Chapter 2 2. THE ENGAGEMENT PARTY

Six months later.

The splendid ballroom of the Dunlop estate was illuminated in golden light, with the chandeliers emitting a cozy radiance over the ocean of high society. The air was filled with laughter and the sound of champagne flutes clinking, harmonizing perfectly with the gentle melodies from a string quartet in the corner. All seemed ideal-if only on the surface.

Claire Dunlop stood in the elegant ballroom, sensing like a beautifully packaged present eager to be unveiled. Her dress-a bespoke piece from a Parisian couturier-was a refined shade of champagne gold, with its subtle beading shimmering in the light with each hesitant step she made. The silk clung to her shape flawlessly, the off-the-shoulder neckline revealing her collarbones and the gentle curve of her shoulders. Her deep brown hair was styled into a smooth chignon, with a few loose strands highlighting her prominent cheekbones.

From the outside, she embodied every aspect of the ideal Dunlop bride-to-be. Internally, she felt as though she was choking.

The engagement celebration was a display of opulence-crystal chandeliers sparkled above, tables were decorated with white roses and gold-edged china, and the best champagne poured without stop. Attendees in tailored suits and elegant gowns twirled, chuckled, and engaged in courteous discussions regarding investments, corporate mergers, and extravagant getaways.

And then came Patrick Sinclair. Her alleged fiancé was at the heart of it all, soaking up the attention as though he had secured a trophy. Which, in his view, he possessed. Her.

Patrick was lanky, possessing a defined jawline and blond hair neatly slicked back. His bespoke black tuxedo was crafted flawlessly, with his cufflinks shining brightly beneath the chandelier's glow. He embodied the ideal husband-strong, self-assured, and refined.

But Claire knew better.

His blue eyes, perceived by others as alluring, contained a possessiveness that caused her stomach to churn. His grin, which others perceived as brilliant, was merely a smirk of dominance when directed at her.

Her father's voice jolted her back to reality.

"Claire, come." Charles Dunlop stood next to Patrick, a pleased grin on his face as he signaled for her to come over.

"It's time to make it official."

Claire gulped down the knot in her throat and compelled herself to advance. Each step seemed as if she was heading to her own funeral. The gathering moved aside as she approached Patrick. He wrapped a controlling arm around her waist, his fingers digging uncomfortably into the material of her dress. She fought against the instinct to withdraw.

"Everyone," Patrick called out, his tone smooth yet tinged with the arrogance she loathed. "I simply want to express how fortunate I feel to have this beautiful woman beside me. Claire embodies all that a man desires-elegant, stunning, and soon, officially mine."

The room burst into cheers. Claire felt a knot in her stomach.

Patrick faced her, his hand gliding up her arm in a manner that sent shivers down her spine. "Please say something, Sweetheart."

Sweetheart. As though she was his own.

Claire donned a courteous smile, the kind she had refined over years of being a Dunlop. "I appreciate everyone who attended tonight."

Her tone was calm, yet frigid. "I eagerly anticipate what lies ahead."

She didn't mention Patrick-and she was aware her father observed. His face clouded a bit, yet he remained silent. Patrick, on the other hand, chuckled, reinforcing his hold on her. ""Always so proper. That's why I chose her, gentlemen-she knows her place."

Her fingers pressed into her hand. Her place?

The toast went on, yet Claire hardly listened to the speeches, hardly noticed his hand on her waist while he murmured compliments about her to their guests. Rather, she gazed into the horizon, her heartbeat steady and heavy, like a prisoner awaiting her sentence.

Then Patrick leaned closer, his lips grazing her ear. "Smile, Claire. You're making a fool of yourself."

She tensed up. He continually did this-prompted her about her position, his dominance. He had never directly hurt her, but his words, the way he touched her just enough to remind her of her lack of options-it was a gradual suffocation.

"I need to get some fresh air," she whispered, stepping back before he could object.

She navigated the throng, disregarding the whispers, overlooking her father's piercing stare on her. As soon as she walked out onto the balcony, she took a deep breath, the refreshing night air a sharp difference from the oppressive warmth indoors.

She held onto the railing, gazing across the flawlessly maintained gardens, her heart racing.

She can't do this. She would not do this. But what options were available to her?

Her father governed all aspects-her future, her fortune, her very life. If she opposed him, she possessed nothing. But wasn't there anything worse than a lifetime confined with a man who viewed her as little more than his possession?

A voice interrupted her thinking. "Here you are."

She glanced over to find Patrick stepping onto the balcony, a familiar smirk on his face.

Claire steadied herself. This evening was nowhere near its end.

"Leaving already?" he inquired, walking onto the balcony with measured, careful steps.

"That's quite unladylike behavior from you."

Claire raised her chin. "I just needed some space."

