At some point she stopped being composed enough to hide how afraid she was.
That was maybe the strangest part of all. Underneath the layers of wealth, strategy, and survival, Celia was terrified you would do the one thing she had most earned.
Leave.
Toward dawn, you walked out onto the terrace alone.
The estate below was quiet now. Security lights glowed over trimmed hedges and parked vehicles. Somewhere a fountain moved water in small, expensive arcs. You leaned against the cold stone rail and looked into the dark, thinking about everything that had happened in one night.
The town had thought your marriage was obscene because of age.
They had no idea age was the least dangerous thing in it.
You heard the terrace door open behind you.
Celia did not come close. She stood a few feet away, wrapped in a shawl now, looking older than sixty for the first time since you had known her.
“I won’t stop you if you annul it,” she said.
The sentence hung there in the pre-dawn air.
Part of you wanted to punish her with it. To turn, say yes, and let the whole machine collapse back onto itself. Let her lawyers scramble. Let the town feast. Let your family be right.
Instead, you asked, “Would that protect me?”
Celia was silent too long.
“No.”
You laughed once, tired and bitter. “At least that part’s honest.”
