The heavy oak doors of the vestry shut with a dull thud.

Sebastian tossed a tablet onto the glass table between us. The screen glowed with my full identity profile, tax records, and university transcripts.

"Isabelle Laurent," he said, loosening his black silk tie. "The elder sister. The quiet accountant."

"I didn't choose this," I said, rubbing the red marks left on my wrists by the corset laces. "My parents drugged my water yesterday afternoon. They took my passport, locked down my phone, and threatened my grandmother's life support."

Sebastian didn't blink. He poured two fingers of scotch from a crystal decanter.

"Do you think I care about your family squabbles?"

"I think you should care that you didn't marry the woman on the agreement."

"The agreement names a Laurent daughter," he said, taking a sip. "Arthur promised twenty percent of your family's European distribution network. The name on the certificate is secondary."

"Then let me walk away. Annul it."

He set his glass down hard enough to rattle the ice. "And let the press claim Blake Entertainment was duped at the altar? Absolutely not. Since the Laurent family sent you, you stay."

"I am not a hostage, Sebastian."

"You are an asset," he countered, stepping closer until his shadow blocked the chandelier light. "Let's establish terms, Isabelle. You have a roof, an allowance, and my last name for the public. In private, you do not exist to me. Do not expect affection. Do not question my schedule. And above all, do not interfere with my business."

"I don't want your affection," I snapped. "I wanted a plane ticket to Paris."

"Then you should have run faster." He turned his back on me, checking his watch. "I hate being used. Your father played a cheap trick, and you are the collateral. Live with it."

***

The Blake estate sat behind iron gates high above Sunset Boulevard. It felt less like a home and more like a museum carved out of black granite and tempered glass.

On my third morning, an assistant placed a matte black Amex card on the dining table.

"Mr. Blake instructed me to provide this for your personal expenses, Mrs. Blake," the assistant said, bowing his head.

I picked up the metal card and slid it back across the marble.

"Return it to him."

The assistant blinked. "Ma'am?"

"I don't need his money."

I carried my sketchpad upstairs to the secondary bedroom at the far end of the west wing. By noon, the drafting table was covered with tracing paper, calipers, and gouache paints. If Arthur thought trapping me in Los Angeles would kill my jewelry design career, he was wrong. My hands were steady. Every cut of the pencil against paper was mine, untouched by Laurent or Blake money.

Downstairs, the television in the lounge hummed during lunch.

I paused on the landing, my gaze catching the screen.

Celeste sat on a velvet couch on *Good Morning Hollywood*, dressed in cream cashmere. Julian sat beside her, his arm draped possessively over the back of the sofa.

"The new single drops next Friday," Celeste told the host, blinking her doe eyes toward the camera. "It's called *Borrowed Time*. It's about sacrifice. About having to give up the one you truly love for the sake of family duty."

The interviewer leaned forward. "Rumors suggest you were originally linked to Sebastian Blake before his sudden wedding this weekend. Any truth to that, Celeste?"

Celeste bit her lower lip, glancing downward with a fragile smile. "Sebastian is... an extraordinary man. Some bonds aren't meant to be broken by paper contracts, no matter who stood at the altar. But Julian has been my rock through this heartbreak."

Julian leaned in and kissed her temple on live television.

My phone, a cheap burner I bought with cash from an old client, vibrated on the railing.

A social media alert popped up. Celeste had just posted a backstage photo from her rehearsal studio. Julian’s hands rested on her waist, but the caption read: *Some hearts belong elsewhere. 11:11.*

The comment section was already on fire, dissecting every word, painting me as the ruthless older sister who stole the studio titan from her innocent younger sibling.

***

Two nights later, the premiere of *The Obsidian Line* took over the Chinese Theatre.

Sebastian had entered the car without greeting me, clad in a sharp Tom Ford tuxedo. I wore a minimalist emerald gown I had tailored myself two years ago, my grandmother's vintage sapphire pendant resting against my collarbone.

