Time To Set The Wedding Date

MALCOLM:

As I pulled into the long, paved driveway of the Mayor's residence, the towering iron gates groaned shut behind me, and a familiar tightness settled in my chest.

The house was immaculate, grand white columns, perfectly trimmed hedges, not a single thing out of place. A stark contrast to the chaos I had witnessed just hours ago. Everything here had its purpose, its expectation, its carefully defined role—including me.

I shut off the engine and exhaled slowly, leaning back against the seat for a moment as my fingers tightened around the steering wheel.

"Asher," I muttered under my breath.

I couldn't get him out of my head no matter how hard I try. Not this morning. Not ever.

When I saw him in the city square this morning, standing still among the crowd, his expression carefully composed, trying so hard to appear unaffected, as the so-called cleansing punishment played out.

I focused on him. Partly because I couldn't stomach what was happening in front of me, and partly because of something else. Something I was too afraid to name.

I kept my gaze locked on him, never looking away, not even for a second. I knew no one would accuse me of being suspicious, even if they noticed I wasn't watching the punishment. To them, I was the perfect Mayor's son—the one destined to take over his mantle one day.

That was why I caught everything—the flicker of emotion that crossed his face, the way his fingers twitched at his sides. He thought he was good at hiding himself, at blending into the background. Maybe to others, he was just another face in the crowd. But to me? I could read Asher like an open book.

The moment I caught him looking away from the punishment, my heart dropped.

Panic surged through me—not for myself, but for him. If someone other than me had noticed… I didn't want to think about what could have happen.

Asher," I whispered again, my voice barely audible. "What are you doing to me?"

It had took every ounce of my self-control not to close the distance between us, not to let my lips brush against his in that alley.

If only there was a—

A sharp knock against the car window jolted me from my thoughts.

I opened my eyes, only to find Isabelle leaning down, squinting through the tinted glass with an impatient frown.

Great. Just what I needed.

Letting out an exaggerated sigh, I unlocked the door. The moment I stepped out, she practically threw herself at me, her arms stretching forward as if she were ready to latch onto me like a parasite.

I barely had time to brace myself before her hands were on me. Her fingers, soft yet unyielding, wrapped around my arm with just enough pressure to keep me from pulling away.

I stiffened, a flicker of irritation flashing across my face. My jaw clenched as I pulled my hand back, forcibly prying her grip off me. She let go, but not without a dramatic huff, as if I had mortally wounded her pride.

What was wrong with this girl? Did she not understand personal space? Or basic human decency?

Brushing off the lingering sensation of her touch, I took a step back, creating a much-needed distance between us. My expression hardened as I shot her a questioning look.

"Where have you been all morning?" she demanded, crossing her arms with a huff. "I waited and waited, hoping you'd come home as soon as the cleansing punishment was over!"

Her blue eyes were sharp, filled with accusation, but her voice carried that same familiar, airy sweetness—like she was scolding me for something trivial rather than interrogating me. Isabelle Sutherland never yelled. She didn't need to. She got what she wanted with honeyed words, soft smiles, and carefully placed guilt.

She was beautiful—flawless in the way only the elite could be. Blonde curls pinned up in an intricate twist, not a single strand out of place. A pale blue dress cinched at the waist with delicate silver embroidery, designed to make her look effortlessly elegant. Like a porcelain doll. Fragile, untouchable. The perfect daughter of Elder Sutherland.

The perfect fiancée.

"Isabelle," I sighed, rubbing a hand over my face. "Not now, please."

"Not now?" she echoed, incredulous. "Malcolm, I'm your fiancée! Am I not supposed to know where you've been? Do you have any idea how worried I was? What could possibly be more important than—"

I stopped listening. Tuning her out, I made my way toward the house, stepping into the cool, grand entrance of the Mayor's residence.

The sitting area was as pristine as ever, polished floors reflecting the golden chandelier above, floor-length curtains framing the wide windows, and velvet-upholstered furniture arranged perfectly around a carved wooden table. The scent of old books and freshly brewed coffee hung in the air, mingling with the subtle aroma of recently burned incense. Everything was meticulously arranged, evoking a sense of quiet order.

At the head of the room sat my father, his presence commanding even when he wasn't speaking. Mayor Hayes—a man of power, influence, and unwavering belief in the system. He was flanked by several members of the Council of Purity, all dressed in their formal robes, their expressions calm as if they hadn't just ordered the deaths of two people this morning like it was nothing.

Among them sat Elder Sutherland, Isabelle's father, a man as devoted to the cause as my father himself. He and the others carried themselves with the same quiet arrogance, the same unshaken confidence that they were righteous. That they were just.

These people made my skin crawl.

The moment I stepped in, the conversation halted. My father looked up, his sharp gaze landing on me.

"Malcolm. Where have you been?"

I clenched my jaw. Not this again.

"Seriously, Dad?" I said, irritation creeping into my voice. "First Isabelle, now you? Do I have to start reporting all my movements?"

Beside me, Isabelle huffed for the umpteenth time, crossing her arms dramatically. "Excuse me? As your fiancée, it's not a crime to want to know where the love of my life has been while I was dying to see him."

Oh, please. Someone should just stitch her mouth shut.

A few of the council members chuckled. One of them muttered something about young love.

I resisted the urge to roll my eyes.Young love? Right. More like an arranged performance, a carefully curated script written by our parents. There was nothing young or loving about it—just expectations wrapped up in flowery words and suffocating obligations.

I turned, intending to head straight to my room, but my father's voice stopped me.

"Wait, Mal. There's something we need to talk about."

I exhaled sharply. "Now?"

He didn't answer. Just looked at me with that expectant stare—the kind that made it clear I didn't have a choice. My gaze flickered over the faces in the room, their expressions unreadable yet heavy with meaning. I sighed.

"Fine." I moved to take a seat, already dreading whatever this was about.

Isabelle, of course, followed like a shadow, her heels clicking softly against the marble floor.

"Isa," her father called before she could sit down. "Go wait in Malcolm's room. He'll come meet you when we're done here."

I raised an eyebrow. Nobody even bothered to ask me if I wanted her in my room. Typical.

Isabelle pouted. "But, Papa..."

"Do as I say," her father cut her off, his tone leaving no room for argument.

With a dramatic sigh and a little whine under her breath, she turned and made her way upstairs without another word. I didn't miss the way she stomped just slightly, just enough to make her displeasure known but not enough to be called disrespectful.

I barely had time to brace myself before my father spoke again. "We've been talking."

Clearly, I had noticed it the moment I stepped in.

Whatever they had been discussing, I already had a sinking feeling, I wasn't going to like where this was headed.

"About your engagement with Isabelle," he continued, his tone smooth, measured. "We think it's time to set the wedding date."