The hum of the lawyer's office was a flat, clinical drone, a sound that seemed to suck all warmth from the air. My hand, clammy, almost alien, clutched the cheap plastic pen. It was a stark, brutal contrast to the polished mahogany table, the hushed, expensive suits. Just two words "I do" had been enough. Two words, delivered in a whisper, sealing my fate. My gaze flickered to Arthur Cecil, my now legally husband. He didn't spare me a glance, and I felt the cutting edge of his dismissal, a stark rejection that sliced through me.

His dark eyes, sharp as obsidian shards, were fixed on the lawyers. Already, he was dissecting the next steps of the crucial merger, the one this charade of a marriage was meant to facilitate. He needed a clean name for his family, a polished façade, and I was the convenient, expendable solution. This was for her Father. The mantra echoed in my mind, hollow, desperate, a shield against the rising tide of humiliation. Arthur Cecil's silence was a dismissal, cold and absolute, and I felt profoundly cast aside, a sharp pang of hurt piercing my chest. It was as if he wanted me to disappear the moment the ink dried, to be hidden from his world. His back, a broad, impenetrable wall, was already turned. He was talking business, my presence less than an afterthought. A ghost in my own life. The air in the room felt thin, suffocating, as if even the atmosphere rejected me.

Arthur Cecil pushed the signed papers across the table with a decisive shove. The scrape of his chair on the polished floor was a harsh punctuation mark as he rose, a towering shadow, then turned to his legal team. A faint, almost predatory smile touched his lips, a flicker of triumph that never quite reached his eyes. He ignored me completely, as if I'd already dissolved into the sterile office air, and the profound rejection of his gaze hit me with the force of a physical blow, leaving me breathless with pain. His actions screamed that I was something to be concealed, a dirty secret to be whisked away.

"Gentlemen," Arthur Cecil stated, his voice a low, authoritative rumble, utterly devoid of warmth. "We can proceed with the finalization of the merger now. Have the necessary documents been forwarded to Mr. Miller's office? I want no delays."

His lead lawyer, Mr. Davies, a man with shrewd eyes and a perpetual half-frown, nodded swiftly. "Immediately, Mr. Cecil. Everything is in order. We've ensured all contingencies are covered, as per your specifications. The final signatures are expected by close of business."

"Excellent," Arthur Cecil grunted, a curt, impatient nod. He didn't spare me a single glance, his attention already elsewhere, as if the entire ceremony had been a trivial distraction he was eager to put behind him. He moved, purposeful, towards the door. His hand rose, a dismissive wave towards a nervous paralegal hovering near the exit.

"See to Mrs. Cecil's departure. Ensure she's escorted discreetly."

I felt the flush creep up my neck, hot and stinging. Mortification. I stood there, feeling utterly rejected, his deliberate dismissal of my presence a deep, burning wound that made my heart ache. It was undeniably clear: he was making sure I was removed, out of sight, hidden from anyone who mattered, a convenient contract to be filed away and forgotten. The cheap pen still clutched in my hand, its plastic cool against my clammy palm. Not a word. Not a glance. Just...

It's a dismissal.

Hours later, the suffocating feeling of the lawyer's office clung to me, thickening as I stepped into Arthur Cecil's mansion. It wasn't like a home; it was a like monument of glass and a cold stone, vast and impersonal. My few meager bags, containing the remnants of my old life, were deposited in the guest wing. The implication was clear, cutting: temporary, insignificant. This move, I knew, was Arthur Cecil's decision, a cold, calculated move for his own sake.

He wouldn't risk public outcry or whispers of scandal. He wouldn't allow society to call him a 'bastard' for simply abandoning his new bride after securing his merger. His reputation, his pristine image, was paramount, and I was simply a necessary piece of that intricate defense, not a wife to cherish.

This understanding was a subtle but undeniable rejection of my place as a true wife, and the sting of it resonated deep within me, confirming I was meant to be kept apart, hidden away, merely a shield for his name.

The hallway stretched long and silent, echoing my hesitant footsteps, amplifying the cavernous emptiness. Staff members, their faces carefully neutral, moved like phantoms around me, their gazes sliding past as if I were invisible. I felt their collective dismissal, a direct reflection of Arthur Cecil's own unspoken directives, a cruel reinforcement of my insignificance that made me shrink, as if I were a ghost meant only for the private corners of the house.

But then, it was the scent that truly choked me-a sweet, cloying wave of jasmine perfume clinging to the air around the master bedroom suite. Sofie. Always Sofie. My step-sister, the woman Arthur Cecil truly loved, his former fiancée. She was the one he was meant to marry, his great love, before she chose her burgeoning career in high fashion and modeling over him, leaving him behind for the glittering lights of fame and opportunity. Even in her physical absence, Sofie's presence was a palpable, suffocating reminder, a fresh wound tearing open in my heart. This lingering evidence of Arthur Cecil's true affections was a constant source of agonizing rejection for me.

I found myself instinctively clutching my own arm, a desperate, self-soothing gesture I hadn't realized I was making. Drawn by a morbid curiosity, or perhaps a masochistic need to confirm my fears, I wandered towards the master bathroom. There, on the cold marble counter, sat a delicate, half-used bottle of the jasmine scent. A physical ache settled in my chest, a phantom limb of longing for a life that was never mine. I half-expected Arthur to materialize, to acknowledge me, even to sneer. But he didn't. He remained elusive, his absence a constant, silent dismissal, mirroring the glacial chill I felt in the vast, empty halls, each empty moment a renewed rejection that twisted my gut, confirming he was deliberately avoiding me, keeping me at arm's length, out of his immediate world.

A stern-faced woman with tightly pulled-back hair, Mrs. Miller, the head housekeeper, materialized from the shadows of the grand foyer. Her voice, when it came, was flat, devoid of warmth, like dry ice.

"These are your quarters, Mrs. Cecil. The guest wing," Mrs. Miller stated, gesturing with a stiff hand towards a remote corridor, her tone brooking no argument. "The master suite is strictly off-limits, as are Mr. Cecil's private offices. You will find everything you need here. A schedule for your daily meals and any necessary errands will be provided by your personal assistant, Mrs. Jenkins, tomorrow morning."

I swallowed, my throat suddenly tight and dry. I longed to ask something, anything, but the woman's demeanor was unyielding. "Understood," I managed, the word feeling small and insignificant in the echoing space. I forced myself to try. "Is Mr. Cecil... will he be joining for dinner tonight?"

Mrs. Miller's expression didn't change, her eyes remaining cold, impassive. "Mr. Cecil's schedule is his own, Mrs. Cecil. He rarely dines at home when there are business obligations. Dinner will be served in the informal dining room at eight. For one."

The last two words hung in the air, a deliberate, sharp point, and I couldn't shake the feeling that even my dining arrangements were designed to keep me hidden, separate from the public areas where Arthur Cecil might entertain. She then turned abruptly, her footsteps brisk and unyielding as she retreated down the grand corridor, leaving me utterly, overwhelmingly alone.