You spun around. “You mean I’m in danger.”
Celia stepped forward. “Yes.”
The room dropped out.
All at once you saw your parents’ farm. Your mother hanging laundry. Your father bent over machinery. Your younger sister at the market on Saturdays. Faces without guards. Lives without gates. Ordinary people. Exposed.
Your voice came out hoarse. “What about my family?”
Helena answered this time. “Protective measures began the moment the marriage license was filed.”
You stared. “You what?”
“Discreet surveillance. Route monitoring. Financial review for vulnerability points. Nothing invasive beyond necessity.”
“You had people watching my family?”
Celia reached for you. “To keep them safe.”
You moved back before she could touch you.
“You don’t get to decide that for me.”
Pain flashed across her face, but she did not defend herself.
Because what defense was there?
You wanted to leave.
You wanted to rip the wedding ring off and throw it through one of the French doors. You wanted to tell her she had used love as bait. You wanted to demand which parts of your courtship had been real and which had been carefully filtered for your consumption. You wanted to run downstairs, drive until sunrise, and find your old stupid life waiting for you like this had all been a fever.
Instead, you asked the ugliest question in the room.
“Did you marry me because you needed a legal heir?”
Celia went white.
Helena looked alarmed enough to stay silent for once.
When Celia answered, her voice was almost a whisper.
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