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CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Elle

The kiss still lingers, a phantom sensation that refuses to leave. It’s careful, barely more than a brush, soft and measured, but it was enough. Enough to start something – something I don’t have the words for yet. The warmth of it spreads like a wildfire through my chest. My pulse flutters in my throat as Seb pulls back, his face close enough that I can still see the faint shadows of stubble along his jaw. His eyes stay locked on mine – dark and dangerous like a stormy sea, too focused, too knowing.

I fight the urge to step back. To put space between us. To run.

The applause swells behind us, and I blink, startled back into the performance. The crowd stands. Smiles. Claps politely in a way that feels rehearsed and hollow. I tighten my grip on Seb’s hand as he turns us to face them, a smile plastered on his face, that I don’t believe for a second.

Their applause thunders through the church like a tidal wave. My smile stays plastered in place, but every muscle in my body screams to run. To pull my hand free. To shove off this heavy veil of expectation and disappear.

I can feel the photographers already snapping away – shutter clicks blending into the clapping like a drumbeat. My skin prickles under their attention, a thousand unseen eyes dissecting this moment that doesn’t even feel like mine.

It isn’t.

Neither of us says anything. We don’t need to. We both know we’re on display. Pawns in a perfectly orchestrated tableau of wealth and power and legacy.

And god, I hate it.

The moment we step out of the spotlight, a photographer steps forward, his camera shutter snapping in quick succession. “One more, Mr. and Mrs. Sterling-Knight,” he urges.

Seb shifts closer, his arm sliding around my waist. His palm rests lightly on my hip, fingers grazing silk and skin through the thin fabric of my dress. I force a smile, tilting my head toward him, in a way that feels natural but isn’t.

I don’t let myself look at him. I can’t. Not when my mind is still spinning with everything .

The weight of the vows. The way his thumb brushed mine when he spoke. The damn pendant at my throat that feels heavier now than it did this morning. The prenup has turned it into a noose around my neck. I should have left it in the box.

But I didn’t.

“Perfect,” the photographer announces with an exaggerated grin, finally lowering the camera.

Perfect .

What a lie. The word twists something sharp in my chest. I flash my teeth at the nearest photographer as he calls out instructions. One more angle, one more shot, one more performance for an audience I didn’t choose.

Sebastian doesn’t let me go. Instead, his arm loops around my waist as we exit the church together, the applause of the crowd following us like a shadow.

He helps me into the back of a sleek, black Rolls-Royce waiting outside the church steps. There’s champagne already chilled on a silver tray, flutes sparkling under the soft glow of the car’s interior lighting. The door shuts, cocooning us in velvet silence.

I exhale slowly, the kind of breath that only comes after holding too much in for too long.

Seb doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. He just sits across from me, one long leg stretched lazily forward, his hands steepled in his lap like he doesn’t have a single care in the world. His suit jacket hangs open, his tie loosened slightly. He looks relaxed, casual even, but I know better.

I glance out the window, watching the church disappear behind us as we drive through the city. The journey to the reception starts to blur.

My reflection stares back at me in the glass – perfect hair, perfect dress, perfect bride.

Liar , I think bitterly.

Seb’s voice pulls me back. “You’re quiet.”

I drag my gaze from the window and meet his eyes. “What would you like me to say?”

Something flickers in his expression – too quick for me to name. He doesn’t smirk, doesn’t deflect with one of his usual arrogant quips. Instead, he studies me. Really studies me. It’s unnerving.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he says finally, his voice soft but heavy.

The words hang in the air between us, and I look away again, my throat tight.

The reception is being held at a country estate that looks like something out of a fairytale – if fairytales came with property taxes bigger than most people’s life savings. The house rises out of the darkness like a castle, its sprawling lawns lined with glowing lanterns and sleek black sedans delivering the rest of our guests.

The Rolls-Royce stops at the base of the marble steps, where more photographers are waiting. A valet opens the door on Seb’s side, and he steps out first, adjusting his tie with a casual flick of his wrist before turning back to offer me his hand.

I take it because I have to. Because it’s expected.

The moment I step out, the cameras flash like fireworks, blinding and relentless. I barely suppress a flinch as Seb’s arm settles around my waist again, anchoring me to his side.

He leans in, his mouth close to my ear. “Smile, Mrs. Sterling-Knight.”

His voice is low and private, and I hate how my skin prickles at the sound of it. I tilt my head up toward him, forcing another smile as we climb the steps together.

The mansion is transformed into something straight out of a dream. Chandeliers glitter above us, their crystal arms casting light across gold-trimmed ceilings. The grand foyer blooms with flowers – thousands of white roses and lilies arranged in towering vases – and the gentle sound of a live string quartet fills the air.

It’s stunning. Expensive. Breathtaking.

And I hate every inch of it.

“Elle!”

Candy’s voice pulls me back, and relief crashes through me as I spot her weaving through the crowd in a rippling silk, champagne-coloured gown that she chose for herself. She looks radiant, her smile wide and real as she flings her arms around me.

