0009 ~ Elodie ~ Logan wasn’t as sick or as…
lost as I’d initially thought.
Once the drugs had worn off enough for him to actually focus, he’d become almost normal.
Not entirely—there was still something fragile about him, something breakable in the way he moved and spoke.
But he could hold a conversation.
He could look me in the eye.
He could even manage a small, sad smile when I’d made an awkward joke about our “unconventional” wedding.
“So,” I’d said, trying to break the uncomfortable silence.
“I guess we should probably get to know each other.
You know, since we’re…
married.” “Married.” He’d tested the word like it was foreign.
“Yes.
I suppose we are.” Then, with that sad smile: “Though I don’t remember proposing.
Or the ceremony.
Or anything, really.” “To be fair, you were kind of…
busy having a breakdown.” His smile had widened slightly.
“Unconventional, as you said.
I had asked my brother for a wife, I didn’t know he would bring me someone this beautiful” That flattered me more than it should and then I remembered that this wasn’t supposed to be happening in the first place.
“I really don’t want this” I said quietly.
Logan scoffed, “I know my brother, he must have threatened you.
Tell me what he threatened you with” I had to explain to him how I ended up here.
“So your sister got into trouble with Vincent?” he’d asked, his voice gentle, not judging.
“Vicky has a talent for finding trouble,” I’d admitted.
“This time it was…
worse than usual.” “And Vincent gave you an ultimatum.” I nodded.
“Marry you, or…” I didn’t finish.
Didn’t need to.
Logan’s expression darkened.
“That sounds like something he’d do.
Vincent always did have a flair for the dramatic.
And the cruel.” I’d given him the abbreviated version — Vicky’s debt, Vincent’s ultimatum, the warehouse.
“I’m sorry,” Logan had said quietly when I finished.
“Sorry that you got dragged into whatever this is.
Into our family.” “It’s not your fault.” “Isn’t it?” His gray eyes had met mine.
“I’m the one who asked Vincent for a wife.” The admission hung between us.
I wanted to ask why—why would someone ask for a wife like that, like ordering furniture—but I didn’t know how to.
When Anne had brought dinner on a silver tray—some elaborate soup with fresh bread and wine—Logan had picked up his spoon and immediately struggled.
His hands were shaking slightly, whether from the medications or something else, I couldn’t tell.
The spoon kept slipping, and I watched him grow increasingly frustrated with himself.
“Damn it,” he muttered under his breath as soup splashed onto his shirt.
“Here,” I said finally, reaching for his handkerchief from the bedside table.
“Let me help.” He’d looked embarrassed but grateful as I dabbed at the corner of his mouth where soup had spilled.
It was such a simple, intimate gesture — the kind of thing you’d do for a child or an elderly relative.
Not for your husband on your wedding eve.
But then, nothing about this was normal.
“Thank you,” Logan had said quietly, his gray eyes meeting mine.
“You’re very kind.
Kinder than I deserve.” “Don’t say that…” The door suddenly snapped open with such force that I jumped, dropping the handkerchief.
Vincent stood in the doorway, still wearing the same suit from the courthouse, though he’d loosened his tie.
His dark eyes swept over the scene — me sitting on the bed beside Logan, the handkerchief in my lap, the dinner tray between us.
“Well,” he said, his voice carrying that edge of amusement I was starting to hate.
“The couple are getting along.
How domestic.” I felt my spine stiffen.
Why does he make me feel a chill of fear anytime he is around?
“Brother, I’m going to need to borrow your wife for a bit.” Your wife.
He said it so casually, like Logan and I were actually married.
Oh fuck, we are actually married.
Logan’s expression shuttered immediately, that fragile openness disappearing behind a blank mask.
“God Vincent, I am still trying to get to know the wife for me, and now you want to take her away?” “Business,” Vincent said simply, then turned his attention to me.
“Elodie, do you have a dress?
Something formal?” I blinked at him, completely thrown by the question.
“What?
I…
no, I don’t…” “Doesn’t matter,” he cut me off, already pulling out his phone to check something.
“Meet me in the car.
Five minutes.” “Wait, what?” But Vincent was already turning to leave, tossing his final instruction over his shoulder like it was the most reasonable request in the world.
“Five minutes, Elodie.
Don’t keep me waiting.” Then he was gone, the door closing behind him with a decisive click.
I sat there, frozen, trying to process what had just happened.
Logan was staring at the closed door with an expression I couldn’t quite read.
“You should go,” he said quietly.
“I don’t even know where we’re going!
Or why!” “With Vincent, it’s better not to ask questions.” Logan’s voice had taken on a hollow quality.
“Just do what he says.
