Page 95 of Bid For Me
What a lie. The word twists something sharp in my chest. I flash my teeth at the nearest photographer as he calls out instructions. One more angle, one more shot, one more performance for an audience I didn’t choose.
Sebastian doesn’t let me go. Instead, his arm loops around my waist as we exit the church together, the applause of the crowd following us like a shadow.
He helps me into the back of a sleek, black Rolls-Royce waiting outside the church steps. There’s champagne already chilled on a silver tray, flutes sparkling under the soft glow of the car’s interior lighting. The door shuts, cocooning us in velvet silence.
I exhale slowly, the kind of breath that only comes after holding too much in for too long.
Seb doesn’t speak. He doesn’t need to. He just sits across from me, one long leg stretched lazily forward, his hands steepled in his lap like he doesn’t have a single care in the world. His suit jacket hangs open, his tie loosened slightly. He looks relaxed, casual even, but I know better.
I glance out the window, watching the church disappear behind us as we drive through the city. The journey to the reception starts to blur.
My reflection stares back at me in the glass – perfect hair, perfect dress, perfect bride.
Liar, I think bitterly.
Seb’s voice pulls me back. “You’re quiet.”
I drag my gaze from the window and meet his eyes. “What would you like me to say?”
Something flickers in his expression – too quick for me to name. He doesn’t smirk, doesn’t deflect with one of his usual arrogant quips. Instead, he studies me.Reallystudies me. It’s unnerving.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he says finally, his voice soft but heavy.
The words hang in the air between us, and I look away again, my throat tight.
The reception is being held at a country estate that looks like something out of a fairytale – if fairytales came with property taxes bigger than most people’s life savings. The house rises out of the darkness like a castle, its sprawling lawns lined withglowing lanterns and sleek black sedans delivering the rest of our guests.
The Rolls-Royce stops at the base of the marble steps, where more photographers are waiting. A valet opens the door on Seb’s side, and he steps out first, adjusting his tie with a casual flick of his wrist before turning back to offer me his hand.
I take it because I have to. Because it’s expected.
The moment I step out, the cameras flash like fireworks, blinding and relentless. I barely suppress a flinch as Seb’s arm settles around my waist again, anchoring me to his side.
He leans in, his mouth close to my ear. “Smile, Mrs. Sterling-Knight.”
His voice is low and private, and I hate how my skin prickles at the sound of it. I tilt my head up toward him, forcing another smile as we climb the steps together.
The mansion is transformed into something straight out of a dream. Chandeliers glitter above us, their crystal arms casting light across gold-trimmed ceilings. The grand foyer blooms with flowers – thousands of white roses and lilies arranged in towering vases – and the gentle sound of a live string quartet fills the air.
It’s stunning. Expensive. Breathtaking.
And I hate every inch of it.
“Elle!”
Candy’s voice pulls me back, and relief crashes through me as I spot her weaving through the crowd in a rippling silk, champagne-coloured gown that she chose for herself. She looks radiant, her smile wide and real as she flings her arms around me.
“You’re a vision,” she breathes, stepping back to hold me at arm’s length. “I mean it, babe. Absolutely stunning.”
I let out a shaky laugh, some of the tension draining from my shoulders. “You’re not so bad yourself.”
She rolls her eyes. “Please. This isyourday. Own it.”
Is it, though?
Before I can answer, Candy’s gaze darts to Seb, who’s stepped slightly to the side to greet a cluster of older men I don’t recognise, but assume to be business associates, if Seb’s stiff posture is anything to go by. Her brows knit together as she leans closer.
“You okay?” she asks quietly.