CHAPTER 21: THREE DAYS TO THE WEDDING

Aiden’s POV

I leaned back in my chair, silently watching her as the meal progressed. Alexia moved with a natural poise that belied her unpolished exterior. Every cut of her knife, every lift of her fork—precise, deliberate. Not a single movement was wasted, her actions reflecting a level of refinement I hadn’t expected.

She looked like a rich girl in a poor outfit, her hoodie and jeans doing nothing to diminish the quiet elegance she exuded. It wasn’t just her confidence; it was the way she handled herself, as though she’d been born into this world of crystal glasses and polished silverware.

I’d expected her to fumble, to embarrass herself. That was part of the plan—seeing her struggle here would have justified my decision to send her to etiquette lessons before the public discovered her. She was going to be in the spotlight, accompanying me to official dinners and high-profile events. There was no room for missteps or amateur mistakes.

But here she was, proving me wrong.

Even the way she tasted the wine—a thoughtful sip, not a hasty gulp—spoke of someone who understood the subtle nuances of dining at this level. She wasn’t faking it, either. This wasn’t the forced, exaggerated pretense of someone trying to fit in. It was ingrained, second nature.

And that irritated me.

Because it meant she wasn’t just some girl trying to claw her way out of her current situation. No, there was more to her story—layers I hadn’t accounted for. She’d been here before, or somewhere close to it. The question was how, and why wasn’t she still here?

I’d made it clear she’d need to fit into my world seamlessly, and part of me had relished the thought of her stumbling—just enough to validate my assumptions. Yet, instead of tripping over herself, she was sitting there like she owned the place, meeting every unspoken expectation with infuriating ease.

Her appearance might scream "outsider," but her actions told a different story. The contrast was... distracting.

Still, a part of me wondered if she even realized what she was doing, or if she’d forgotten to keep up the facade altogether. That would have been a relief, in a way—it would mean she wasn’t as much of a wild card as she seemed.

But as she continued, gracefully navigating every bite of the meal, I found myself revising my strategy. If she was capable of this now, she might not need as much refinement as I’d anticipated. The lessons would still happen, of course—perfection wasn’t negotiable in my world—but they might not be as remedial as I’d thought.

No, Alexia wasn’t going to embarrass me when the public knew her name. She was already proving she belonged here, even if her wardrobe hadn’t caught up yet.

I allowed the smallest flicker of approval to cross my features, though I doubted she noticed. She was too busy making a point, oblivious to how closely I was watching her—or how thoroughly she was exceeding my expectations.

"Okay, we wed on Friday," I stated flatly, my tone leaving no room for negotiation.

Her reaction was immediate. "What? Why the hurry? You haven’t even courted me!"

I couldn’t help the smirk that tugged at my lips at her absurd suggestion. Courting her? The very thought was laughable. This wasn’t some fairy tale where I’d shower her with flowers and serenades. I had no time for such frivolities, nor any inclination to entertain them.

"About your mother, after we wed" I cut in, ignoring her indignant outburst. "Should I place her in a new place or rehab?"

She blinked, caught off guard by the abrupt shift in conversation. For a moment, I thought she might argue again, but then she actually seemed to think about it.

"Get her a place to stay," she said finally, her voice steady, "and someone to look after her."

It wasn’t the answer I’d expected. Not the one I would’ve chosen in her position. But then again, it was her mother. If she wanted to let the woman keep drinking herself into oblivion, who was I to interfere? My part was simple—provide the means and walk away.

I nodded curtly. "Fine. Tomorrow, someone will pick you up. You’ll be staying with me—"

"Hell no!" she interrupted, her voice sharp with defiance. "We’re not even married yet, and you want me to stay at your place? What about my mom?"

I could feel my patience snap like a frayed cord. I despised being interrupted, especially when I was in the middle of giving instructions. My mood shifted instantly, the faint admiration I’d felt earlier evaporating under a wave of irritation.

"You would have known," I said coldly, my tone like ice, "that I was already planning to place her in a better apartment with a nurse to watch over her. And yes, you will be staying with me."

Her eyes widened slightly, but I pressed on, unyielding.

"I am not allowing my three-days-to-be wife to continue staying in that dangerous, filthy place you call home."

The finality in my voice silenced any protest she might have been formulating. She stared at me, her expression a mix of indignation and something I couldn’t quite place. I didn’t care. My decision was made, and I wasn’t about to waste time debating it.

If she wanted to argue, let her. I had a wedding to plan.

A wedding to plan. Who would have thought that I’d be the one getting married, let alone the one orchestrating the entire ordeal? Me planning the wedding Good lord. Who would have thought that I would marry let alone be the one to do the wedding preparations. The sheer absurdity of it all almost made me laugh—almost.

My mother really did a number on me with that ridiculous condition she slipped into her will. Marriage within a year, or her entire estate reverts to my father and that corrupt lawyer who’s been licking his boots since day one and changed the stupid condition to a marriage within a week.

The thought alone was enough to sour my mood. That greedy bastard and his accomplice had been circling like vultures, waiting for me to fail, ready to pounce on the wealth my mother had fought to keep out of their hands.

But I couldn’t suppress the smirk tugging at my lips when I imagined their faces once I presented the wedding papers. Oh, how delicious it would be to see their schemes crumble into dust.

This wasn’t about love, nor sentimentality. It was a calculated move—a piece of the puzzle in a game I had no intention of losing. My fiancée didn’t need to know the depth of it yet; all she needed to do was play her part, sign the papers, and seal the deal.

As for my father? Let him choke on his disappointment.

And the lawyer? Well, let’s just say I’d enjoy watching his carefully laid plans unravel.

The wedding was only days away. For now, I’d focus on the logistics, the formalities, the legalities—everything necessary to ensure my success.