The Phone Call

POV: First-person (Celeste)

I sat stiffly in the plush reclining chair of the elite skin clinic, staring blankly at the blinding white ceiling lights. The soft hum of a facial steamer buzzed near my ear, puffing a steady stream of lavender-scented mist across my cheeks. I was supposed to be relaxing. The esthetician had spent the last hour massaging cooling gels and expensive serums into my pores, promising me a radiant bridal glow. Yet, beneath the pampered surface, exhaustion seeped deep into my bones. The sheer magnitude of this hectic, non-stop wedding preparation was draining my life away.

A heavy, crushing guilt sat like a stone in the pit of my stomach. My purse rested on the small glass table nearby, and every time the screen lit up, my stomach tied itself into agonizing knots. I still had not mustered a single ounce of courage to tell my boyfriend, Cal, that I was marrying someone else. The words felt like ash in my throat. How do you look at the man you have been dating and explain that you just sold your future to a billionaire family to save your sick sister? I knew the betrayal would break him. The coward in me kept putting it off, dodging his texts, ignoring his calls, letting the guilt gnaw at my insides while my new reality dragged me forward by the throat.

"Celeste, dear, you simply have to taste this one," a sweet but commanding voice interrupted my dark thoughts.

Mom Vivienne stepped into my line of sight, blocking out the harsh ceiling lights. She hovered over me like an elegant, inescapable shadow. A delicate silk scarf was draped impeccably around her neck, and in her hand, she held a tiny silver fork. Without waiting for my response, she pushed a small piece of cake past my lips.

"Red velvet with a hint of espresso," she announced, her eyes gleaming with manic wedding-planner energy. "Or do you prefer the lemon buttercream we tried twenty minutes ago?"

It was the third cake sample today. She had been relentless, orchestrating every single detail of my life since the moment I agreed to this deal. She was incredibly sweet, always smiling, always gentle, but there was a quiet, unyielding authority to her. People jumped when she spoke. Even the clinic staff moved around her on nervous tiptoes.

I chewed the cake, tasting nothing but sugar and anxiety. Amidst the chaotic bustling of the clinic—the rolling carts, the soft music, Vivienne flipping through thick binders of floral arrangements—a terrifying realization brutally hit me.

I was about to marry Declan Vance.

I swallowed hard, the cake suddenly feeling like dry sand. I knew absolutely nothing about the man. Yes, I had done a frantic internet search late last night. The screen had filled with images of a dangerously handsome, immensely powerful man in sharp, tailored suits. He had dark, intense eyes and a jawline that looked like it could cut glass. He was formidable. He was a stranger. Everyone in the business world feared and respected him, and I was supposed to stand at an altar and bind my life to his.

My frantic nerves quickly got the better of me. The walls of the pristine clinic started closing in. My chest tightened, squeezing my lungs until breathing became a conscious, painful effort. The cool mist from the steamer suddenly felt suffocating. My pulse hammered a frantic rhythm against my temples.

I had to do something. Everything in my system screamed at me to stop, to find an anchor before the panic dragged me under.

I sat up straight in the chair, startling the esthetician who was reaching for another jar of cream. I turned my head toward Vivienne, who was busy scrutinizing a swatch of ivory silk.

"Can I speak with Declan?" I blurted out.

My voice cracked slightly, but the request hung heavy in the air. The bright smile on Vivienne's face faltered, instantly morphing into a deep frown of concern. She lowered the silk fabric.

"Is something wrong, dear?" she asked, stepping closer.

"No, no, nothing is wrong," I lied, my heart racing. "I just... I wouldn't mind knowing what he sounds like. I am really worried about not knowing who I am actually getting married to."

Vivienne studied my face for a long second. She let out a soft sigh, the hard lines around her mouth relaxing. "We don't have to talk for long," I quickly added, desperate to justify the sudden outburst. "I just..."

"It's fine," Vivienne said smoothly. "Let me call him."

She turned around, walking a few paces toward the massive windows overlooking the city skyline, and dialed a number on her sleek phone.

My palms began to sweat profusely. I wiped them on the soft fabric of the spa robe, but the dampness returned instantly. What was I doing? I was about to talk to a billionaire heir who was being forced into this marriage just like I was. He was going to be cold. He was going to be arrogant. He would probably resent my very existence.

Vivienne spoke quietly into the receiver for a brief moment before turning on her heel and marching back toward me. She extended her hand.

"Here," she said softly. "Talk to him."

I stared at the device. The blood in my veins turned to ice. An uncalled-for wave of sheer panic washed over my body, far worse than any exam I had ever taken in school.

"Wait... I..." I stammered, shrinking back against the leather chair. "Maybe not now."

"Come on, hun. Don't be nervous," Vivienne urged, gently pressing the phone against my trembling fingers.

I took the device with shaky hands, lifting it to my ear as if it were a fragile bomb ready to detonate. I closed my eyes, held my breath, and braced myself for the inevitable blast of corporate coldness.

"You don't have to be so nervous; it's just me," a deep, resonant voice beckoned through the line.

I froze. My wildly racing heart stilled in my chest.

Goosebumps rose across the bare skin of my arms. His voice was incredibly rich, a dark timber that vibrated right through the speaker and settled deep into my bones. It possessed a peaceful, grounding magic that dissolved my paralyzing tension in a matter of seconds. He sounded nothing like the ruthless businessman I had pictured. The butterflies in my stomach erupted into a dizzying flutter.

