Chapter 5 Chapter 5

Lily

The reception buzzes with life—laughter, chatter, the clinking of glasses. People are drinking champagne, balancing delicate hors d’oeuvres on porcelain plates, their polished shoes gliding over marble floors. The room is packed, glittering with the weight of money and reputation. Soft jazz hums in the background, barely audible over the crowd. It’s stifling. The white gown I’m wearing feels heavier with each passing minute, pressing against my skin like an anchor. My feet ache, my head is spinning, and I feel like a porcelain doll trapped in a museum of strangers.

Suddenly, Sebastian’s hand touches mine. “Come,” he says softly, “it’s time for our first dance.”

My heart lurches. I place my hand in his, and he guides me to the center of the room. The guests form a loose circle around us, but I barely see them. The moment his arms wrap around my waist and our bodies fall into rhythm with the music, the world quiets. His eyes are on mine—sharp, unreadable, commanding.

“You’re tense,” he murmurs, his breath brushing against my cheek.

“Maybe because this whole night feels like a performance,” I whisper back.

He says nothing, but a faint smile plays at the corner of his lips. He pulls me closer until there’s barely space between us, then spins me gently. The chandelier’s crystals scatter light across his face. For a moment, it’s just the two of us, moving in sync. A beautiful illusion.

When the music fades, he leans in and presses a light kiss to my forehead. It draws a few soft claps and admiring sighs from the crowd, but all I feel is the numb thudding of my heart.

The reception winds down. Guests say their goodbyes, some with too many compliments, others with prying eyes. Sebastian stays polite, nodding and shaking hands until the last guest departs. Then, without a word, he leads me outside.

A sleek black Bentley waits at the curb under the soft glow of golden streetlights. He opens the door for me like a gentleman out of a fantasy novel, then rounds the car and slides behind the wheel. I slip inside wordlessly, the gown swallowing me whole as I settle into the leather seat.

The drive is quiet. The city lights blur past the windows as I check the time again. It’s 2 a.m., and I’m still in disbelief that this is my life now.

After about 35 minutes, we pull up in front of a towering modern building. The entrance glows subtly, flanked by polished marble and minimalist lights. Sebastian parks without a word. We step inside and take a private elevator, where he presses the button for the 20th floor.

“This penthouse,” he says quietly, “has been my home for the last few years. Never saw a reason to build a house—I wasn’t expecting a wife.”

“Still,” I say, trying to hide the tired edge in my voice, “this place is stunning. Who wouldn’t want to live here?”

He gives me a sideways glance, and for a second his lips curve into something that could be called a smile.

The elevator opens into the penthouse directly, revealing an open space bathed in cool tones of grey and steel. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretch across the walls, offering a sweeping view of the city skyline. Outside on the terrace, I can see a private swimming pool reflecting moonlight like liquid silver. The living room is spacious and impeccably styled—leather couches, abstract art, and low golden lighting that gives it a moody, masculine feel. The kitchen is sleek, untouched, like it belongs in a magazine. A black marble dining table gleams near the far wall.

“Come,” Sebastian says, and I follow him up the stairs. The hallway is dim and quiet, with three doors on either side.

He stops in front of one and opens it for me.

“This is your room,” he says.

It’s elegant, warm lighting, a queen-sized bed dressed in clean white sheets, a flat-screen TV mounted on the wall, a wardrobe, and an en-suite bathroom. Everything smells of cedar and fresh linen.

“You don’t have to sleep in my room,” he says calmly. “I won’t force you. You’ll have your own space in this… arrangement. If you need anything, I’m at the last door down the hall.”

I nod. “Okay. Um… Can I borrow a shirt to change into?”

“Of course,” he says. “Wait here.”

As soon as he steps out, I kick off the heels and sigh in relief, sinking onto the edge of the bed. My feet throb, and my heart is still racing from the night.

He returns moments later with a folded black t-shirt in hand.

“Here,” he offers.

“Thank you,” I say softly.

He lingers in the doorway for a moment. “Good night, Lily.”

“Good night, Sebastian,” I reply.

The door closes behind him. I sit there in silence for a moment, staring at the shirt in my hands.

I’m not sure if I’ve just stepped into a fairytale… or a prison.

~~~

I wake up slowly, my eyes fluttering open to a room I don’t recognize at first. The sheets feel softer, the scent in the air different, clean, masculine, expensive. For a brief second, I forget everything.

Then it hits me.

I’m not at home.

I’m married.

To Sebastian Manchini.

I sit up, the black t-shirt I borrowed from him draping over my bare legs. It smells faintly of his cologne, warm and woodsy with a hint of something darker beneath. I press my palms into the mattress and exhale slowly, trying to center myself before dragging my feet to the edge of the bed.

Padding down the stairs barefoot, I hear the low hum of morning silence. The penthouse is bathed in soft golden sunlight filtering through the massive glass windows, illuminating the sleek lines of the open-plan living room and kitchen.

I spot Sebastian standing by the marble island in the kitchen. He’s already dressed—black tailored coat over a dark shirt, his hair neatly styled, his posture straight and focused. He’s holding a steaming cup of coffee in one hand, eyes scanning something on his iPad.

He doesn’t look up immediately, but I can feel the shift in the air when he senses me. His gaze lifts slowly, meeting mine with quiet intensity.

“Morning,” he says, his voice smooth and unreadable. “Slept well?”

I nod, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “Yeah… surprisingly.”

He lifts his coffee to his lips, taking a sip without breaking eye contact. “Want some?”

“No, I’m good. Thanks.” I glance at the clock on the oven. 10:00 a.m. Panic pricks at the edges of my thoughts. “I—I need to get to campus. But I don’t have any clothes with me.”

He sets the mug down with a soft clink and leans casually against the counter. “You can skip today.”

“Skip?” I raise an eyebrow.

“I already texted Belladonna,” he says calmly. “She’s on her way with some clothes and whatever else you might need.”

There’s something unsettling about how easily he takes control of my life,but part of me also feels strangely… seen.

“Well… thanks for that,” I say, offering him a small, unsure smile.

He returns it faintly, the corner of his mouth twitching upward just for a second before he glances back down at his screen.

It’s only the first morning of this new life, and yet it already feels like the rules I once lived by no longer.