The Angel And The Bastard

Mask

Iris

Five years later

Five years ago, I thought I'd have more control over my life.

Thought I'd be free to make my own choices, to walk away from my parents' schemes.

But that's the thing about family—they know where your weak spots are. They know how to tear into you and make you bleed until you bend.

I've been bending ever since.

Today, like every day, I wake up in a bed that's too big, in a house that isn't mine, wearing the role of the perfect Kensington daughter like a noose around my neck.

The engagement ring on my finger catches the morning light as I shove open my bedroom door, the diamond too heavy, too bright—a cold, glaring reminder of the life that's been carved out for me.

I reach the dining room, forcing my expression into something polite and neutral before I walk through the door.

My father's there already, as he always is, standing at the head of the long mahogany table like it's his throne.

My mother sits to his right, stirring her tea with precise movements. The smell of freshly brewed coffee mingles with the crisp scent of lemon polish, the air thick with expectation.

And then there's Adam Sinclair, my fiancé.

He's at the other end of the table, face buried in his phone. He doesn't bother looking up when I enter, doesn't spare me more than a grunt of acknowledgment.

His mousy brown hair is slicked back, not a strand out of place, and his suit is as pristine as the rest of him.

Every inch of him screams money, power, and a kind of calculated indifference that my parents love.

He's exactly what they wanted for me.

And by god I hate him for it.

"Good morning, Iris," my mother says, her voice smooth and brittle like glass.

She doesn't look at me when she says it—just keeps stirring her tea, the clinking of the spoon like a metronome. "You're late."

I sink into my chair across from Adam, grabbing a piece of toast that I have no intention of eating. "What, you were waiting for me? How sweet."

My mother's lips tighten into a line. My father barely glances up from the newspaper he's reading, but his silence is enough to make my skin crawl.

We both know what it means—watch yourself, Iris. You've already used up all your good graces.

Adam sighs, setting down his phone just long enough to look at me with that blank, assessing stare. "Try not to antagonize them before noon, Iris. It's unbecoming." His voice is clipped, like he can't be bothered to put more effort into the conversation than absolutely necessary.

"Well, lucky for you, I don't give a damn about being 'becoming,'" I shoot back, but there's no heat behind the words.

We've had this same exchange a thousand times, and he's not worth the energy it would take to fight him.

He knows it.

I know it.

My parents definitely know it.

"You should," my father mutters from behind his paper. "Especially if you want to remain part of this family."

And there it is. The reminder that I can't afford to forget.

Because the day I told them I didn't want to marry Adam Sinclair was the day my father handed me an ultimatum: either I go through with this marriage, or I lose everything.