003
“Wow!”
As the intricately crafted gates swung open, Cressida's eyes widened in awe, drinking in the grandeur of the Palmers mansion. The luxurious car glided smoothly up the winding driveway, its tires crunching on the gravel beneath.
Her gaze roamed over the mansion’s sleek, modern facade, where floor-to-ceiling windows reflected the sunlight, polished chrome accents gleamed, and creamy white stone that radiated warmth—lush greenery and meticulously manicured gardens surrounding the mansion created a tranquil oasis.
As the car drew to a stop before the grand entrance, a liveried chauffeur, resplendent in his tailored coat adorned with the Palmer family’s crest, sprang into action—opening the door with a courteous smile.
Cressida gently emerged onto the driveway, her stilettos clicking crisply on the polished stone. Rowan, dressed in impeccable attire, stepped forward, her head bowed in respect.
She placed her right hand over her left, positioning them on her stomach as greeted Cressida with a warm smile. “Good day, ma’am,” her voice was soft and melodious. “Welcome to Palmer Manor.”
She stepped aside, gesturing toward the door. “This way, ma’am,” she said, her voice soft and respectful.
As Cressida entered the sitting room, she was greeted by two rows of maids, impeccably dressed in their black and white uniforms, curtsying, their heads in a graceful gesture of welcome.
“Welcome to Palmer Manor, ma’am.” They murmured, their voices blending in a soothing harmony.
Cressida’s face lit up with a warm smile, but before she could respond, Amabel came out of her room, hurrying toward her with open arms and a radiant smile so she hastened to meet her halfway, and they met in the center of the parlor, embracing warmly.
“Welcome home, my darling.” Amabel said, her voice filled with affection.
“Good day, ma.” Cressida greeted.
As Amabel stepped back, she gently held Cressida’s hand, guiding her to the sofa where they sat together. “How are you doing?” She asked, her eyes sparkling with genuine interest.
Before Cressida could respond, Amabel’s face lit up with a warm smile. “The pictures I saw didn’t do you justice,” she said, her voice filled with sincerity. “You’re truly stunning.”
Cressida’s cheeks flushed slightly as she glanced downward, a demure smile playing on her lips, pretending shyness. “Thanks, ma.”
The sound of footsteps caught Amabel’s attention, and she turned to see Dawson emerging from the hallway. She quickly rose to her feet, gently tugging Cressida’s hand as they walked together to greet him.
“Sweetheart,” Amabel called out as they approached him, her voice warm and inviting. “This is Cressida.”
Cressida curtsied slightly, a bright smile on her lips. “Good day, sir.” She greeted, her voice polite and respectful. However, Dawson didn’t respond. Instead, his gaze swept over her, lingering from head to toe.
He slipped his hand into his pocket, his expression unreadable, before turning toward the dining area without a word.
Amabel’s brows furrowed in concern as she watched Dawson walk away, then turned to Cressida with a puzzled expression. “Have you had an encounter with him before?”
‘Maybe he senses I’m your calamity. An inevitable one.’ Cressida’s thoughts flashed with a wry insight, and she pushed the thought aside, shaking her head slowly, her expression guileless. “No, ma’am.” She replied softly.
‘What’s wrong with him?’ Amabel’s forehead creased with concern, her thoughts momentarily etched on her face, but she swiftly smoothed out her expression, replacing it with a reassuring smile as she turned to Cressida.
“Don't worry, dear,” she said warmly. “He’s a nice person. Maybe—”
“I understand, ma’am,” Cressida interrupted with a soothing smile, as if Dawson’s behavior didn’t faze her. “He holds a prominent position, directing many things. He must be preoccupied, that’s all,”
She shrugged, her smile brightening convincingly. “I’m not bothered.”
Amabel’s expression softened as she gazed at Cressida with satisfaction. “Thanks,” she whispered, a warm smile spreading across her face. She closed the space between them, enveloping Cressida in a warm hug. “It’s obvious you’d be a wonderful wife. I’m already fond of you.”
Cressida scoffed softly. ‘Yes, I will, and also a perfect Disciplinarian.’
The meal concluded, and Cressida was left alone in the parlor. Amabel had excused herself to speak with Dawson, and Alaric was nowhere to be found, leaving Cressida to wait quietly.
The entrance door swung open, and Easton, Alaric’s assistant wheeled him in, Cressida watching with interest. As they drew closer, she asked without hesitation, “where have you been?”
Alaric’s piercing gaze met hers, his expression unreadable. “Monitoring my movement isn’t part of our deal, is it?” His low, icy tone questioned. “You’re here to meet your in-laws, not coddle me. I see no reason to stay just to play host.”
Cressida nodded, biting back a sharp retort as she licked her lips. She’d decided to tread carefully around him, at least until the marriage was sealed. “Okay,” she uttered softly. “So… have you agreed to my proposal?”
Her question piqued Dawson’s curiosity, and he found himself stepping closer. “What proposal?” He questioned. He had been observing from just behind the door, intending to approach Cressida, had Alaric not appeared.
