PRICE OF LOVE

The days following Nicolas's engagement announcement became a blur of calculated cruelty. Each morning, I woke with a heaviness in my chest that made breathing feel like an impossible task. Yet somehow, I continued to function—a mechanical doll wound up to perform for her master's amusement.

One week after the gala, Nicolas summoned me to his office, his expression unreadable as I entered.

"I have a special assignment for you," he said, sliding an ornate box across his desk. Inside lay hundreds of cream-colored envelopes, each embossed with gold lettering—wedding invitations.

"You'll deliver these personally," he instructed, his voice deceptively casual. "Every business associate, every social connection. I want you to hand them over with your own hands."

I stared at the box, understanding immediately the exquisite torture he had designed. "All of them?"

"Every single one." His lips curved into that familiar cruel smile. "Is that a problem?"

I swallowed hard. "No, Mr. Blackwood."

"Good. You'll start today."

And so began my journey through hell. At each delivery—law firms, corporate offices, private mansions—I was forced to smile and accept congratulations for the man who had once promised to be mine. I became the messenger of my own heartbreak.

"Amy! How wonderful to see you," Charles Whitman, Nicolas's lead counsel, greeted me as I entered the law firm's gleaming lobby. "Those must be the invitations we've been hearing about."

I nodded, my rehearsed smile firmly in place. "Mr. Blackwood wanted these delivered personally."

Before I could escape, Nicolas himself appeared, as if materializing from my nightmares. He had scheduled a meeting at the firm deliberately to coincide with my delivery.

"Amy, perfect timing," he called out, his voice carrying across the lobby. "Join us for a moment. We're discussing wedding logistics."

I followed him into the conference room where six attorneys sat around a polished table. Nicolas gestured for me to stand beside him.

"Amy, please share the venue capacity details with the team. They need to understand the scale we're working with."

My throat tightened as all eyes turned to me. "The Grand Ballroom at the Ritz can accommodate five hundred guests for the ceremony and seven hundred for the reception," I recited mechanically.

"And the menu selections?" Nicolas prompted, his eyes never leaving my face, studying each micro-expression of pain.

"A seven-course dinner featuring seasonal specialties. The main entrée options are filet mignon with truffle reduction or pan-seared Chilean sea bass."

As I continued detailing the celebration of Nicolas's love for another woman, I noticed the lawyers exchanging uncomfortable glances. They knew who I was—what I had been to him. Their discomfort was palpable, but no one dared speak against Nicolas Blackwood.

The following week brought new tortures. Nicolas insisted I accompany him and Camellia to venue viewings, clipboard in hand, playing the role of dedicated event coordinator.

At Rosewood Manor, I trailed behind them through gardens where pink and white blossoms danced in the spring breeze. Camellia twirled under a rose-covered arbor, her laughter light and carefree.

"This is perfect, Nicolas," she exclaimed, reaching for his hand. "Can't you just see us exchanging vows right here?"

Nicolas nodded, his eyes finding mine over Camellia's shoulder. "What do you think, Amy? Suitable?"

"It's beautiful," I managed, my voice barely above a whisper.

Camellia turned to me, her smile genuine and kind—which somehow made everything worse. "Amy, you have such good taste. What flowers would you recommend for the arrangements?"

Nicolas's eyes narrowed slightly, watching me with predatory focus.

"White roses," I said, the words scraping my throat. "They... they symbolize new beginnings."

Nicolas's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He remembered, just as I did, the night we'd lain under summer stars, planning our future, when he'd promised me a bouquet of white roses for our wedding day.

That evening, as the office emptied and darkness fell over the city, Nicolas called me to his private office. When I entered, he was sitting at his desk, his computer screen glowing in the dim light.

"Close the door," he instructed.

As I approached, I saw what was playing on his monitor and froze. Security footage from years ago—Nicolas and me in his office after hours, his hands gentle as they caressed my face, my body yielding to him with complete trust and love.

"Do you remember this?" he asked, his voice unnervingly calm as he paused the footage on a frame where I gazed up at him with undisguised adoration.