Darcy
The text from Henderson is a digital sledgehammer to my quiet peace.
Tomorrow. Engagement party. The river will pick you up at 6 AM for preparations.
Six A.M.
My body, still loyal to the sacred tradition of late-night coding marathons and questionable amounts of caffeine, stages a full-body protest.
Everything aches like I've betrayed it. This isn't just a new routine—it's a whole different time zone.
Meanwhile, Mr. Orange is living his best life, purring away on top of Leo like he owns the place (he does). His smug little face basically screams, "Can't relate."
The next morning arrives with the cruelty of a thousand tiny needles. Before the sun has even considered rising, Henderson's driver is at my door.
This time, it's not a sedan. It's a sleek, dark beast of a car, a rolling fortress of expensive metal.
Leo, still groggy, gives me a bewildered hug. "Already?" he mumbles into my hair. "Where are you going anyway?"
"Don't ask," I mutter, shoving him back towards the couch. "Just enjoy your freedom."
The car whisks me away to a designer boutique where a woman named Monique, who looks like she eats fashion for breakfast, assesses my hoodie-and-jeans ensemble with a look usually reserved for a pile of discarded socks.
Oh, darling," she sighs, pinching the fabric of my hoodie like it might transmit a rare disease. "We have so much work to do."
Work, indeed. Suddenly, my life involves a series of very polite, very intense people trying to make me look like someone else.
Hair stylists who gasp dramatically at my split ends.
Makeup artists who seem personally offended by my bare face. And Monique, who forces me into a parade of silk, lace, and gravity-defying heels.
Every outfit feels like a disguise, a costume for the role of 'Mrs. Lucien Holt.'
It's surreal.
I feel like a spy trying to blend in, except the blending involves a severe lack of personal comfort.
My sneakers are already mourning their imminent retirement.
"This," I say, eyeing myself in a floor-length mirror, a vision in an emerald green dress that probably costs more than my annual rent, "is not me."
Monique beams. "Exactly, darling! It's you, elevated! For Lucien!"
I resist the urge to roll my eyes so hard they might get stuck. This isn't for Lucien. This is for Holt Industries' optics.
Lucien wants a presentable wife, not a personality. Which is fine by me. Less awkward small talk.
Next is the Manicurists, pedicurists, an eyebrow specialist who wields tweezers like surgical instruments.
"Just relax, please," Genevieve coos, adjusting the robe they've put me in.
"For Lucien." The phrase starts to feel like a mantra in my head, a necessary sacrifice.
This is Mrs. Lucien Holt, a crafted illusion. The irony isn't lost on me. I used to craft digital illusions; now I'm the physical one.
Hours blur into an endless cycle of primping and prodding. My eyes cross from staring at myself in various mirrors.
I feel like a Barbie doll being dressed for an exhibition, my own agency slowly draining away.
"Do you know where Lucien is?" I ask Henderson, who is perpetually hovering nearby, checking his watch, making quiet calls. He's the only familiar face, even if, a terrifyingly stoic one.
"Mr. Holt is currently out of the county, Ms. Quinn," he replies, his voice utterly flat. "He's attending to some urgent business. He will return for the event this evening."
My stomach clenches. Out of the county? He's off doing… whatever powerful CEOs do, while I'm stuck here, being molded into his perfect accessory.
A prickle of indignation mixes with a flicker of panic. What if he doesn't show up?
What if this whole thing is a public humiliation for me?
What if I'm standing there, alone, looking like a ridiculously overdressed idiot?
"Right," I mutter, trying to sound nonchalant as a stylist tugs at my hair.
The panic gnaws at me. I've signed my life away for Leo, but this man, my supposed husband, isn't even around for the initial public debut.
Henderson is polite enough to ask what I'd like to have but my appetite is gone so I settle on a milkshake.
The hours tick by, the suite fills with the scent of expensive perfumes and an undercurrent of nervous energy. The light outside begins to fade.
It's almost time. My heart, usually a steady drum machine, is now doing a frantic salsa.
Then, just as the last touches of lipstick are applied, and I'm staring at my transformed reflection – a woman I barely recognize, sleek and glamorous and utterly unlike me – the door to the suite opens.
Lucien Holt.
He walks in like he knows exactly what kind of effect he has —unhurried, sharp, and way too good in that tailored tux.
It hugs him in all the right places, like it was made with sinful intentions. He's not handsome in a soft or safe way—he's the kind of good-looking that makes your mouth go dry and your common sense short-circuit.
There's a quiet, dangerous confidence in the way he carries himself, like he's used to being in control—and getting what he wants.
He glances around the room, takes in the team, then his gaze lands on me.
It's a direct, unblinking assessment. I feel like he's scanning me, running diagnostics.
My composure threatens to crumble. His expression is unreadable, as usual. No approval, no disappointment. Just… examination.
"Ready, Mrs. Holt?" he asks, his voice a low rumble that sends a strange shiver down my spine.
My mouth is suddenly dry. "As I'll ever be, Mr. Holt," I reply, my voice a little breathless.
He dismisses the rest of the team with a subtle gesture, and they melt away, leaving just Henderson, him, and me in the vast suite. The silence that falls is heavy, charged.
"Could I please have a moment with my fiancé?"
Henderson nods and leaves, gently closing the door behind him.
He walks towards me, slowly. Each step seems to echo in the room, amplifying the sudden thumping of my heart.
My brown eyes are locked on his, dark and intense. He stops directly in front of me, so close I can feel the faint warmth radiating from his body, the subtle scent of expensive cologne and something else… something like him.
Without warning, he reaches out, not to my face, but to my waist. His fingers, long and strong, graze my skin where the emerald green dress nips in, sending a jolt through me.
It's not rough, not demanding, but utterly possessive.
My breath hitches. This is supposed to be a purely business arrangement, a cold transaction. This feels… anything but cold.
His head lowers. His dark eyes never leave mine. I can feel his warm breath on my face, smell the crisp scent of his tuxedo.
My own breathing grows shallow and ragged.
For some reason, my lips are suddenly tingling, anticipating. He's so close I can see the faint flecks of gold in his dark irises.
What is happening!
"Do you mind," he whispers, his voice a low, gravelly murmur that seems to bypass my ears and go straight to my core, "if I hold you right here... for half this evening?"
Mind?!
I'm practically short-circuiting! But my body, traitor that it is, goes entirely pliant.
My eyelids flutter. All I can do is give a small, helpless nod, a tiny bob of my head.
The word "no" seems to have been erased from my vocabulary. His presence is overwhelmingly potent, and I feel utterly powerless.
His lips are so close now, I can feel the air stir between them. I brace myself, my heart hammering like a trapped bird.
This is it. The kiss to seal the deal. The first official act of Mrs. Lucien Holt.
Then, just as the tension becomes unbearable, just as my eyes close, waiting...
He steps back.
This bastard steps back!
The sudden absence of his warmth is a physical shock. My eyes fly open, blinking. His expression is back to his usual unreadable mask, though his gaze is still intense, lingering on my mouth for a fraction of a second too long.
He gently takes my arm, his touch still sending ripples through me, and guides me towards the door.
"Good. Let's not keep our guests waiting."
My legs feel like jelly, but I force myself to walk.
The noise of the party, distant at first, grows louder as we approach. I'm walking into a room full of strangers, playing a role I hardly understand, feeling completely undone by a man who just reduced me to a useless nod with a single whisper.
This is the lion's den.
And I just realized the lion has a very, very captivating purr.