Page 98 of Bid For Me

Her lips curve faintly, but it’s lifeless, hollow. Her eyes won’t meet mine. A sure sign of her guilt and betrayal.

“What’s wrong?” I ask deceptively softly as we move. Will she confess? This is the only chance I’ll give her…

She flinches, her gaze darting away. “Nothing.”

“Don’t lie to me,” I growl.

Her head snaps up then, and there’s something sharp in her eyes, something that almost makes me falter. But it’s gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced with the same muted sadness that’s been clouding her face all day.

“I’m not lying,” she whispers.

I don’t believe her. I don’t think I can anymore.

We glide through the dance, and then there’s the cake – photos, clapping, forced smiles that ache in my jaw. She stands beside me like a porcelain doll, stiff and silent, and my temper simmers with every passing second.

When it’s finally over, I don’t wait for my father to find another excuse to keep us here.

“We’re going,” I tell Elle firmly, leading her toward the exit.

“Sebastian,” my father calls, his voice full of carefully curated delight, “aren’t you going to say goodbye to your guests? Or tell me where you’re running off to in such a hurry?”

I stop, turning slowly, and let my expression harden. “Home,” I say flatly.

His eyes gleam with satisfaction. Of course, he thinks he’s won. He thinks I’m crawling back to the estate, to his ever-watchful eye, to the future he’s so carefully orchestrated for me.

“Not your home,” I clarify, my voice cold and biting. “Ours.”

That wipes the smirk off his face.

“You bought a house?” he asks, his tone faltering. “When? How? That’s preposterous!”

“Yes.” My hand tightens around Elle’s as I speak. “You didn’t think I’d keep my wife under your roof, did you? Or did you imagine we’d be making your grandchildren with you in the next room? Were you expecting a front row seat, perhaps?”

The words are bitter, sharp, and I don’t care who hears them, even though there’s no one close enough really to eavesdrop. Elle gasps. My father’s face flushes with barely concealed rage, but he doesn’t respond. What can he say? He’s always prided himself on appearances, and tonight is no exception.

Without waiting for a reply, I turn and lead Elle out of the ballroom, past the curious stares and whispered speculation. I guess no one heard us, but the guests could see words were being had and now the happy couple are leaving, so they want to know what’s going on.

The car is waiting, and the moment the door closes behind us, the silence presses down like a weight. Elle sits beside me, her hands clasped tightly in her lap. She doesn’t look at me.

“I don’t want to have sex tonight,” she whispers, her voice barely audible.

My stomach churns, anger rising again like bile.

What is her game? What does she think she’s doing? She signed a contract. She agreed to this.

“You don’t have a choice,” I say coldly, the words cutting through the still air like a blade.

She flinches, her hands tightening further, but she doesn’t respond.

And somehow, her silence infuriates me even more.

The car glides to a stop in front of a townhouse, its brick façade gleaming softly under the golden glow of the streetlights. I step out first, tugging at my cuffs, trying to steady the anger roiling beneath my skin.

Elle hesitates before following, her fingers clutching her silly little evening bag like it’s a lifeline. I motion for her to come, my expression unreadable, and she does – of course, she does.

The driver pulls away, leaving us standing in the quiet stillness of the street. I stride up the steps, unlocking the door with a smooth twist of the key, and hold it open for her.

She steps inside, tentative, her heels clicking softly against the polished parquet floor. I close the door behind us, locking it with a deliberate turn.

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