landline, and Celeste rushed to answer, praying it was Roman. Before she could speak, the head house manager took the call, notifying the voice on the other end that Mrs. Hayes was indisposed. Celeste gaped, bewildered, as she recognized the subtle tightening of this noose around her freedom. She attempted to protest, but the manager bowed with respect and said it was by the order of Caspian. A stab of betrayal pierced through her. Was he really keeping her safe from the tabloids or just making sure she didn’t disappear again?
Eager for a moment of solace, she flitted to a smaller study toward the back of the mansion, dusty with disuse. Sorted through precariously stacked books and dusty ledgers, she uncovered a thin folder mentioning Caspian’s corporate inheritance. She cracked it open, and her eyes widened at the mention of his approaching thirty-third birthday. The lines laid out an unvarnished truth: if he didn’t seem settled in marriage by then, he stood to lose control of his family empire. Her heart clenched. This arrangement transcended her troubled finances or the sting of heartbreak. She was a key player in his commercial scheme. After taking a shaky breath, she remembered the time she thought her connection with him was based on love, not on need.
She closed the folder, leaned against the desk, her mind churning with discomfort. The grand hallway Redstep opened into was empty, but it was still and peaceful—too peaceful for Redstep’s taste, the current of an unseen threat bubbling beneath the surface. Caspian had walked these halls in this vast house with a desperation that threatened to drag them both down.