The last echo of the wedding bells faded, replaced by the hushed clinking of crystal and polite, murmuring congratulations. Brook, now officially Mrs. Bruce Evans, felt a tremor run through her as Bruce's hand, still firm and unyielding, led her through the throng of well-wishers. Each forced smile, each congratulatory handshake felt like a fresh wound. She was a trophy, displayed for approval, a testament to a union born of calculation, not love.
During the toasts, her father, tears in his eyes, spoke of legacies and enduring love, words that felt like sharp ironies. Bruce, when it was his turn, offered a succinct, almost business-like statement about their shared future, his voice deep and resonant, betraying no warmth. Brook watched him, fascinated and repelled. He was a perfect specimen of controlled power, his gaze sweeping the room, missing nothing, yet landing on her only in fleeting, assessing glances.
Then Chris, ever the charming rogue, took the stage. With a guitar in hand, he serenaded her with a heartfelt ballad he claimed to have written just for her. His red hair gleamed under the chandeliers, his voice soulful, his eyes locking with hers across the opulent room. He sang of finding light in darkness, of unexpected beauty. Brook felt a familiar, intoxicating flutter in her chest. Chris had a way of making her feel seen, truly seen, unlike anyone else. The applause was thunderous, and she caught a fleeting glimpse of Bruce, his jaw tightening almost imperceptibly, his dark eyes fixed on his brother. A strange undercurrent of tension, a silent battle for something unspoken, hung heavy in the air.
Later, as the reception wound down, the final guests departing with air kisses and empty promises, Brook felt a profound weariness settle into her bones. Her illness, always a shadow, now felt like a crushing weight. She longed for the solitude of her old room, for the familiar comfort of anonymity.
"Your rooms are prepared, Brook," Bruce's voice, startlingly close, cut through the quiet. He stood beside her, a hand casually resting on the small of her back – a gesture of possession rather than affection. "My assistant has seen to your belongings. Rest now."
Her rooms? Not *their* rooms. The stark formality of his words was a cold splash of reality. She was not a wife sharing a marital bed; she was a valuable, fragile asset, provided with luxurious, yet separate, quarters. The reality struck her harder than any physical pain.
She was led not to a shared master suite, but to a vast, exquisite wing of the mansion she hadn't seen during her brief tours. It was magnificent: a spacious bedroom adorned with silk and antique furniture, a private sitting room with floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking a sprawling garden, and a marble bathroom larger than her entire childhood bedroom. A maid awaited, ready to assist her. Everything was perfect, and perfectly impersonal.
"Mr. Evans requested that you have complete privacy and every comfort, Mrs. Evans," the maid said softly, her eyes deferential. "He asked specifically about the temperature of the rooms, and that your special teas be ready at dawn."
Brook felt a pang of confusion. Bruce. Her special teas. She remembered the anonymous comforts from Chapter 1. Could it have been him all along? But why the coldness, the distance, if he cared so much about her well-being? It didn't make sense. She dismissed the thought, attributing it to the maid's diligence, perhaps orchestrated by her own father's lingering influence. Bruce was a CEO; he delegated.
Left alone, Brook sank onto the plush chaise lounge, the heavy gown feeling like lead. She was utterly alone, yet surrounded by a suffocating opulence. This wasn't a home; it was a museum, and she, its most prized, most fragile exhibit. Tears pricked her eyes, silent and bitter. She was trapped, a princess in a tower of her own making, yet without the comfort of a rescuer.
Unbeknownst to her, in his own starkly modern study in a different wing of the mansion, Bruce stood before a bank of monitors, one of which displayed a faint, almost artistic, black-and-white feed of Brook's private sitting room. He watched her as she sank onto the chaise, her shoulders slumped. He saw the way her hand flew to her chest, a familiar gesture that spoke of pain. His jaw clenched. He yearned to go to her, to offer comfort, to apologize for the coldness he knew he projected. But he couldn't. Not yet. He had to keep her safe, and for now, that meant maintaining his distance, observing, protecting from the shadows.
He remembered the flicker of fury he'd felt when Chris had touched her, had sung to her, his charade threatening to crumble. He knew his brother, knew his superficial charm. Chris saw a fragile, beautiful heiress, a muse for his art, a conquest. Bruce saw a woman he had loved from afar for years, a woman he was now desperately trying to save.
He had watched her at the park that day, years ago, a wisp of a girl with vibrant, curly hair, lost in thought. He'd seen her quiet strength, her hidden sorrow. He had seen her now, a delicate flower forced into a marriage she didn't want, her life hanging by a thread. And he would protect her. From the world, from her illness, and even, if necessary, from his own emotions.
A soft knock at her door startled Brook. She quickly wiped her eyes, plastering a neutral expression on her face. It was Chris. He stood there, leaning casually against the doorframe, a bottle of champagne and two flutes in his hand, his red hair a vibrant splash against the muted hallway.
"Rough night, Mrs. Evans?" he said, his voice laced with playful sympathy. "Thought you might need a proper unwind after that circus. And a little company."
He didn't wait for an invitation, stepping into the room, his eyes scanning the opulent space. "Wow, Bruce really went all out for his new bride's gilded cage, didn't he?" His smile was easy, disarming. He poured them both a glass of champagne, handing one to Brook. "To freedom, in whatever form we can snatch it."
Brook managed a genuine, albeit small, smile. Chris was a breath of fresh air in the suffocating silence of her new life. He sat beside her on the chaise, not too close, but close enough to make her feel less alone. He began to talk, not about the wedding, but about art, about his latest song, about a dream of traveling the world. His words were a soothing balm, pulling her out of her own head, making her forget, for a precious few moments, the illness that gnawed at her, and the cold, unreadable man she had just married.
As Chris talked, his hand casually grazed hers, a comforting, almost intimate touch. Brook looked at him, feeling a warmth spread through her chest. This was what she craved: understanding, laughter, a connection that felt real. Her gaze drifted across the vast room, towards the darkened windows overlooking the garden. Outside, in the deepest shadows, hidden from sight, a pair of intense, dark eyes watched them, a silent storm brewing behind an impenetrable façade. Bruce, ever the vigilant protector, had been unable to resist checking on her, only to witness the easy intimacy forming between his wife and his brother, a painful confirmation of his greatest fear. The champagne bubbles tickled Brook's nose, and she laughed, a genuine, joyful sound. It echoed faintly in Bruce's private study, a sound that pierced him to his very core.