Page 34

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

Seb

The morning light streams through the tall windows of the dining room, illuminating the tension-laden air. I sit stiffly at the massive breakfast table, my untouched coffee growing cold in front of me. Across from me, Elle looks serene, though the slight tightness in her jaw betrays her. Her teacup rests delicately in her hands, as if it’s the only thing anchoring her.

Tomorrow is the wedding.

The thought sends a thrill and a spike of dread through me. Elle and I have been playing this game so convincingly, that even I’ve started to forget where the performance ends and the reality begins.

My father’s measured footsteps echo down the hallway, and moments later, he strides into the room. He’s sharp as ever, a man who never walks into a room without commanding it. A leather folder is tucked under his arm, his expression cool and unreadable.

“Good morning,” he says smoothly.

I barely glance up, the familiar weight of his presence already setting my teeth on edge. “Morning,” I reply, my voice clipped.

Elle, ever polite, musters a soft smile. “Good morning, Mr. Sterling-Knight.”

“Alexander,” he corrects, his gaze lingering on her as he places the folder on the table in front of her. “I’m glad you’re both here. There’s a matter we need to address before tomorrow.”

My chest tightens, my shoulders locking up. I know that tone too well. “What’s this about?” I ask, my voice sharper than I intend.

“A prenuptial agreement,” my father says, as calmly as if he were discussing the weather. “For Elle to sign.”

The room goes deathly silent. My chest tightens, a familiar rage bubbling just below the surface.

“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I snap, pushing back my chair and standing abruptly. The legs scrape against the floor, loud and jarring in the quiet.

“I’m not,” my father replies coolly, his expression unflinching.

“This is ridiculous,” I say, my fists clenching at my sides. “Elle isn’t some gold-digger looking to cash in on our name. She doesn’t need a damn prenup.”

“Sebastian,” he says, his voice edged with steel, “this isn’t personal. It’s standard procedure for a family in our position. You know that.”

“I don’t care about ‘standard procedure,’” I snap back, my anger rising. “I won’t let you insult her like this.”

“Seb,” Elle’s voice cuts through the tension, soft but firm. She places a hand on my arm, grounding me. “It’s okay.”

I whip my head toward her, disbelief coursing through me. “No, it’s not okay, Elle. You don’t have to agree to this.”

“I know,” she replies, meeting my eyes with a steady calm that only infuriates me more. “But I don’t have anything to hide. If it puts your father’s mind at ease, I’ll sign it.”

Her words feel like a blow. My father watches us both, his sharp gaze assessing, calculating. He slides the leather folder closer to Elle, the movement deliberate and dismissive at the same time.

Elle opens it and begins skimming through the document, her expression calm but focused. I stay beside her, my fists still clenched, my breath coming in sharp bursts as I watch her scan page after page.

“This is outrageous,” I mutter under my breath.

She doesn’t look up, but her hand reaches out briefly, brushing against mine in a silent reassurance.

Then, her movements freeze. Her brow furrows, her lips pressing into a tight line.

“What is it?” I ask, my voice sharp with concern.

Her eyes flicker to me, a shadow of hesitation crossing her face. “There’s a clause about children,” she says quietly.

“What?” I lean over her shoulder, scanning the section she’s pointing to. My stomach churns as I read the words. The clause outlines how any children we might have would be entirely under the control of the family trust – schooling, finances, even their upbringing dictated by my father.

“This is insane,” I growl, slamming the folder shut. I round on my father, my voice shaking with fury. “You can’t dictate how we raise our kids – if we even decide to have them.”

My father’s expression hardens, his calm exterior cracking just slightly. “It’s not dictating, Sebastian. It’s ensuring that any children born into this family are given the proper opportunities.”

“No,” I snap, my hands slamming down on the table. “It’s controlling their lives before they even exist.”

Elle’s voice cuts through the heated exchange. “This is unacceptable,” she says, her tone even but firm. She pushes the folder back toward my father. “If you want me to sign this, the clause about children has to go.”

My father regards her with a cold, calculating stare, as if weighing whether she’s bluffing. For a moment, the tension in the room feels unbearable. Then he speaks, his voice like ice. “You’re very persuasive, Elle. But this is non-negotiable.”

“Then I won’t sign it,” she says simply, her voice resolute.

The silence that follows is deafening.

I step forward, placing a hand on her shoulder. “Good,” I say, my voice steady. “Because we’re not signing anything that gives you control over our future family.”

My father’s gaze shifts between us, his expression unreadable. Finally, he exhales, a sound of frustration rather than defeat. “Very well,” he says, his tone clipped. “The clause will be removed. But the rest of the document stands.”

Elle nods, her hand trembling slightly as she picks up the folder again and skims through the remaining terms, after crossing out the clause about children. Once satisfied, she hands it back with a calm precision that both impresses and unsettles me.

My father takes the folder, his expression as inscrutable as ever. “I’ll have this finalised before tomorrow and you can sign the new version,” he says, standing. “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

He leaves without another word, his footsteps echoing down the hallway.

As soon as he’s gone, I turn to Elle, my hand still resting on her shoulder. “You didn’t have to do that,” I say quietly, my voice laced with guilt.

“Yes, I did,” she replies, meeting my gaze with a determination that takes my breath away. “Because this isn’t just about you, Seb. It’s about us. And I won’t let your father – or anyone else – dictate how we live our lives.”

The strength in her voice, the sheer conviction, sends a wave of emotion crashing over me. I pull her into my arms, holding her tightly, her warmth grounding me.

“I don’t deserve you,” I murmur against her hair.

She pulls back just enough to meet my eyes, her expression soft but resolute. “We’ll figure it out,” she says, her voice a quiet promise. “Together. After this wedding, we stop letting your father control us.”