The limousine door opened to blinding flashbulbs and roaring fans.

Sebastian offered his forearm. Pure theater. I placed two fingers on his sleeve, matching his stride down the carpet.

"Smile, Isabelle," he murmured under his breath, barely moving his lips. "The trades are watching."

"I'm not an actress on your payroll," I whispered back.

Before we reached the main media backdrop, a commotion erupted behind the velvet ropes.

A silver sports car screeched to a halt at the drop-off zone.

Julian stepped out first, offering a hand to Celeste. She wore a shimmering silver gown that clung to her curves, a faux-innocent contrast to the dark theme of the premiere.

Reporters surged toward them, then noticed us standing ten feet away. The scent of ozone from the camera flashes filled the air.

"Over here! Sebastian! Celeste!"

Julian guided Celeste directly into our path, effectively cutting off our route toward the theater entrance.

"Sebastian," Julian said smoothly, flashing his movie-star grin for the press. "Congratulations on the sudden nuptials. Quite a surprise for all of us."

Sebastian didn't extend a hand. His gray eyes remained flat. "Hayes."

Julian turned his gaze toward me, his lips curling into a condescending smirk loud enough for the boom mics to catch.

"And Isabelle," Julian chuckled, shaking his head. "Look at you. She used to be terrified of walking red carpets, and now she's a studio mogul's wife. Funny how fast you get over stage fright when there's a billion-dollar merger on the line."

Reporters pushed forward, shoving microphones toward my face.

"Mrs. Blake! Did you force your sister out of the arrangement?"

"Is it true you blackmailed your father to take Celeste's spot?"

"Celeste, do you have a comment on the marriage?"

Celeste pressed a palm to her collarbone, looking overwhelmed. "Please, everyone. Belle is my sister. She... she did what she felt she had to do."

The cameras exploded into a frenzy of shutters.

Beside me, Sebastian stayed completely still. His arm dropped to his side. He didn't intervene. He didn't speak. He simply stood there, watching, waiting for the crack in my armor, ready to see the substitute bride break under the weight of Hollywood's wolves.

I didn't flinch.

I didn't reach for Sebastian's hand. I didn't offer a defense to the reporters. And I didn't give Julian the satisfaction of a single tear.

Instead, I looked Julian dead in the eye, my voice quiet, carrying clearly over the pause between shutter clicks.

"Some people act for the cameras, Julian. Others simply outgrow the theater."

Without waiting for his response, I pulled my train aside, stepped around Celeste's glittering hem, and walked away.

I didn't hurry. I kept my spine straight, moving past the media pen and straight through the glass doors into the private VIP lounge.

Behind me, the red carpet fell dead silent for two entire seconds before the shouting resumed.

Sebastian remained on the carpet. For the first time since he ripped the veil from my face at St. Jude's, his cold detachment shattered.

His eyes followed my exit, sharp, analytical, and burning with something he hadn't planned for.

"Mr. Blake!" a journalist yelled. "Is your wife leaving the event?"

Sebastian didn't answer. He adjusted his cuff links, stepped away from Julian and Celeste without a single word, and headed straight for the private lounge doors.

"Hold the clamp steady," I told the apprentice, wiping sweat from my temple with the back of my wrist. "If the silver overheats, the tension snaps the prongs."

"Miss Laurent, it's four in the morning," the girl whispered, trembling as the jeweler's torch hissed. "You've been at the bench since yesterday afternoon. Mr. Blake’s office sent a driver with lunch twelve hours ago. You didn't touch it."

"Send the driver away." I lowered the magnification visor, aligning the faceted sapphire into the custom platinum housing. "I don't eat Blake food. I don't take Blake favors. We have sixteen pieces to polish before the runway opens at noon."

"The fashion director asked if we should put your husband's studio logo on the press release," she murmured. "It would guarantee the front page."

"No." My voice stayed flat, sharp as diamond grit. "The collection carries my mark alone. Not Arthur Laurent's. Not Sebastian Blake's."