It’s easier that way.” The resignation in his tone sent a chill through me.
This was what living under Vincent’s control looked like — this quiet, defeated acceptance.
But what choice did I have?
I’d seen what Vincent did to people who disobeyed him.
Vicky’s bloodied leg flashed through my mind, and my resolve crumbled.
“I’ll…
I’ll be back,” I said, though I had no idea if that was true.
Logan just nodded, already retreating back into himself.
I grabbed my purse from where I’d left it on the dresser and hurried out of the room, my heart pounding.
The hallways were dimly lit now, evening shadows stretching across the walls.
I found my way downstairs mostly by memory, past those judging Lockwood portraits, through the entrance hall.
A car was idling out front.
Vincent was in the driver’s seat, checking his phone, his jaw tight with what looked like barely controlled frustration.
I climbed into the passenger seat, my hands shaking slightly as I buckled the seatbelt.
“Where are we going?” I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.
Vincent didn’t answer.
Just put the car in drive and pulled away from the mansion.
We drove in tense silence for several minutes, the city lights growing brighter as we left the estate behind.
I kept glancing at Vincent’s profile, trying to read his mood.
He looked cornered.
Like a man who’d backed himself into a situation he hadn’t fully thought through.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity, he spoke.
“We have a dinner to attend.” My heart skipped a beat, “What?” “You and me.
Dinner with a business associate and his wife.” His fingers tightened on the steering wheel.
“You’ll need to look the part.” I stared at him, completely lost.
“Look what part?
I don’t understand…” “The part of my wife, Elodie.” He said it like the words tasted bad in his mouth.
“We’re going to dinner as Mr.
and Mrs.
Vincent Lockwood, and you’re going to smile and be charming and make them believe we’re happily married.” The words didn’t make sense.
I shook my head, trying to clear the confusion.
“But I’m not your wife.
I’m Logan’s wife.
You said…” “I know what I said.” Vincent’s voice was sharp.
“Technically, legally, you’re married to me.
I just married you for him” The revelation hit me like a physical blow.
“What?” He glanced at me briefly, his expression unreadable.
“Congratulations, Mrs.
Lockwood.
You’re stuck with the wrong brother.” It felt like chilled water was poured from the crown of my head to the soul of my feet.
So much drama and confusion in less than 24 hours, I needed a break.
We pulled up in front of an upscale department store, its windows glowing with expensive displays.
Vincent parked in a loading zone like he owned the place.
“Come on,” he said, already getting out of the car.
I followed on numb legs, my mind still reeling.
Inside, the store was modern, with white floors and carefully curated displays.
A woman in an elegant black suit approached immediately, her professional smile widening when she saw Vincent.
“Mr.
Lockwood, welcome back.
How can we assist you this evening?” “My wife needs a dress,” Vincent said, the word “wife” sounding foreign and wrong in his mouth.
“Something formal but not too flashy.
Elegant.
Sophisticated.
And we need it tonight.” The woman’s eyes flicked to me — taking in my wrinkled courthouse dress, my messy hair, my obvious discomfort — and her smile never wavered.
“Of course.
Right this way.” She led us to a private section of the store where dresses hung like works of art.
Deep blues, elegant blacks, rich burgundies.
Each one probably cost more than a month of my old rent.
“What size are you, dear?” the woman asked me.
“I…
um…” I couldn’t even remember.
My brain had stopped functioning properly somewhere around Vincent announcing I was legally his wife.
Vincent answered for me.
“Six.
Maybe an eight.
Bring options.” The woman disappeared into the racks, and I stood there feeling like a mannequin being prepared for display.
“Vincent, I can’t do this,” I said quietly.
“I can’t pretend to be your wife.
I don’t even…” “You don’t have a choice,” he interrupted, his voice low and hard.
“I need this deal to go through, and that means I need a wife at this dinner.
You’re it.” The saleswoman returned with an armful of dresses, oblivious to the tension crackling between us.
“Let’s start with these.
There’s a dressing room right through here.” I looked at the dresses, then at Vincent, then back at the dresses.
Everything in me wanted to refuse.
To walk out of this store and keep walking until I was far away from Vincent Lockwood and his twisted family.
But Vicky was still in that hospital.
And Vincent still held all the power.
“Fine,” I whispered.
“One dinner.” “That’s all I’m asking,” Vincent said, though something in his expression suggested this was going to be far more complicated than one dinner.
The saleswoman ushered me toward the dressing room, chattering about styles and cuts and designers I’d never heard of.
Behind me, I could feel Vincent’s eyes on my back, watching, calculating, controlling.
Just like he controlled everything else in my life now.
I was Mrs.
Vincent Lockwood.
God help me.