When the last camera was packed away, the hall slowly emptied, leaving behind only silence and the faint scent of perfume.
Ava stood there for a moment longer, her hands resting lightly on the folds of her gown.
The lights dimmed as the crew left, and for the first time, she could breathe again.
Clara reappeared, clipboard in hand, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor.
Her expression was calm and efficient, she always looked composed, even when exhaustion seeped into her features.
“That went well,” she said briskly.
“The photographer’s happy, and Mr. Cross approved the shots. You should rest before dinner.”
Ava nodded faintly, her eyes still unfocused.
She was still thinking about the weight of his hand on hers, the coldness in his eyes that somehow managed to unsettle her.
Clara paused, studying her.
“There’s also something else I need to discuss with you,” she added, softer now.
“The invitations.”
Ava blinked.
“Invitations?”
“For the wedding,” Clara clarified.
“Mr. Cross approved the guest list last night. The press has already received their briefing, and the seating arrangements are being finalized.”
Ava nodded slowly.
The words barely registered until Clara reached into her folder and pulled out a slim white envelope.
“These are for you,” she said, extending it toward her.
“You have ten invitations to send out. Friends, family… anyone you want to attend.”
Ava hesitated before taking it.
The envelope felt too light, too fragile for what it represented.
“Ten,” she repeated quietly.
“Yes,” Clara said, watching her closely.
“That’s the standard number. The press already knows your side of the family will be represented, so we’ll need the names by tomorrow morning.”
Ava’s fingers tightened around the envelope.
“My side of the family,” she murmured, her lips curling faintly.
“Right.”
Clara frowned slightly, her tone softening.
“You… do have people you’d like to invite, don’t you?”
The question was innocent, practical even, but it landed like a blow.
Ava felt the words press against her ribs until she could barely breathe.
People she’d like to invite.
She tried to think of names, any names, but the silence in her mind was deafening.
Her parents were gone.
There was no one left who would pick up the phone and smile when they heard her voice.
No one but Lily.
And Lily was missing.
Ava swallowed hard.
“I… I’ll think about it,” she said quietly.
Clara nodded, though she could tell from Ava’s voice that there wouldn’t be anyone to write down.
“Just let me know by tomorrow,” she said, her tone slipping back into its usual professional calm.
“We’ll handle the rest.”
She turned to leave but stopped when she saw Ava still staring at the envelope, motionless.
For a moment, Clara hesitated, then sighed softly.
“Miss Sinclair,” she said gently.
“You don’t have to think too much about it. It’s just formality. The press likes symmetry, both sides represented, that sort of thing.”
Ava’s lips parted, a bitter smile forming.
“Formality,” she echoed.
“Everything here is formality.”
Clara didn’t respond.
She only nodded once and walked away, her footsteps fading until the hall was empty again.
Ava stood there, the envelope still in her hands.
Ten invitations.
Ten names she didn’t have.
She sat down slowly on one of the velvet chairs, her dress pooling around her like a cloud of silk.
Her fingers traced the edge of the envelope, and before she realized it, her eyes were stinging.
She blinked quickly, refusing to cry, not here, not now but the ache in her chest was too much.
The truth hit her harder than she expected.
She had no one.
No one to witness her happiness or her heartbreak.
No one to sit in the front row and smile for her.
No one to tell her she was doing the right thing.
Only Lily.
And Lily was the reason she was standing here in the first place, trapped in this house, wearing this dress, being sculpted into someone else’s idea of perfect.
Her hands trembled slightly as she opened the envelope.
“The Wedding of Damian Cross and Ava Sinclair.”
The letters blurred through her tears.
She wiped her eyes quickly, frustrated at herself, at the world, at him.
The sound of footsteps behind her made her freeze.
She didn’t have to turn to know who it was.
“Clara told me you got your invitations,” Damian’s voice came from the doorway, calm and composed, as if he were commenting on the weather.
Ava didn’t answer.
She pressed the edge of the card against her palm until it almost hurt.
He walked closer, his presence filling the room, his shadow falling across the floor beside hers.
“Is there a problem?” he asked.
Her laugh was small and bitter.
“A problem? No, not at all.”
She turned finally, her eyes glassy but steady.
“Except that I have no one to invite.”
He stopped.
For a moment, his face remained neutral, but something flickered in his eyes, surprise, perhaps, or guilt.
Ava rose slowly from her seat, her voice soft but sharp.
“You wanted a perfect wedding, Mr. Cross. A perfect image for the press. But what happens when the bride doesn’t have a single soul to witness it?”
He didn’t reply.
His jaw tightened slightly, but his gaze stayed on her, unwavering.
“I don’t need sympathy,” she continued, her voice trembling only slightly now.
“I just want to know what kind of life you think you’re building, one where you have to buy silence and photograph smiles to look normal.”
The silence between them was heavy, her words hanging in the air like glass about to shatter.
Damian finally spoke, his voice low.
“The world doesn’t care about real. It only cares about what it sees.”
Ava’s eyes burned, but she didn’t look away.
“Then I hope the world enjoys its illusion,” she said.
“Because it’s all you have left.”
She brushed past him, the hem of her gown whispering against the floor as she left the hall.
Damian stood there, motionless, watching her go.
The door closed behind her, and the silence that followed felt colder than before.
He looked down at the invitations still scattered across the table.
The delicate cards gleamed faintly in the light, perfect, untouchable.
But all he could think about was the sound of her voice when she said she had no one.
And for the first time in a long while, something in his chest ached.