By eleven o'clock, the backstage corridor of the Wilshire Pavilion buzzed with manic energy. Racks of silk whipped past. Hairspray hung thick in the air.

I secured the final clasp around the lead model's neck. Twenty hours of continuous work burned behind my eyelids like raw sand.

"Isabelle?" a voice called out from the lighting rig.

My knees gave way.

The concrete floor surged upward. Sound shattered into a high, piercing whine, and the lights cut to black.

***

The hum of a heart monitor pulled me back.

A sharp smell of antiseptic stung my sinuses. White ceiling panels stretched above, framed by sleek, modern recessed lighting.

"Drink," a deep voice commanded from the edge of the mattress.

I turned my head.

Sebastian Blake stood beside the IV drip, holding a paper cup of water toward me. He had stripped off his suit jacket; his white shirt was unbuttoned at the throat, sleeves rolled up over forearms corded with muscle.

"I'm fine," I rasped, pushing against the stiff hospital sheets. "The showcase—"

"The showcase ended two hours ago," Sebastian interrupted. He tossed the paper cup into a steel bin with a sharp thud. "Your assistant delivered the pieces. The collection sold out in twenty minutes."

"I have to get back to the studio."

"Sit down, Isabelle." His palm came down against the mattress beside my hip, his gray eyes pinning me to the pillows. "You collapsed headfirst into an equipment crate. The doctor had to pump two bags of saline into your veins just to stabilize your pressure."

"It's exhaustion. Nothing more."

"Really?" The door swung open. A gray-haired physician in a white lab coat stepped in, flipping through a digital chart.

"Ah, Mrs. Blake, you're awake," the doctor said, glancing up. "I just finished explaining your blood work to your husband."

"Tell her," Sebastian ordered without looking away from me.

"Severe hypoglycemia, borderline anemia, and severe systemic malnutrition," the doctor said bluntly. "Your body has been running on pure adrenaline and black coffee for months. Worse, your endocrine markers indicate extreme, prolonged psychological stress. If you keep pushing sixty-hour shifts on empty stomachs, you're looking at total organ failure before thirty."

"I take vitamins," I said.

The doctor frowned. "Vitamins don't replace food, young lady. Rest. Real meals. Or next time, you won't wake up in a private suite."

The physician nodded to Sebastian and walked out, pulling the door shut.

Silence dropped over the room, heavy and suffocating.

"An asset," I quoted, staring at the ceiling. "Isn't that what you called me on our wedding day? You don't need to play the concerned spouse. I won't ruin your press run."

Sebastian's jaw tightened. "Do you think this is about press?"

"Isn't it?"

Before he could answer, the door cracked open again. Alexander, Sebastian’s personal executive assistant, stepped into the room holding a thick leather dossier.

"Mr. Blake," Alexander said, lowering his head. "You asked for the background audit on the jewelry division."

"Leave it," Sebastian said.

Alexander set the file on the glass nightstand, bowed, and slipped out, closing the latch with a muted snap.

Sebastian picked up the folder. He didn't sit. He flipped the cover open, exposing glossy photographs, production logs, and patent filings.

"Julian Hayes won Best Supporting Actor in London two years ago," Sebastian said, his tone chillingly smooth. "He walked the carpet wearing a serpent collar cast in blackened white gold with raw emerald eyes. *Vogue* called it the crowning jewel of indie red-carpet fashion."

I looked away, staring out the window at the Los Angeles skyline.

"The registry lists the designer as an anonymous artisan from an atelier in Florence," Sebastian continued, turning a page. "And yet, here are the original CAD files, the purchase orders for the rough emeralds, and the wax casts. All registered to your personal workstation in Arthur Laurent's basement."

"So you found my old files," I said. "Congratulations."

"There's more," Sebastian said, his voice dropping an octave. "Three historical dramas Julian starred in. Every signet ring, every custom dagger hilt, every royal pendant—drawn by your hand. Cast by your hand. Delivered without a single credit on the screen."

