The Almighty Dominance (by Sunshine) novel Chapter 797

Dulcie was already in the bridal room when he got there.

She was sitting on the very edge of the big bed in her grey dress, with her hands knotted in her lap. She had stopped crying. Her eyes were red and dry.

Julian leaned in the doorway. He had meant to be kind. He had meant to say, Don't worry, little cousin, I won't touch you, and sleep in the chair, and go home in the morning.

"Don't be frightened," he said. "I'm not going to —"

"I know what I'm meant to do," Dulcie said.

Her voice was very small and very flat, like a lesson read out loud.

"Mother told me. And Grandmother." She stood up. Her hands went to the hooks at the front of her grey dress, and they were shaking so hard she missed the first one. "If you send the money back, I've failed the house. And if I fail, Grandmother says I go down to the garage wing. To wait on the prince and his wife. A maid, for the rest of my life, in the kennels."

She undid the first hook. Then the second.

"This is her fault," Dulcie whispered, not to him. To the floor. "Serena's. She could have taken you. She looked right at you. And she walked past you to that idiot, so the whole coast would watch her do it." Her mouth shook. "And now I'm the one who pays."

Julian looked at her in the lamplight. Nineteen. Pale hair coming down her back. Not as pretty as Serena. Nobody was. But young, and frightened, and his, by paper and by law.

And somewhere in this house, Serena was lying in a garage with a dog boy, because she had looked Julian Pryce in the face in front of the whole coast and walked on.

“I am not sleeping with you, Dulcie!” Julian snapped, taking a step back.

Her eyes brimmed with hurt. “Why not? Am I not desirable enough? Am I truly that repulsive to you? Why is everyone in this house so cruel?”

“Because Serena is the one I love!” Julian ran a tense hand through his hair. “This marriage is a farce. We were forced into this corner, Dulcie. Let’s just make it through the night without complicating things.”

Dulcie took a step toward him, her fingers catching the hem of her gown. “Then test the waters first. You can always divorce me if I don’t live up to your expectations. We’re already legally married anyway. Tell me there isn't a part of you that wants this.”

Without breaking eye contact, she let her clothes slip to the floor, leaving only the sheer, intricate lingerie she had saved for their wedding night.

Julian went to the dresser. The champagne was cold. He poured one glass and drank it. Then another.

By the third, the room was warm, and his blood was warmer, and the little voice telling him to sleep in the chair had gone very quiet.

Well, he thought. I'm drunk. I'm married. I wanted a wife who'd make Serena sorry.

Why not this one?

If he got bored, there was always divorce. That was what divorce was for.

He put down the glass and shut the door.

Drunk minds, however, tend to overlook the legalities: a divorce meant forfeiting at least half the dowry, if not the entire fortune, depending entirely on whether anyone had bothered to read the fine print.

---

At breakfast the next morning, the long dining room was very quiet.

Everyone had heard. The heir in the line had slept by the kennels. Nobody knew whether to laugh or not, so nobody did.

Serena came in at eight, in a plain dress, with her hair pinned up, and sat in her place as if nothing had happened. Alexander came in behind her with a bowl of scraps for the dogs and went out the other door.

"Good morning, Grandmother," Serena said calmly.

The Baroness didn't answer. She was holding a heavy cream envelope, sealed in blue wax, and turning it over in her thin fingers.

"This came at seven," she said coldly. "From the capital."

"From who, Mother?" Cordelia asked, leaning in.

The Baroness broke the seal and read it in silence. Then she read it again, out loud, slowly.

"Halcyon Group will take one perfume house on this coast as its partner. One house. Each house may send one nose. On Friday, in front of our panel, each nose has one hour to make a perfume from nothing."

She folded the letter.

"And whoever wins it for this house," the Baroness said, "directs Tiffany Perfumes. Whoever that is."

Nobody spoke. Nobody even put down a cup.

Across the table, Serena felt the back of her neck go cold.

At the far end, Patricia lowered her napkin. Then, very slowly, she smiled.

"Well?" the Baroness said coldly. "Who goes for this house?"

Nobody moved. Silver hung over plates. The grey morning light lay on the long table, on the cream envelope, on the blue wax broken in two.

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