Vivienne took a seat right next to me, her eyes wide with a matching nervous energy, watching my face for any sign of disaster.

"I... sorry... it's..." I stuttered, unable to form a coherent sentence.

A low, warm chuckle drifted across the line. The sound was like music. I physically felt the tight muscles in my shoulders melt and relax beneath my flesh. It was beautiful.

"I can't believe you are laughing at your wife-to-be," I teased, the words slipping out naturally before I could filter them.

He chuckled again. "I am as nervous as hell," he admitted openly, his tone remarkably casual. "I can't believe Mom pushed me into this."

I stole a glance at Vivienne. She stared at me in blatant confusion, trying to decipher my end of the conversation.

"Well, she never gives up," I said into the phone, smiling back at her.

"She doesn't," Declan agreed smoothly. "I bet you, you are going to have your hands full."

"Me? What about you?" I asked, finally sinking back into the comfortable depth of the clinic chair.

"Well, I have handled her since I was a kid. You are the newbie in the family. You have to have your share of her relentless energy," he warned playfully.

Feeling surprisingly comfortable with this dangerous stranger, I let out a soft laugh. "I can always run away," I joked lightly.

The line suddenly went dead mute.

No breath. No chuckle. Just a heavy, suffocating silence.

Pure panic surged forcefully through my veins all over again. The easy banter vanished. I gripped the phone tighter, my knuckles turning white. I was suddenly terrified that I had deeply upset the powerful man I was supposed to marry. Had I insulted him? Did he think I was actually going to breach the contract?

"Hello?" I called out, my voice thin and tight. I prayed for a response. "Did I say something wrong?"

More silence. Vivienne tapped my leg urgently, her hands opening in a silent, frantic demand to know what was happening. I ignored her, my entire focus pinned on the silent speaker against my ear.

"Look... I am sorry," I stammered hastily, desperate to fix the crack in the ice. "I didn't mean to say anything wrong."

"I like the sound of your voice," his deep timber finally returned, cutting through my frantic apology.

I stopped breathing. A dark pink flush spread rapidly across my cheeks, heating my skin beneath the remnants of the cooling gel.

"You sound different," he confessed, a strange softness woven into his words. "And I kinda like it a lot."

I arched my brows in genuine confusion. Different? Different from what? We had never spoken before. I had no idea he had already formed a false assumption of who I was, or what I was supposed to sound like.

"You haven't heard from me before now," I pointed out. "It's weird you..."

"That must be the reason," he interrupted smoothly, brushing past my confusion. "I thought talking to you would be hard. I actually wanted to call you four days ago."

My cheeks burned hotter. The terrifying idea of this arranged marriage was rapidly losing its dread, replaced by a strange, blooming warmth in my chest. He sounded dreamy. He sounded human.

"You have my number?" I asked softly.

"Yes," he answered.

The silence stretched again, but this time it wasn't tense. It felt charged, thick with a newfound curiosity.

"It's just a few days away," I said, steering the conversation to the looming reality. "Are you sure you are ready for this?"

"I know, and I am as ready as I'll ever be," he replied steadily.

My heart fluttered at the quiet conviction in his tone. "What about you?" he asked. "Are you ready?"

"No," I confessed, pouring my heart out to the man I had feared just ten minutes ago. "Mom Vivienne has been taking me from place to place, and I am so exhausted. I haven't even picked a gown yet. She wants a perfect gown, and it will arrive tomorrow. Not to mention the fact that I am so nervous. I am genuinely afraid I will collapse from sheer panic at the altar."

A loud, exquisite laugh suddenly erupts from the other end of the line.

It was a hearty, full-chested sound that made my heart skip a wild beat. My hand involuntarily reached up, pressing against my chest. If I thought his speaking voice was amazing, his genuine laughter was overwhelming. It painted a vivid picture of him in my mind, making me crave to see the amusement dancing in those dark, dangerous eyes.

He finally caught his breath, though traces of amusement still lingered.

"I can't believe you are laughing at my dilemma," I pouted playfully.

"Oh, my bad," he teased warmly. "I am so sorry, but collapsing on our wedding day would be simply amazing."

"What?" I gasped, feigning outrage.

"Don't 'what' me," he joked, his voice dropping into a rich, teasing register. "If I am to stand at the altar and wait for you, it would take a longer time, and I might die of waiting. But if you were to faint, we just have to apologize to the gathered guests, and I can take you home. It would save me the chance of suffering a heart attack while nervously waiting for my bride."

*My bride.*

Hearing him casually claim me shifted something profound inside my chest. The heavy dread that had anchored me down for days snapped. I realized, with a sudden, jarring clarity, that I was actually looking forward to this marriage now.

I opened my mouth to shoot back a witty reply, but a muffled voice sounded in the background on his end. Someone was interrupting him.

"Hey... I have to go," he said.

A distinct note of sadness colored his voice, and surprisingly, it made my own heart drop straight into my stomach. The disappointment was sharp and immediate.

"Oh," was the only sound I managed to utter.

"I am sorry," he added quickly, sensing my disappointment. "But I will call you tonight. I promise."

A bright smile broke across my face, impossible to hide. "Okay," I agreed excitedly, my tone buzzing with a newfound anticipation.

"Well... later," he said softly.

"Later then," I replied.

The line clicked, going silent. I slowly lowered the phone to my lap, my skin still tingling, leaving me floating in a warm, breathless haze.