"Julian needed the spotlight," I said, a bitter taste rising on my tongue. "My father told me that supporting Julian’s image would secure our production deals. He said family sacrifices in silence."

"And Celeste?" Sebastian dropped the file onto the bed beside my legs.

A full-page magazine spread landed face-up.

It showed Celeste standing on the steps of the Palais des Festivals in Cannes, beaming beside Julian. Around her throat rested a choker of platinum thorns cradling teardrop rubies.

The headline blazed in bold gold font: *CELESTE LAURENT: HOLLYWOOD’S NEWEST COUTURE JEWELRY PRODIGY.*

"She couldn't solder two links of brass together if her life depended on it," Sebastian said, his eyes drilling into mine. "That necklace took four hundred hours of labor. Alexander pulled the security logs from your studio. You built it while suffering from bronchitis, three days before they flew to France."

"Why do you care?" I demanded, my hands clenching into fists against the hospital sheets. "You thought I was a greedy socialite trying to steal my sister's rich fiancé! You thought I was an obedient little accountant doing my father's bidding!"

Sebastian took a step closer, towering over the bed. "I thought you were complicit."

"I was trapped!" I shouted, the fury tearing through my chest. "I gave Julian five years of my life. I designed his career, I paid off his debts through Laurent shell accounts, and the moment he gained traction, he took my sister into his bed! They took my designs, they took my name, and then they handed me to you like a piece of spoiled meat to seal their damn merger!"

Sebastian stood frozen. For three seconds, the room was so quiet I could hear the saline dripping through the plastic tube.

His hard, untouchable facade cracked. His pupils dilated, searching my face as if seeing the lines of my bone structure for the first time.

"A genius," he murmured, the word barely louder than a breath. "A prodigy hidden in the cellar while they paraded a counterfeit across the globe."

"Don't pity me, Sebastian."

"I don't pity you," he said, reaching out. His thumb brushed against the calluses on the inside of my index finger—the scars left by carving wax and grinding silver. "I despise waste. And your family threw away a crown to worship a plastic imitation."

My phone vibrated violently against the nightstand, breaking the moment.

Sebastian pulled his hand back, checking his watch. "Rest. Alexander has security posted outside. No one enters without my clearance."

He walked out, his stride long and hurried, pulling his phone to his ear as he rounded the corner.

I reached for my phone. It was an unlisted Los Angeles number.

I tapped answer.

"You think you're clever, don't you?" Celeste's voice hissed through the speaker, trembling with hysterical rage.

"Celeste?"

"Sebastian pulled his advertising contract from my jewelry line twenty minutes ago!" she screamed, her usual sweet facade completely gone. "The New York exhibition canceled my gallery space! He told the board that Laurent designs were unverified rubbish!"

Julian's voice filtered in from the background, muffled but furious: *Let me talk to her!*

"Did you tell him?" Celeste sobbed into the phone, the sound venomous. "Did you run to your billionaire husband and cry about your little sketches, Belle? You think he wants you? He's using you to punish Julian!"

"I didn't tell him anything, Celeste," I said coldly. "He has eyes. He can read a balance sheet."

"Listen to me, you pathetic shadow," Celeste spat, her voice dropping into a harsh rasp. "Julian and I are hosting the Winter Charity Gala next Friday. Every studio executive, every fashion editor, and every syndicate reporter in North America will be in that ballroom."

"Enjoy your party," I said, preparing to hang up.

"Oh, you're coming too, Belle," Celeste laughed, a manic, jagged sound. "Julian just arranged the press packets. We have the manufacturing receipts. We have the sworn statements from Arthur. By midnight on Friday, the world will know Isabelle Blake as an unstable, thieving fraud who stole her sister’s portfolio."

Julian grabbed the receiver on the other end, his voice dripping with venom. "You should have stayed in the basement, Isabelle. Now we're going to bury you where you belong."

The line clicked dead.