The air inside the Sinclair estate was thick with silence. Not the comforting kind, but the kind that suffocated, pressing down on Lydia's chest like an invisible weight. She stood at the top of the grand staircase, her fingers tightening around the wooden railing as she stared down at the dimly lit hallway below.
The moment she had stepped through the front doors that evening, the butler had delivered a single message: Your stepmother wants to see you in the study. Immediately.
Lydia's stomach twisted. Nothing good ever came from her stepmother's summons.
Drawing in a slow breath, she descended the staircase with measured steps. She wouldn't let them see her hesitate. Whatever this was, she would meet it head-on, as she always had.
The study doors were already ajar, a flickering glow from the fireplace casting shadows on the polished floors. She stepped inside, her pulse steady—at least on the outside.
Her father sat in his usual chair, his shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on the swirling amber liquid in his glass. He didn't look at her. He never did when he had bad news.
Her stepmother, Clarisse Sinclair, sat beside him, elegant as ever, her gown pristine, her manicured fingers lightly tapping against the desk. A silent rhythm of control. Power.
And then there was Vivian—Lydia's stepsister. Draped in silk, reclining in the corner with an expression of carefully measured pity.
Lydia closed the door behind her, straightening her spine. "You called for me."
Clarisse's red lips curved into something that was not quite a smile. "Sit down, Lydia."
"I'd rather stand."
Her stepmother sighed. "Suit yourself." She folded her hands, voice smooth, practiced. "You've always wanted to prove yourself, haven't you?"
A prickle of unease ran down Lydia's spine. "What are you getting at?"
Clarisse tilted her head, feigning surprise. "We've found the perfect opportunity for you. A chance to secure this family's future. A way to prove that you're truly one of us."
Lydia's fingers curled into her palms. She knew that tone. It was the same one Clarisse used whenever she was about to strike.
Her father finally spoke, voice heavy with something that sounded like regret. "You're getting married, Lydia."
The words echoed in her skull, distant yet sharp.
A cold laugh slipped past her lips before she could stop it. "I beg your pardon?"
Clarisse's smile widened. "You will marry Adrian Devereaux."
Lydia's breath caught. She knew the name. Everyone knew the name.
Adrian Devereaux—the man whose mere presence could silence a room. The heir to one of the most powerful families in the country. A man whose reputation was built on ruthless business deals and an even colder heart.
And they expected her to marry him?
Lydia forced herself to remain still, to keep her expression unreadable even as her pulse pounded violently in her throat.
"You're joking."
Clarisse's gaze sharpened. "Do I look like I'm joking?"
Lydia's throat went dry. "Why me?"
Her father exhaled heavily, rubbing a hand over his face. "We have no choice, Lydia."
Her stepmother's voice was sickeningly sweet. "We could have chosen Vivian, of course." She reached out to touch her daughter's hair, a show of affection meant to remind Lydia of her place. "But she's… delicate. And Adrian Devereaux is not a man for delicate women."
Lydia's nails dug into her palms. "And I am?"
Clarisse's gaze was sharp, cruel. "You are convenient."
Lydia inhaled slowly, trying to keep the anger at bay. "So you're selling me off like cattle?"
Her father flinched, but Clarisse merely chuckled. "Don't be dramatic, dear. This marriage will secure your future. Our future."
Lydia turned to her father, grasping for something—anything—that could get her out of this. "You're really going to let her do this?"
His eyes finally met hers. There was sorrow there. But not enough to stop what was happening.
His silence was her answer.
Lydia's stomach twisted. She had always known her father was weak when it came to Clarisse, but this? This was betrayal in its purest form.
Her heart was a drum, pounding louder with every second that passed.
She wouldn't break in front of them. Wouldn't give them that satisfaction.
Lifting her chin, she let out a quiet breath. "When?"
Clarisse's smirk deepened. "The engagement announcement is in three days. The wedding in a month."
Three days.!!!!!
One month.!!!!!?
Lydia felt something inside her crack, but she held it together.
Clarisse stood, smoothing her gown. "I suggest you prepare yourself, dear. Adrian Devereaux is not a man who tolerates defiance."
Lydia turned on her heel and walked out. She didn't trust herself to speak.
Her steps were measured, but her mind was chaos.
Adrian Devereaux. A man who could destroy people with a single glance. A man who had never smiled in a photograph.
And now, she was to be his wife.
Her hands trembled as she reached the sanctuary of her bedroom. The moment the door clicked shut behind her, the mask shattered.
Her breath hitched, her vision blurred, and for the first time in years—she let the tears fall.
But she would not stay broken.
If Adrian Devereaux thought he was marrying an obedient, docile wife, he was in for a rude awakening.
If she had to walk into the lion's den, she would do so with her head held
high.
She might have lost control of her fate.
But she would never lose control of herself.