HIS TO KEEP

The scent of white lilies made her sick.

They draped the marble altar. Their petals pure, immaculate. As if they had not been forced to bloom overnight in cold water and colder intentions.

Elise stood behind the dressing room mirror, hands trembling slightly as she stared at the reflection she barely recognized. The gown was perfect. Lace, silk, fitted at the waist-everything a bride was supposed to be. But it felt like someone else was wearing it.

Someone prettier. Stronger. Willing.

She wasn't any of those things.

"Elise," came a soft knock. Her mother peeked in, her face tight with forced calm. "They're ready."

"I'm not."

Her mother hesitated, then walked in. She looked beautiful, as always. Polished. Composed. But her eyes darted, avoiding Elise's reflection.

"You don't have to be ready," she said, smoothing a curl behind Elise's ear. "You just have to walk."

Elise blinked back the burn of tears. "This doesn't feel real."

"It is. It's happening. And you're saving us."

Us.

The word stung.

Not you're getting married. Not you'll be happy. Just you're saving us.

As if her love, her body, her life, were collateral.

The same words her father had spoken when he came to her with the deal. He hadn't apologized. Or thanked her. He'd simply presented the numbers-how their family's debts had eaten everything, how Lancaster Holdings could save them with a single wire transfer, how the price was simple:

Marry Damian Lancaster.

Billionaire. Tycoon. Ruthless. Forty.

And a stranger.

Elise was twenty-four.

She did not argue. She did not fight. What was there to fight with? She had not finished her master's. She did not have an inheritance. No job. No voice. Not in their world.

So she said yes.

Because when you're raised being taught how to be quiet, your voice becomes easier to trade.

---

The ceremony was private, efficient, and cold.

Just ten guests-family, board members, lawyers. Damian was at the altar like a statue carved from razor edges and expensive secrets. His black tuxedo was fitted to perfection like it had been sewn onto his body. His eyes didn't leave hers, not once, and yet he didn't gaze at her in the way that brides dream of being gazed at.

He gazed at her like she was an answer.

A signature.

A pawn.

Do you, Damian Elias Lancaster, take Elise Mariana Hartwell as your lawfully wedded wife?"

"I do," he said without hesitation.

"Do you, Elise-"

"I do."

Her voice barely carried. But nobody asked her to speak louder.

By the time she realized she was married, the celebrant was already closing the book and the witnesses were already preparing the contracts for signing.

There was no kiss.

There was no fanfare.

There was only a pen, a paper, and a destiny she did not choose.

---

The penthouse was the highest floor of Manhattan's highest building. It stood over the city like a cathedral-stone, steel, and silence. Damian was three steps in front of her when the elevator doors parted, his gait as purposeful as his voice.

Your closet will be stocked with what you need. Gabrielle will arrange your schedule. Meals are provided. Security is not a choice."

Elise nodded a little. "And me?"

He paused on the doorway of the hall. "What about you?"

"What do you want from me?"

Damian turned to her then. His eyes were a dark grey-cold and impenetrable. "Discretion. Decorum. And being capable of playing your part."

She swallowed. "And if I am not?"

His jaw clenched. "Then this arrangement becomes uncomfortable. For all of us."

There it was.

No illusions. No affection. Business.

She had known. But hearing it was different.

---

The master bedroom looked more like a showroom. Everything was silver, black, or white. Minimalist. Clean. Bare.

She sat on the edge of the bed after he excused himself to answer a call, staring at the untouched sheets.

She was not innocent. She knew that marriages like these did not come with romance. But she had not expected it would feel like it was a bargain struck before the ink was dry.

She leaned back, looking up at the crystal chandelier.

Damian Lancaster. Her husband.

They had not had one real conversation. Only terms. Conditions. Logistics.

She wondered if he ever smiled.

If he ever laughed.

If the whispers were true-that he built empires the way other men built cages.

And if she was now just one more lock in his collection.

---

She woke alone the next morning.

His side of the bed unvisited.

Not that she had anticipated anything else.

There was a note on her vanity.

> "Meeting at 9. Use the card. Gabrielle will take you to fittings. D"

It wasn't cold, exactly.

But it wasn't kind.

She held onto the note for a while longer before folding it in half and putting it down again. She wasn't sure why, but something in her couldn't throw it away.

---

Gabrielle was already waiting in the foyer. Tall, French, and dressed like she stepped out of a high-fashion editorial.

"Elise," she said smoothly. "We have no time at all. Mr. Lancaster prefers his wife to be seen and to make a statement.".

Elise bit back the bitterness. "But not heard."

Gabrielle didn't blink. "That depends on what you're saying."

Their first stop was a designer atelier in SoHo. Dresses. Suits. Jewelry. Shoes. All laid out in silence, all selected with precision.

No one asked what Elise liked.

No one asked if she wanted any of it.

"You have a charity luncheon next week," Gabrielle said as a seamstress pinned a hem. "Then Tuscany for the board event."

"Tuscany?" Elise echoed.

"Mr. Lancaster's annual retreat. A private estate. A showcase for investors and partners."

"And I'm expected to attend."

"You're his wife."

That word still felt like a bruise.

---

That night, when Damian returned home, Elise stood in the hallway waiting. Not out of affection. Out of curiosity.

To get a glimpse of the kind of man she'd married.

He halted when he saw her, removing his cufflinks.

"Something wrong?" he said.

She shook her head. "No. I just... felt I ought to ask what you want me to do in Tuscany."

He regarded her for a moment, then walked on. "To smile. To speak when it's appropriate. To be admired."

Elise followed him. "And if I don't want to be admired?"

He halted. Turned.

"Then try not to embarrass me instead."

The words slapped harder than she let him see.

But she nodded. "Of course, Mr. Lancaster."

He stared at her. Then something shifted in his face.

"Elise."

She looked up.

His voice was quieter. "You can call me Damian. When we're alone."

She almost laughed. Almost.

So that's where the boundary was. Not intimacy. Not kindness. Just names in private and performance in public.

She slept that night with her back to the empty pillow next to her.

She didn't cry.

Not that she wasn't sad.

But because she was already weary of being pitiful.