chapter 4 : The owls shadow

The Sanctuary Chapel loomed before me like a ghost, its ancient stone walls absorbing every whisper, every creak of the wooden pews. Twilight seeped through the stained-glass windows, casting the room in a sickly palette—blood-red, mourning blue, and a sickly green that made my stomach churn. The air was heavy with the scent of old incense, mingling with the sharp tang of my own panic. A string quartet sawed at a mournful melody, the notes twisting like barbed wire in my gut. _Why did they do this? They said “sign papers,” not a ceremony.

I stood behind the carved owl arch, its wooden eyes glowing like smoldering embers, as if they saw right through me. My palms slicked the tailored Armani suit why dress me like a puppet? Mom nudged me, her smile strained, her eyes gleaming with a mix of desperation and guilt. “Nikolai, smile.”

Don’t let them see me break, I thought. I forced the corners of my lips up. The doors creaked open, and the aisle stretched out like a runway to a guillotine.

The crowd leaned in: strangers in pearl-studded masks, my family grinning like they’d won the lottery. Nicholas winked at me from the front row, his smile too wide, too fake. _He doesn’t care. He never did._

_What if Rafael’s a monster? Old? Cruel? What if he hates me?

The music swelled. I placed one foot in front of the other, the polished marble cool beneath my shoes. Rafael’s back faced me broad, unyielding, hostile. My heart thuded harder with every step.

I reached the altar. Rafael turned.

His eyes—ice-blue, narrowed as if I was a problem to solve—locked onto mine. His jaw was chiseled, clenched tight, like he was biting back words. His lips were a thin, cruel line, giving nothing away. He scanned me head to toe, lingering on my hands, my face, my eyes. No flicker of surprise. No spark of anything. _He already regrets this._

The priest’s voice droned, “Nikolai Wilson, do you take Rafael Sèné…”

_Stop. This isn’t real._

I repeated the words, my voice a murmur. Rafael’s tone was low, firm, emotionless. The ring slid onto my finger, cold as a shackle. The kiss: his cheek, bone-hard beneath my lips. A polite applause crackled. _It’s done. The trap closed._

The grand ballroom was a cavern—chandeliers fracturing light into a thousand shards, the “wedding cake” a white monolith, the food congealing on plates like rejected hopes. Rafael sat ramrod straight, sipping wine, his gaze fixed on the table. I mirrored him, numb, my mind screaming _escape._

Silence. Cutlery clinks. A guest murmured, “Congratulations, Rafael.”

“Thank you. Excuse me,” he said, standing, eyes on his phone. “Meeting.”

_Why leave? Does he loathe me?_

Henrik Sèné, the grandfather, smiled—a wicked, papery smile, eyes sharp as a blade. “Everyone, leave. The ‘couple’ needs privacy.”

Guests filed out. I lingered, frozen.

Mom blocked the door, tears staining her cheeks, her grip a vise. “Nikolai, go to Rafael’s house. Bags are packed. Now.”

“Why? No goodbye? No explanation?”

“Do it. Start your ‘life’.”

_This isn’t a life. This is a trade._

Sèné Manor: monolith walls, mechanical hedges that never wilted, a fountain cycling mist like a warning. Inside: black marble, a staircase spiraling into a void. Rafael leaned against a pillar, phone to his ear.

“Ah, Nikolai. Welcome to your prison.”

“Upstairs. Third left. Unpack. We’ll discuss terms tomorrow.”

No glance. No warmth. No humanity.

The room: a king bed, ivory sheets, my clothes pressed in the wardrobe. His: a locked door, a note on the pillow: “Don’t touch my things. Don’t speak unless spoken to. R.”

_A cage._

I laughed. _This is my life?_

Rafael appeared in the doorway, eyes narrowed. “One rule: don’t embarrass me.”

He left. The lock clicked.

Midnight.

I scribbled in my journal, the pen tearing the page:

_He’s a statue. Why me? Ayaan? The café? A lie? This isn’t a wedding. It’s a sale._

_How do I get out? What if I fail?_

The darkness swallowed me whole.

_What now, Nikolai?

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