Silent screams

Morning light filtered gently through the tall lace curtains of the Whitmore dining room. The table was already set: polished silverware, floral china, steaming tea, and soft-baked scones resting in a warm linen basket.

Mary sat straight-backed in her chair, her napkin folded neatly in her lap, a spoon stirring her tea without thought. Across from her, her father read the morning paper while her mother spoke crisply, as always.

"The Langdons sent word this morning," Lady Whitmore began, slicing into a pear with delicate precision. "They've invited Thomas to join us for the garden party next week."

"That sounds lovely," Mary murmured, barely audible.

"I do think you should take more interest in these things," her mother continued. "He is your fiancé, after all."

Lord Whitmore lowered his paper slightly. "He seems a capable young man. A bit stiff, perhaps, but respectable."

Mary managed a small nod, her gaze fixed on the rim of her teacup.

Her mother leaned in slightly. "You like him, don't you, Mary?"

Mary looked up. Her lips curved politely. "Yes, of course."

No. I don't even know him.

"He's quite handsome," her mother added.

Not to me.

"And from a family with standing. It's a strong match."

Strong like shackles.

"He mentioned wanting to expand into textiles. Perhaps the two of you could travel to Paris one day."

Mary smiled faintly and nodded again.

I want to dance barefoot in the streets of Paris, not negotiate fabric prices with a man who doesn't know the color of my eyes.

"Mary, dear," her father said, folding his paper, "have you given any more thought to the ceremony? Your mother thinks September would be ideal."

Mary swallowed. "Yes. That sounds... lovely."

Her heart whispered: No. Please. Not yet. Not with him.

Her mother sipped her tea and continued, already planning flowers, dresses, music. "We'll send for Miss Beecham to begin sketching gown ideas. Something traditional. Ivory, I think."

Mary felt her stomach twist.

Her fingers clutched the edge of her teacup tighter, the humming "yes" barely holding her together while her soul shouted—

"No."

No to the flowers I didn't choose.

No to the man I barely know.

No to the quiet suffocation disguised as duty.

But none of it left her lips.

Instead, she nodded once more. "Yes, Mother."

And took another sip of tea, tasting nothing at all.