Marriage Offered, Love Declined: Part 5
Part 5
“No,” Sebastian murmurs, tilting his head as he studies me like I’m a puzzle missing a crucial piece. “Something’s not right.”
I suppress the urge to roll my eyes. He walks a slow, deliberate circle around me, his hands tucked into the pockets of his tailored black suit. The dark blue shirt and striped tie sharpen the cutthroat precision of his image—ruthless, calculating, untouchable.
“What do you mean, ‘something’s not right?’” I ask, careful to keep the irritation from my voice.
I’ve spent hours getting ready for our rehearsal dinner, and I know—I know—that nothing is missing.
Still, I step toward the full-length mirror, scanning my reflection for whatever imperfection he’s apparently found. My hair, soft brown with a hint of warmth, falls in loose waves, framing a face that feels like someone else’s—a woman too polished, too perfect, too carefully crafted to be real.
The dress I chose—a fitted black gown with a daring neckline and gold embellishments—hugs my figure like a second skin, the hem grazing mid-thigh. Its shimmering satin catches the light with every slight movement, commanding attention in the subtlest way. Paired with strappy heels and bold, gold earrings that brush my jawline, I look like the kind of woman who belongs on Sebastian Winters’ arm. Even if, deep down, I’m not sure I do.
And I know he likes the dress.
Because when I walked into the room, his eyes darkened in a way that sent heat curling low in my stomach.
So what the hell is missing?
Before I can demand an answer, he steps in behind me, close enough that I feel the warmth of his body bleeding through the thin silk of my dress. My breath stutters, but I hold still, watching him in the mirror.
And then, in one fluid motion, he lifts his hand—and a diamond pendant swings from his fingers, glittering against the light.
My breath catches.
Sebastian meets my gaze in the mirror, his expression unreadable. “I thought you might need something to go with that rock on your finger.”
He sweeps my hair to one side, his knuckles grazing the bare skin of my neck. I swear I feel the ghost of his breath before he fastens the choker, his fingers lingering just a second too long against my skin.
A shiver rolls down my spine.
The past month has been just like this. Gifts. Lavish outings. Public displays that feel almost like courting—but never quite. At first, I thought he was trying. That maybe, in some small way, he wanted this marriage to be more than a business deal.
Then came the engagement ring.
I’d wanted something elegant, understated. But Sebastian had insisted on something big, something visible.
“You’re mine, Olivia. When people see this, I want them to think of me.”
It was then I realized—the gifts weren’t romantic. They were a brand. A way to mark me as his. Every necklace, every dress, every public appearance was just another reminder to the world that I belonged to him.
And that realization infuriates me.
I am not an acquisition.
I am not something to be owned.
“Do you like it?” His voice is smooth, but his gaze sharpens as he watches me in the mirror, as if looking for something deeper beneath my reaction.
For a second—just a second—I think I see uncertainty flicker across his face. But Sebastian Winters doesn’t do uncertainty. He’s a man who makes decisions, takes what he wants, and never looks back.
And what kind of man asks his brother’s ex to marry him, knowing she has no way out?
Ruthless.
I push down the resentment clawing its way up my throat and meet his gaze in the mirror.
“It’s stunning,” I say, my voice measured. “Thank you.”
The word stunning doesn’t even come close to describing the piece—it’s exquisite, breathtaking. But throwing it in his face and telling him I’ve changed my mind about this whole damn arrangement isn’t an option.
The wedding is tomorrow.
The debt is settled.
And backing out now? Not an option.
“We should go,” I say, straightening. “That is—if I finally meet your approval?”
There’s an edge to my voice, and Sebastian cocks his head, studying me with detached curiosity. “Have I done something to offend you, Olivia?”
“No, of course not.” I flash him a cool smile. “I just don’t want to be late.”
He doesn’t believe me. It’s obvious in the way his gaze lingers on my face, searching. For a moment, I think he’s going to press the issue—but instead, he lets it go.
Finally, he exhales, his lips curling into something that isn’t quite a smile.
“Then let’s go.”
Once we step into the foyer, I notice my family is already gone.
“I sent your parents and brother off with Stan tonight,” Sebastian says, his tone casual, like this is just another business transaction. “Thought they might enjoy the luxury of a chauffeured car.”
My stomach clenches. I hate when he makes me feel like an acquisition. But I hate it even more when he’s thoughtful.
Thoughtful is dangerous. Thoughtful makes it harder to hold on to the anger that keeps me safe.
“Thank you,” I say, quieter than I mean to. “That was… thoughtful of you.”
He smirks as if he’s read my mind, holding the front door open for me. “I’ll try not to make a habit of it.”
I narrow my eyes but don’t take the bait. Instead, I scan the driveway. “If Stan isn’t driving us, then who is?”
“Me.” He tosses his keys in the air, catching them with effortless ease. “Unless you’d rather drive?”
