Chapter 137 Golden Chains
Carson stood in the middle of the ballroom, his eyes scanning the chaos around him.
Workers moved about, carrying flowers, setting tables, and adjusting decorations.
The air smelled of roses and fresh paint. He tugged at his collar, feeling the tightness spread across his chest.
Victoria stood by the stage, her voice sharp and commanding.
“The centerpieces must be higher! Everything must look perfect!” she said.
Carson sighed quietly. Her tone had not changed in weeks. Every day felt like a performance, and he was the unwilling actor.
He watched as Bridget walked in, her heels clicking against the marble floor. Her eyes shone with excitement as she inspected the arrangements.
“It’s beautiful, Carson! Can you believe it’s almost here?” she said, holding his arm.
Carson smiled weakly. “Yeah, almost,” he said.
Bridget turned to a planner nearby. “Make sure the champagne matches the tablecloth color,” she said.
Carson frowned slightly. “I think champagne is champagne,” he murmured.
She laughed lightly, not catching the weariness in his voice. “Oh, you don’t understand the details,” she said.
He looked at her—her flawless hair, her polished smile, her eyes that reflected ambition more than affection.
“You look happy,” he said quietly.
“Of course I am! It’s going to be the event of the year,” she said proudly.
He nodded, pretending to agree, but his chest tightened.
As she walked off to inspect the cake samples, Carson stepped aside and rubbed the back of his neck. His head felt heavy.
Every conversation lately was about flowers, lighting, or photographers. No one asked how he felt. No one noticed how trapped he was.
Victoria approached him, holding a clipboard. “You’ll need to be fitted for your tuxedo again,” she said briskly. “Bridget thinks the last one didn’t fit your shoulders properly.”
“It was fine,” Carson said.
“No, perfection is the goal,” she replied sharply.
He bit back a sigh. “Mother, it’s just a suit.”
Victoria looked at him, her expression stern. “This isn’t just a wedding, Carson. It’s our family’s image.”
Her words landed like stones. He nodded silently, feeling the invisible chains tighten around his neck.
Later, he walked out to the garden to escape the noise. The air outside was calm, the sky pale with afternoon light.
He sat on a stone bench and let his hands rest between his knees. For a long time, he said nothing, just listened to the distant hum of voices.
He remembered when life used to feel simple—when he could laugh freely, when he didn’t have to wear a mask every day.
The thought made him smile bitterly. He glanced back at the mansion, tall and perfect, yet it felt like a cage.
Bridget’s voice echoed from the doorway. “Carson! There you are. Come inside, darling!”
He quickly locked his phone and stood up. “Coming,” he said quietly.
She waved impatiently. “We need to discuss the guest seating!”
He nodded and followed her back in.
Inside, the lights felt brighter and the air heavier. He walked behind her, his steps slow.
Bridget chatted endlessly about table placements and photographers, her excitement endless. Carson barely heard a word. His mind was still on that picture of Anabelle.
As Victoria joined them again, the room filled with more voices and opinions.
“The cake should have gold ribbons,” Bridget said.
“No, silver looks more elegant,” Victoria corrected.
Carson just stared at the floor, feeling smaller with every passing moment.
He wanted to shout that he didn’t care about ribbons or flowers. He wanted to say he couldn’t breathe.
But he only said, “Whatever you both decide is fine.” His mother smiled approvingly.
“That’s the spirit, dear.” Bridget kissed his cheek and walked away.
When they left, Carson stood still for a long moment. He looked around the decorated room. Everything sparkled, yet it felt hollow.
His reflection in the polished marble floor looked tired, pale, and unfamiliar. “What am I doing?” he whispered.
He walked out again, escaping to his study. The quiet there felt like a blessing. He loosened his tie and sat by the desk, turning his phone over in his hands.
And then he thought about Anabelle. He remembered the times they talked—her gentle honesty, her way of seeing through people’s masks.
“You’re not happy, Carson,” she once told him.
He had laughed it off then, pretending it wasn’t true. Now he knew she had been right all along.
He scrolled through her photos again. Each one showed freedom, lightness, and peace—the things he no longer had. His throat tightened, and he set the phone down.
He ran his hand through his hair, exhaling deeply. “You look free,” he murmured, almost sadly.
The door creaked open, and Victoria peeked in. “Darling, what are you doing in here?” she asked.
“Just taking a break,” he said.
“Well, don’t stay too long. The reporters will arrive soon.”
He nodded wordlessly as she left, her heels echoing down the hall.
He leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling. The chandelier light shimmered above him, but it felt too bright, too artificial.
Everything around him was built to impress, not to comfort. He felt like an actor reading someone else’s script.
He stood and walked toward the window. The garden lights twinkled outside, perfect and planned. “Golden chains,” he whispered, looking at his reflection. “That’s what this is.”
His smile was faint, filled with sadness. Freedom, he thought, was far away.
He turned off the lights and sat back down, his head resting on his hands. The muffled sounds of the staff setting up drifted in.
He closed his eyes, listening to the soft ticking of the clock, the only sound that truly belonged to him. The rest of his world was borrowed.
The house outside glittered with wealth and perfection. Inside, a man sat quietly, bound by invisible chains that no one else could see.
And while the world celebrated his upcoming marriage, Carson silently longed for the courage to break free.