“Uhm!” Cressida exclaimed, her face lighting up in shock, while Alaric’s expression remained impassive. He was well-versed in the unwritten rules under the Palmers’ roof and was about to caution her against broaching such a topic in such a setting.
“What proposal are you talking about?” Dawson asked, his voice sharp with curiosity as he stepped closer. His gaze was fixed on Alaric, but Alaric’ gaze drifted elsewhere, deliberately avoiding eye contact.
“Don’t talk to me.” Alaric muttered under his breath, his voice barely audible. His eyes flashed with resentment, a deep-seated loathing for his father simmering beneath the surface. In his mind, Dawson was a failure—a man who had never lifted a finger to protect him.
Dawson turned to Cressida, who promptly dropped her gaze, anticipating the question. Before Dawson could speak, Alaric intervened, his voice firm. “I don’t answer your questions, why should she?”
He raised an eyebrow, his tone authoritative. “Mind your own business, old man.”
Dawson’s jaw clenched, his teeth grinding in frustration as his gaze flicked between Cressida and Alaric before settling on Alaric. “How dare you speak to me like that in front of her?” He demanded, his voice low and menacing.
Alaric smirked, his voice laced with sarcasm. “You want me to be polite because she’s here?” He shook his head, a cold glint in his eye. “She’ll be my wife, living under our roof in a few days. No point in pretending respect now when she’ll soon see the real dynamic—and that includes every bit of disrespect I have for you.”
“I need to prepare her for the drama, so she knows what’s coming.”
Dawson’s eyes flashed with pain, his breath catching in his throat as he gritted his teeth to hold back the emotions simmering just below the surface.
Alaric’s smile turned mocking. “I’m faster than you, old man. Why don’t you walk away, and we’ll put an end to this drama?”
Dawson’s chest heaved as he struggled to control his anger, his gaze fixed on Alaric’s profile. With a silent snarl, he ground his teeth and strode to his room.
Alaric’s gaze lingered on Dawson’s backside until the door closed. He clenched his fist, his eyes turning outrageously red. ‘Nothing in this world can change how I feel about you!’
Alaric’s thoughts swirled with bitter resentment, his mind replaying the animosity. He hated Dawson, Amabel, and Felix—his own family. But Dawson topped the list, the father who consistently sided with his stepbrother, no matter the injustice.
His wound ran deep, fueled by years of favoritism.
Cressida’s giggles caught Alaric’s attention, and she leaned slightly to one side, her arms crossed. “Looks like things get pretty interesting around here,” she said with a nod, her arms unfolding as she added with a grin, “I guess I should bring my popcorn stash when I move in—the drama's already popping.”
Alaric’s eyes narrowed, his expression darkening. “You’re not here for the drama, woman,” he said, his voice low and serious. “You have a purpose, and that doesn’t include sitting back and enjoying the show.”
Cressida nodded, her eyes locked on Alaric’s. “Okay,” she said softly. “But sometimes, you need to let go and breathe. Life’s like a river—if it doesn’t flow, it stagnates. You work, you play, you live. Otherwise, your mind’s just a dusty road, collecting dust and nothing more.”
“Let’s talk in my room—properly.” Alaric said, reaching for the wheelchair’s handles.
Cressida stepped behind him, her hands extending to help. “Let me.” She offered.
“No,” his response was curt. “You’re not here to babysit.”
Cressida’s smile gleamed. “I know,” she said, her smile broadening. “But efficiency is key, right? Kill two birds with one stone?”
Alaric’s expression remained unyielding. “Not possible. And even if it is, I wouldn’t allow it. The mission comes first.”
His voice was a low, icy blade, slicing through the air. “This marriage is a contract, not a bond. Our purpose is to build a weapon—a lethal one that requires precision. Babysitting isn’t in the blueprint.”
Cressida’s lips compressed into a thin line as she nodded. “Okay,” she said. Shr grasped the wheelchair and pushed it forward. “Sorry in advance, but I’ll babysit when needed. I could be annoying—You might want to prepare for that.”
“Contract duration, a year.”
Cressida’s eyes scanned the paper in her hand, her voice steady as she read out. “No prying, no intruding, respect boundaries, and give each other space.”
Her gaze flicked up to Alaric, who was studying his copy, his eyes narrowing as he tracked every line.
“Mutual respect and dignity are mandatory, along with open and honest communication,” Alaric’s gaze remained fixed on his copy as he read on. “No mission secrets are to be withheld. Disputes will be resolved between us, without external interference.”
“Did you, Lawson Cressida, agree to these terms?” He asked, and before she could respond, he held out the pen, his eyes glinting.
Her brow furrowed. “How did you know I’d agree? Shouldn’t you let me die before preparing my funeral?”
Alaric’s low chuckle rumbled. “Why waste time? I sensed the Soul Keeper’s presence. Death looms, and hesitation would be... unwise.”
Cressida’s lips curled into a snicker. “Yes, I, Lawson Cressida, agree to your terms.” She redirected the pen and signed beneath her name.