Bound To Be Yours 🦌

Chapter 5 The Wrong Date [Edited]

Aurora's POV

By the final bell, I was dragging myself back to the dorms. The St. Edmund's wing smelled of cedar and old books — normally safe, almost home. Tonight it reeked of dust and deadlines.

And waiting on my bed? The dress. Tissue-wrapped. Perfectly folded. A silk guillotine, courtesy of the Pembrokes.

I twist the tap until steam clouds the glass. Hot water hammers down, steady, merciless. I try to let it scald everything off—dread, pressure, the certainty that tonight I'm nothing but currency dressed for dinner.

It doesn't work. It never does.

So I fold myself small, tuck the thoughts away where even I can't reach them. Numb is easier. Numb is survival.

By the time the water runs cold, my skin's red and raw. I towel off, unwrap the package waiting like a verdict.

The dress: pale silk. Polite. Skimming instead of clinging. The kind of effortless elegance that takes everything from you just to wear. Matching heels. Pearls my mother swears are "family pieces." They feel more like chains polished for display.

The September air seeps through the window, sharp enough to raise gooseflesh. I pull an oversized black blazer over my shoulders. Not style. Shield.

The mirror throws back someone smooth, perfect, doll-eyed. Worth showing off.

Ashbourne Barbie. Fresh out the box, accessories sold separately.

I scoff under my breath, the sound too small to matter. Even my rebellion's factory-issued.

The corridor is empty when I head down the stairs, heels soft against the runner. Outside, the car waits—black, sleek, engine purring like it's in on the joke.

The driver tips his cap. "Miss Ashbourne."

I nod. Doll delivery, right on schedule.

Inside, the leather smells expensive and suffocating. London slides by in ribbons of light—gloss and shadow on repeat. I lock my jaw, replay the lines drilled into me since I traded sneakers for heels. Perform, Aurora. Perform, or perish.

Be gracious. Be charming. Be chosen.

By the time the car slows, my teeth ache from how hard I've been clenching them.

Clarendon House rises ahead, windows glowing like it swallowed a century whole. Candlelight on cobblestone. The kind of place that reeks of roses, money, and disappointment.

I step out. Heels click. The dining room looms through the glass, a single table lit like a stage. White linen. Polished silver. No audience but the walls.

Of course the Pembrokes booked privacy. The kind of quiet that makes you forget you're walking into a trap—until the door locks.

One man waits, back to me. Shoulders set, tux collar clean. He doesn't turn. Not until I sit.

I lower my clutch onto the table, smooth the hem of my dress, lift my gaze—

And everything stops.

It's not Teddy.

It's him.

Adrian Sinclair.

A promise and a warning in the same breath.

For a beat, my brain scrambles for excuses—wrong driver, wrong night, wrong girl. But his eyes find mine, steady and certain.

And that's when I know: Adrian Sinclair doesn't do "wrong."

Candlelight sharpens his jaw into something almost lethal. Smooth lines, polite smile curving like a signature on a contract. And his eyes—brown threaded with gold—catch mine like it's inevitable.

"Good evening, Ashbourne." His voice dips low, close enough to stir the flames. "You look... remarkable tonight."

Brilliant. I came dressed for a nightmare and walked straight into a Wattpad slow-burn.

Somebody kill me—or actually, don't.