I don't even remember what the priest said.
Everything is blurry. Religious words, an icy ring he slipped onto my finger without a glance, and a "yes" uttered as one would sign a contract. There were no guests, no music, no kiss. Just him and me, and that silence between us that screamed louder than all the organs in the world.
Dylan Kingsley. My husband.
I officially became the wife of a man who doesn't know me... and who seems perfectly fine with it.
After the ceremony, he didn't say a word. He merely gave me a nod before leaving the room. As if he had just finished a simple business meeting. I remained there, alone in the grand hall, with my wrinkled white dress and that too-heavy ring on my finger.
I wanted to cry. But I learned very early that crying changes nothing.
So I breathed. Once. Twice. And I followed the housekeeper who was waiting for me.
"Mrs. Kingsley, follow me."
Mrs. Kingsley.
Those two words hit me like a slap. They sound wrong in her mouth. Wrong in mine. I'm not a "Mrs." I'm a girl abandoned by fate, thrown into a house too big with a husband too cold.
She led me to an isolated wing of the mansion.
"This is your room," she said. "Mr. Kingsley has his on the upper floor."
Of course. Two separate rooms. It's not a marriage; it's an agreement.
I mumbled a mechanical "thank you" and entered.
The room is magnificent, too beautiful for me. Everything is beige, gold, and cream. There's a balcony with a view of London's rooftops, a king-size bed, wardrobes I'll never dare to open. On the dressing table, a note. Straight, neat, icy handwriting.
> "We have public dinners scheduled starting tomorrow. Be ready. Be beautiful. Say little. – D.K."
>
I clench the paper in my fingers until it creases. I stop myself from tearing it. I feel my heart pounding against my ribs. Why did he choose me? Why me? Why this charade?
I didn't sleep that night.
I tossed and turned in that too-soft bed, while the rain drummed against the windows. And I thought back to that voice, the one I heard just before the ceremony.
> "This marriage is a trap."
>
Who was it? A hallucination? A warning? What if this all went deeper than I believed?
The next morning, I woke up tired, my eyes swollen. A black suit awaited me on a hanger, perfectly ironed. Accompanied by a simple note:
> "Departure at 9 AM. Be ready."
>
I dressed without a word. I went downstairs. He was there, standing by the door, impeccable suit, gleaming watch, discreet but intimidating cologne. Dylan Kingsley. Untouchable. Unfathomable.
He didn't even greet me. He simply handed me a coat.
"Put this on. It's cold outside."
It was perhaps the most human thing he had said to me since we met.
In the car, he didn't speak. He looked out the window, hands clasped on his knees. I, however, stared at him. I tried to understand. To break through that wall of ice.
"Why me?" I finally asked, my voice low.
He slowly turned his head towards me. His gaze was neutral.
"Because you don't ask questions. Well... I thought."
I looked away, ashamed. But deep inside, a dull anger began to simmer.
He didn't look at me once. Not really. Not like a woman. Not like a wife. In his eyes, I was a temporary solution, a pawn in a game I didn't understand.
And yet, something told me he wasn't as cold as he wanted to appear.
I'll find out.
I'll break his silence. And I'll understand what Dylan Kingsley is truly hiding.