“You’re a vision,” she breathes, stepping back to hold me at arm’s length. “I mean it, babe. Absolutely stunning.”

I let out a shaky laugh, some of the tension draining from my shoulders. “You’re not so bad yourself.”

She rolls her eyes. “Please. This is your day. Own it.”

Is it, though?

Before I can answer, Candy’s gaze darts to Seb, who’s stepped slightly to the side to greet a cluster of older men I don’t recognise, but assume to be business associates, if Seb’s stiff posture is anything to go by. Her brows knit together as she leans closer.

“You okay?” she asks quietly.

The words hit me harder than I expected.

Am I okay? No. But I nod anyway, because the alternative is falling apart in the middle of my wedding reception. “I’m fine.”

Candy doesn’t believe me. I can tell by the way her lips press into a thin line, but she doesn’t push. She just squeezes my hand and says, “I’ll find you later. Promise.”

I watch her disappear into the crowd just as Seb returns to my side. His hand brushes my lower back, guiding me gently toward the grand ballroom, where hundreds of guests are already mingling. Did he step aside on purpose to give me and Candy that moment alone?

“Ready?” he asks quietly.

No.

But I nod. “Of course.”

The reception is a dream.

And a nightmare.

The grand ballroom has been transformed into something out of a storybook – white roses and lilies cascade in every corner, delicate strings of lights drape from the ceiling like stars, and crystal chandeliers glitter in golden brilliance. A live orchestra plays in the corner, their music threading through the air, elegant and perfect and suffocating.

The guests are already here, sipping champagne and laughing behind their masks of civility. All the usual suspects – politicians, family friends, business moguls – people who don’t see me as a person but as a title.

The guests. The flowers. The music playing softly. It’s too much – too perfect, too orchestrated. I let Seb lead me through it, smiling and nodding at the endless stream of faces offering congratulations, their compliments blending into white noise.

Seb’s hand rests lightly on my back, guiding me through the sea of people. It’s a performance, every step choreographed, every smile plastered on. I’m introduced to people I already know, their compliments floating past me like static.

“You look radiant, Elle. Congratulations!”

“The perfect couple, aren’t they?”

“Sebastian, you’ve outdone yourself.”

“A sound business match.”

I nod. I smile. I thank them for coming. But I don’t hear them. Not really. My fingers find the pendant at my throat, twisting it as though it might anchor me to something real.

Seb looks every bit the part – Sebastian Sterling-Knight, heir to a billion-dollar empire, untouchable and perfect.

And yet…something’s off.

I wonder what he knows.

The thought makes me glance toward his father, who stands on the other side of the room surrounded by a circle of men who look just like him – sharp suits, sharper smiles. He’s laughing, his expression one of smug satisfaction. Like all of this is his design. Like all of this is exactly how he planned it.

Seb turns to me suddenly, his voice low. “You look like you’re plotting an escape.”

“Wouldn’t you?” I reply, my smile never faltering.

For once, Seb doesn’t laugh. He just looks at me, his eyes too sharp, too searching. “Not without you,” he murmurs.

The words hit me like a punch to the chest. The tension coils between us, invisible but heavy. I steal a sip of champagne from the flute that’s suddenly in my hand, desperate for something to steady me. It doesn’t work.

I open my mouth to respond, but someone calls his name, and the moment shatters. He turns, his hand falling away from my back, and I exhale slowly, steadying myself.

I glance around the room, my fingers brushing the pendant at my throat as if to remind myself that something today is real. It’s stupid, but the weight of it is oddly reassuring all of a sudden.

I catch Seb glancing toward his father more than once, his jaw tight and his smile a little too practiced. And every time he does, unease coils in my stomach.

They don’t notice me watching as he crosses the room and shakes hands with his father, whose smile looks entirely too pleased. Too satisfied. The elder Sterling-Knight is beaming .

And for the first time all night, I feel something sharper than unease. Suspicion .

Does Seb know about the updated prenup? He must, surely?

No. He would never have let me sign that. He was so adamant about me not signing anything, fully supportive when I demanded his father take out the clause pertaining to children. There’s no way…

Unless it was all an act?

But what would he have to gain from playing me?

Panic flutters low in my chest as Seb looks like he wants to murder his father.

His eyes dart toward me across the room, locking onto mine with an intensity that makes my breath stutter. He doesn’t look away as his father continues talking, gesturing at something with a wave of his hand.

My fingers tighten around the stem of my glass.

Seb’s gaze doesn’t waver, and suddenly, I’m sure of it – something is wrong. He knows something . There’s a storm in his expression, a silent question he’s trying to ask without speaking.

I shake my head faintly, telling him I’m fine , but I’m not sure if I mean it.

His father’s laugh cuts through the air, bright and booming, and Seb finally breaks the stare, his jaw clenching tight enough that I see the muscle twitch.

I take another sip of champagne, the bubbles sharp on my tongue.

The orchestra plays on, the lights glitter above us, and all I can think is that this is just the beginning of whatever game the Sterling-Knight men are playing with me.