Patrick rested against the railing next to her, much too near for ease. "You'll have plenty of space once we're married. Our property is enormous."

She resisted the temptation to roll her eyes.

He extended his hand towards hers, his fingers chilly against her touch. "I understand, Claire. You feel anxious. However, believe me, this setup is for the better. You and I? We're perfect together."

Perfect for his image, maybe.

Claire retracted her hand. "You don't actually know me, Patrick."

He laughed softly. "I don't have to. You are a Dunlop. I know exactly what that means."

And there it was. The truth she had always known but never wanted to face.

To Patrick, to her father, to all in that ballroom, she wasn't Claire. She belonged to the Dunlop family. A title, an emblem, a heritage to be transmitted. Not an individual. Not an individual with aspirations, worries, or a decision.

Her stomach twisted.

Patrick inclined forward, lowering his voice. "You will learn to love me."

Her blood turned icy.

No. No, she would not. Although she may lack a plan at this moment, she was certain of one thing. She needed to leave. Before it became too late.

"Excuse me," she remarked while hurrying to the restroom.

*****************************************************************

Claire had hardly gathered herself when she reentered the ballroom. She took a flute of champagne from a waiter who was walking by.

The aroma of high-end perfume and champagne twisted her stomach, while the sleek grins of the upper class blended into a swirling blur. Yet nothing-nothing-infuriated her more than what she witnessed next.

Patrick. Positioned by the bar, his hand placed on the lower back of a different woman.

Not just any female, either. Madeline Astor.

Blonde, attractive, and among the most infamous flirts in their social group. She chuckled at something Patrick murmured, tilting her head slightly to reveal the graceful curve of her neck.

And Patrick? He was devouring it. His eyes gleaming with laughter, his hand gently drawing circles on the satin of her gown.

Claire's hold on her champagne glass stiffened as she observed Patrick glide his fingers along the curve of Madeline Astor's arm, his lips perilously near her ear. He wasn't even attempting to be subtle.

Unbelievable.

They were not married yet, and he was already acting like a man who had no desire to remain loyal.

It wasn't something she was bothered by. Not exactly.

She did not love Patrick. She didn't even care for Patrick. Yet the boldness of it-flirting so overtly, at her engagement celebration, before their whole circle-set her blood ablaze.

She couldn't determine what caused her more anger. The fact that he was carrying it out, or that no one appeared to be surprised.

Naturally, this was anticipated. Individuals like Patrick consistently evaded consequences for this.

Laughter echoed from their section of the ballroom, and Claire sensed the burden of the act weighing heavily on her. This is how my life will turn out.

A lifetime of public grins and private disgrace. A spouse who lacked respect for her. A father who viewed her merely as a transaction, and a society that anticipated her to tolerate everything gracefully.

A breath next to her caused her to tense up.

"Claire, you're making a scene." Her father's tone was soft, a caution cloaked in elegance.

Charles Dunlop stood next to her, his presence imposing as ever, his face expressionless.

Charles Dunlop was a person who earned respect without having to elevate his tone. He constructed his empire with relentless accuracy, transforming the Dunlop name into one of the most influential in elite circles. Each agreement, each relationship, each meticulously planned partnership had been established with a singular objective-domination. He was in his late fifties, yet the passage of time had only defined his features instead of softening them. His salt-and-pepper hair was consistently styled back perfectly, every strand in position, similar to the persona he presented to others. His defined jawline and prominent cheekbones imparted a sense of nobility, while his intense gray eyes-icy and assessing-could reveal an individual's vulnerabilities with just a fleeting look.

Charles consistently appeared impeccably dressed, opting for tailored three-piece suits in rich, authoritative shades-navy, charcoal, jet black, similar to the one he donned at present. His cufflinks displayed the Dunlop emblem, a subtle indication of the heritage he bore, the burden of countless generations prior. Everything about him radiated authority, from his posture-upright, assured-to his manner of speaking-steady, purposeful, with a hint of decisiveness that allowed for minimal debate. He was not a person who accepted resistance.

To everyone else, Charles represented the ideal of a cultured entrepreneur-elegant, serene, a person who understood how to navigate the system and succeed.

However, to those who genuinely understood him, he was a different person altogether. Unyielding, controlling, ruthless when opposed. To Claire, he represented the guardian of the luxurious prison she had been born into.

He was skeptical about love. He had faith in partnerships. He viewed marriage not as a bond of hearts, but as a deal-one that should be advantageous, tactical, and most importantly, lucrative. Just like his marriage to her mother, Genevieve.

And what about Claire?

She was merely another strategically positioned piece on his chessboard. A step he had previously arranged. A future he had already chosen.

Claire looked at him, hardly masking the resentment in her tone. "Am I? Because it looks like Patrick is the one making a scene."

