Chapter Four
Mrs. Lancaster
City hall at nine in the morning has no romance in it. Fluorescent light. A clerk who processes twelve marriages before lunch. Forms in triplicate.
Lucas was already there when I arrived. Dark suit. No tie. A single witness — his lawyer, James Chen — and Clara, who handed me a small bouquet of white flowers I hadn't asked for and didn't know what to do with.
"You didn't have to," I said.
"No," Clara agreed pleasantly, "but it photographs better."
I looked at Lucas. He looked at the clerk.
We were married in eleven minutes.
The clerk pronounced us husband and wife with the enthusiasm of someone announcing a delayed train. Lucas placed a ring on my finger — platinum, clean, understated — and I placed one on his. Our hands didn't linger.
Outside, on the steps, Clara took a single photograph on her phone. Tasteful. Professional. Evidence, not memory.
Then Lucas's own phone buzzed. He glanced at it.
"Someone leaked it," he said.
In the time it took to walk from the clerk's desk to the steps, someone — probably in the clerk's office, probably for three hundred dollars — had filed a tip. By the time James pulled up the search results, there were forty-seven articles.
Lucas Lancaster, married? Who is Sophia Bennett?
Billionaire CEO weds fashion designer in secret ceremony.
Lancaster Group heir takes mystery bride.
My phone started vibrating in my bag. My mother. My business partner, Lily. Three unknown numbers.
Lucas watched me look at the screen.
"My PR team is already managing it," he said. "They'll frame it as a private romance. Six months together, kept quiet by mutual preference. The narrative is established."
"You prepared the narrative before we signed."
"I prepare everything before I commit."
Of course he did.
He handed me a matte black card — Lancaster Group, my name embossed in silver — and a single silver key on a plain ring.
"The penthouse. Forty-seventh floor. Mrs. Chen will show you the household." A pause. "I leave for London tonight. I'll be back in two weeks."
I looked at the key in my palm. "You're leaving. On our wedding day."
"We have a contract, Sophia. Not a honeymoon."
He said it without cruelty. That was the thing about Lucas Lancaster — he was never cruel. He was simply honest in a way that left no room for softness.
He got into his car.
The car left.
Clara touched my arm gently. "I'll take you to the penthouse."
The penthouse was the top floor of a building that seemed to be composed entirely of glass and restraint. Floor-to-ceiling windows on every side. The city laid out below like a circuit board. Every surface was clean, precise, intentional — like the man who owned it.
Mrs. Chen, the housekeeper, gave me a quiet and thorough tour. I said the right things and looked at the right things and waited until she left before I stood in the center of the living room alone.
My name on a card. A key on a ring. A ring on my finger.
Two weeks of this apartment and its forty-seventh-floor silence, and a husband who was already at thirty thousand feet.
I walked to the window and pressed my forehead against the cold glass.
Below me, the city carried on. Indifferent. Alive.
Remember what it is, I told myself.
I was starting to wonder if I was saying it to remind myself — or to warn myself.
