Chapter Twelve: Blake
The knock came before sunrise.
I had just wrapped my hands around a mug of black coffee when Oliver stepped in, tablet in hand, suit immaculate as always.
"Your fiancée approved the invitation design," he said without inflection, placing the tablet in front of me.
I stared at the screen for a moment. Matte cream. Silver trim. Simple. Elegant. Cold.
"She has good taste," Oliver added. I couldn't tell if he meant it, or if it was just part of the role he played.
I nodded once. "Send it to print."
He left without another word.
I leaned back in the leather chair and stared out the window of my penthouse. The city still blinked sleepily below, headlights tracing the curves of the roads like veins through concrete.
Four weeks.
That was all the time left between now and the ceremony.
The night of the engagement party hadn't left me. Celine's silence had followed me home like a ghost. Not because I wanted more from her, not because I expected something to shift—but because I'd realized something dangerous: I didn't hate her anymore.
I envied her.
For her conviction. Her refusal to yield. Her steel.
I hadn't wanted this marriage any more than she did, but at least she fought. I'd long since accepted the weight of legacy. Of duty. Of being the man everyone expected me to be.
And that meant keeping everything buried.
I finished my coffee, grabbed my coat, and headed down to the car. Oliver was already waiting.
"Where to, sir?"
"Aldridge HQ. And tell PR to reschedule that interview. I'm not answering questions about floral arrangements today."
He didn't blink. "Understood."
The car moved smoothly through the morning traffic. I rested my head against the window and closed my eyes briefly. My mother's voice drifted back to me from the night before.
"She's trying, Blake. Give her something real to hold on to."
I had said nothing in return. Because I didn't know what I had to give.
After Dad passed, I had watched my mother crumble in silence. And then rebuild herself, brick by painful brick. She had believed in that kind of love. The kind that destroys you when it's gone.
I couldn't.
I wouldn't.
Because once you give your heart away like that, it's no longer yours to protect. And I'd seen what it cost.
So I told myself I wouldn't love like that. Not even close.
Not even with her.
And certainly not with Celine Cater.
By the time we reached the office, my inbox was overflowing. Messages from shareholders. Articles speculating on the upcoming merger. Media requests for interviews. I passed the receptionist with a nod and headed straight for the executive floor.
Inside my office, I glanced at the framed photo on my desk. My father's smile—frozen in time. My mother's hand clutching his in a way that seemed innocent then, and heartbreaking now.
Would Celine and I ever take a photo like that?
No.
Because this wasn't about love. This was about power. Stability. Appearances.
Except lately, I wasn't so sure.
Her eyes haunted me. The way she looked right through the performance, as if daring me to break character.
And I hated how much I thought about it.
I opened my laptop and clicked through the documents. A headline caught my eye on the morning news feed:
"Catering to Power: Inside the Wedding That Will Merge Two Empires."
It made me sick.
I picked up my phone, fingers hovering.
Should I call her? Say something real? Ask if she hated the font less than the other ones? Tell her I remembered she hated doves and made sure they weren't included?
I set the phone down.
What was the point?
The moment had passed.
And this wasn't about feelings.
This was business.
Even if sometimes, late at night, I imagined what she'd look like if she ever smiled for real in my direction.
That afternoon, I sat through a two-hour meeting with the board about post-merger rebranding. By the time it ended, I was drained.
Oliver appeared in the doorway. "Your mother requested a dinner meeting. Just the three of you. She says she wants to 'build connection.'"
I rubbed my forehead. "Tonight?"
"Next Tuesday. She's already reserved a table at Grand Vale."
"Let Celine know."
"Already did. She confirmed."
That surprised me.
Maybe she was giving in.
Or maybe she was preparing her next defense.
When I finally left the office after dusk, I told Oliver I wanted to walk. Alone.
The cold air cleared my head. I passed a flower shop closing for the night and glanced at the display. White roses.
I kept walking.
Maybe this wouldn't be a real marriage.
But I still had to be real.
Even if that meant just making sure she didn't drown in this with me.
Because if we were both pretending, one of us had to blink first.
And maybe—just maybe—it was time I did.