Charles turned his attention to where she was looking, his expression unreadable as he observed Patrick leaning in to say something to Madeline, who chuckled and moved in nearer. Still, he stayed apathetic.

Her father sighed deeply, as though she were a kid having a meltdown. "Claire, we've talked about this."

"No, you made this choice," she retorted, pivoting to confront him completely.

"You organized this engagement without consulting me. And here I am, at my engagement party, while my supposed fiancé is openly flirting with someone else."

She tightened her hands into fists. "And you think I'll smile and overlook it?"

"Yes." His response was prompt, resolute.

Claire felt a knot in her stomach.

Her father's gaze was icy, methodical. "Patrick is a great fit. He hails from an esteemed family, his fortune matches ours, and his connections in politics will guarantee a future without hardships for you. He will make a good husband."

Claire released a sarcastic chuckle. "A good husband? He doesn't even act as if he respects me."

Her father's jaw clenched. "You will discover how to handle him. He might have his... diversions, but that doesn't impact you."

She looked back at Patrick, who was currently murmuring something into Madeline's ear, his hand brushing the small of her back.

Yet, nobody was concerned.

Her voice became low, icy and incisive. "You're saying it has no impact on you."

Her father breathed out deeply, pressing his fingers against his nose as though she was tiring him out. "Claire, that's enough. This is what is most beneficial for you."

She was ready to respond when a recognizable voice cut in.

"Funny. I thought what's best for Claire would be something she actually wants."

She glanced over to her cousin, Ethan Dunlop, who stood next to her with arms crossed, a challenging grin playing on his lips.

Ethan was the family's outcast-the individual who consistently challenged the stifling customs of their society. He possessed the identical sharp Dunlop traits, the same noble demeanor, but while their fathers had turned into merciless entrepreneurs, Ethan had carved out his own direction.

At that moment, he seemed prepared for a confrontation.

Her father's face grew serious. "Ethan, this is none of your concern."

Ethan raised an eyebrow. "Claire is my cousin. That makes it my concern."

He looked at her briefly. "You don't desire this, do you?"

Claire felt a tightening in her throat. She understood that if she declined, it would alter everything. However, before she could respond, another voice interjected. "She doesn't need to express it. Just look at her."

Claire looked over to see Lena Whitmore, her best friend, joining the discussion.

Lena, consistently daring and unrepentant, donned a sleek emerald-green gown that contrasted magnificently with her vibrant red locks.

Her green eyes flashed with annoyance as she stared at Charles. "This whole gathering is a farce. Patrick is a conceited, dishonest jerk, and everyone here is aware of it."

Claire's father exhaled slowly and deliberately. "Lena, this-"

"No," Lena interrupted him, moving nearer. "You have no right to speak on what's 'best' for Claire while you're giving her to a man who views her as an object."

It was evident that Charles' patience was clearly diminishing. "This is a family matter."

Lena grinned. "It's a good thing I'm almost like family."

She was. Lena was her childhood friend. Her father, James Whitmore was a business associate of Charles. They met when they were four years old at a gala and have been inseparable ever since. Lena was the sister Claire wished she had, just as Ethan was the older brother she always wished for. They have always had her back, supporting her in everything, just as they did now.

"Claire knows what's good for the family. I'm sure she knows what will if she disappoints me", Charles said and walked away.

Ethan shook his head, "I hope you know what you're doing Claire. I wouldn't want to see you unhappy", he kissed her cheek and left.

Lena hugged her, "If he ever hurts you, just say the word and I'll arrange his murder. I'll make it look like an accident."

Claire laughed, "I hope it never comes to that."

Lena looked with a slight frown, "I'm serious Claire. You know I love you and want what's best for you. But if you feel like this is what is best, then I'm here for you."

Claire smiled weakly, tears threatening to fall, "I know and I love you too."

Lena hugged her one more time and left her standing alone with her thoughts.

She hoped the night would end swiftly. She attempted to envision her life as Patrick's wife.

Claire envisioned a life confined in a passionless, stifling marriage-her days consumed with hollow social gatherings, enforced grins, and murmured rumors about her husband's recent infidelities.

She imagined being alone at an elaborate dining table while Patrick amused his "distractions" in another place, his vows of loyalty merely a punchline. Nights when his caress felt like a prison, his words laden with entitlement instead of love.

She watched herself diminish, reduced to nothing but Claire Sinclair-Patrick's spouse-a label, an object, a prize. Without passion, there is no choice, and no way out. Merely a lifetime of silent suffering concealed behind impeccably shiny doors.

But as she looked at Patrick-continuing to laugh, still murmuring tender words into another woman's ear-she understood something.

Her time was running out. She had to escape. And soon.