There’s a flicker of amusement in his expression when I shake my head, like he’s enjoying some private joke at my expense.
“No?” His smirk deepens. “Maybe next time then.”
I don’t ask what he means.
But the moment he pulls out of the driveway, my heart lurches.
The car suits him too well. It’s sleek, sexy, and powerful. Unapologetically fast. I watch the way his hands shift gears, precise and controlled, barely sparing a glance at the road as if speed is something he commands rather than obeys.
Sebastian sits mere inches away, his focus seemingly on the road, but somehow it feels as if all his attention is still on me. He consumes space effortlessly. He doesn’t need to speak to dominate the moment.
Even in silence, he’s a force, his presence pressing against my skin like a promise. The rich, expensive scent of him lingers in the air, wrapping around me, making me hyper-aware of just how close he is. It’s infuriating how easily he gets under my skin, how my mind betrays me by wondering how his control will play out in the bedroom.
I force myself to sound casual. “I’m thinking this isn’t exactly a family car.”
He glances at me, amusement flickering across his face. “Nope. Just our chariot for the night.”
That our. As if the future is already mapped out for us. As if I’m simply following a path he’s set, step by inevitable step.
A plan that includes more than just marriage.
A plan that includes a family.
My stomach knots at the thought even as a slow, treacherous warmth spreads through me.
I’ve tried not to let myself think too hard about that part—not since I signed away my future, not since I agreed to give him the one thing he truly wants from this deal.
A child.
Or children.
The moment we consummate this marriage, it will be real. No more illusions. No more careful distance. His hands on my body, his touch burning away every last line I tried to draw between us.
And maybe that’s what unsettles me the most.
Not just the fact that he will have me—but the fact that a part of me already wonders what it will be like when he does.
The thought leaves me shaken, my heartbeat heavy in my throat.
For a moment, the only sound is the low purr of the engine beneath us.
“So,” he says after a moment, his voice smooth, measured.
“So,” I echo, keeping my tone just as noncommittal.
His fingers tap against the steering wheel. “Big day tomorrow.”
My pulse trips, but I keep my face neutral. Is that why he insisted on driving? To check for cold feet?
“Mmhmm.”
His gaze flicks toward me, assessing. I feel it even though I refuse to meet his eyes.
“No cold feet?”
I swallow, keeping my attention trained ahead. My hands curl into my lap, smoothing the fabric of my dress, because I don’t like the way he’s watching me. Like he’s testing me.
I exhale slowly. A steadying breath. A necessary one.
“I signed the contract, Sebastian.” My voice is quiet, but firm. “I’m going to marry you.”
A beat of silence. Then, out of the corner of my eye, I catch the slightest nod. An acknowledgment. An acceptance.
As if that’s all he needed to hear.
As if, in his mind, that settles it.
But it doesn’t settle it for me.
Not the part where my life isn’t fully mine anymore.
Not the part where I’m agreeing to be more than just his wife in name.
And especially not the part where, despite everything, I can already feel myself unravelling in his hands.
The car slows, then stops.
I exhale, forcing air into my lungs as the valet approaches.
Before I can fully steady myself, Sebastian is already stepping out, moving with the same effortless control he always does.
He hands his keys to the valet, tips him, then places a hand on my lower back.
The touch is light, barely there. But it brands me.
I feel it through the silk of my dress, a quiet claim that no one but me will ever recognize. Possessiveness wrapped in politeness. A performance dressed as intimacy.
I stiffen. But my body betrays me.
Heat flares where his palm rests, a slow, unwelcome awareness curling through me. My body doesn’t care that this is an arrangement. It reacts anyway. A quickened pulse. A tightening low in my stomach. An ache I refuse to name.
I tell myself it’s just nerves.
To everyone else, we must look like the perfect couple—newly in love, on the brink of a beautiful future.
A carefully crafted illusion.
Inside, the ballroom hums with conversation. The second we step in, the noise dips, then swells—a subtle shift, an unspoken acknowledgment.
Heads turn. People smile. They believe in this.
They believe I’m happy.
Only Marley, my closest friend from university, had dared to ask if this was really what I wanted. Everyone else had just assumed. Assumed I was glowing, assumed I was ecstatic, assumed I couldn’t wait to be Mrs. Winters.
And I had let them.
I exhale slowly as I take it all in. The glittering chandeliers, the sea of perfectly dressed guests, the weight of expectation pressing in from all sides.
I will survive this.
I will get through this.
This isn’t a trap—this is my choice.
A choice to save my family. A choice to marry a man who doesn’t believe in love. A choice I made because there was no other way.
Someone presses a glass of champagne into my hand, and I drink quickly, feeling the sharp bite of the bubbles as they slide down my too-dry throat.
I will survive this.
I will survive him.
I have to.