Chapter 4: The Wedding Night

The second meeting happens three days later, after I've signed the contract I barely read.

Father insisted I was being "dramatic" and "ungrateful" for hesitating. Mother cried about Elena's future. Elena herself called me selfish for "making this difficult." By the time Friday arrived, I was so exhausted from their emotional manipulation that I signed just to make it stop.

Damien requests this meeting to "discuss logistics." We meet at his penthouse—my first glimpse of where I'll be living in three weeks, after the wedding.

It's stunning. Floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, minimalist furniture that looks like art, everything in shades of white, black, and chrome. Beautiful. Cold. Like a magazine spread where no one actually lives.

"The master suite is mine," Damien says, giving me a tour with the enthusiasm of someone showing a storage unit. "You'll take the guest room down the hall. It has its own bathroom. I've cleared space in the closet for your things."

Guest room. Not even the pretense of sharing space.

"The housekeeper comes on Tuesdays and Fridays. There's a chef on call if you need meals prepared, though I usually eat at the office. You're free to use the kitchen, the gym, the library." He gestures vaguely. "Essentially, the space is yours during the day. I'm rarely home before nine."

"And when you are home?" I ask.

"I'll be in my office or my bedroom. I value solitude after work." He meets my eyes, and for the first time, I see something beyond cold professionalism. Not warmth, exactly, but maybe acknowledgment. "I'm aware this arrangement is unconventional. I'm not trying to make you miserable. I simply need you to understand what this is and what it isn't."

"A marriage in name only," I say softly.

"Exactly." He seems relieved I understand. "Maintain appearances at events, be pleasant to my business associates, don't create scandals. That's all I require."

All he requires. Like I'm an employee, not a wife.

But I nod, because what else can I do? I've already signed the contract. My family has already spent the money. The wedding invitations are already printed.

"One more thing," Damien says as I'm leaving. "Don't fall in love with me."

I turn back, startled. "Excuse me?"

"It's a common mistake in these arrangements. One person develops feelings, expectations change, things become complicated." His expression is carefully neutral. "I'm telling you now—I won't love you. I can't. It's not personal, it's just how I'm built. So save yourself the heartbreak and don't try."

The words should hurt. Maybe they do. But I'm so numb from the past week that I just feel hollow.

"I understand," I hear myself say.

"Good." He opens the door for me. "The wedding is at two PM, St. Catherine's Church. Try to look happy in the photos. My father is particular about image."

---

The wedding happens exactly as planned.

I wear a dress Mother chose—white, expensive, borrowed from a boutique I can't afford. Elena is my maid of honor, stunning in emerald green, already tipsy from the champagne toast. Father walks me down the aisle with a smile that doesn't reach his eyes.

Damien waits at the altar in a black tuxedo, devastatingly handsome and utterly expressionless. When I reach him, he takes my hand out of obligation, not affection. His skin is cold.

The vows are traditional. Love, honor, cherish. We say the words because we're supposed to. They mean nothing.

When the priest says "you may kiss the bride," Damien leans in and gives me the briefest, most perfunctory kiss imaginable. His lips barely brush mine. The guests applaud anyway.

At the reception, he plays his part perfectly—toasts me with champagne, dances the obligatory first dance, smiles for photographs. To everyone watching, we're the perfect couple. Handsome groom, blushing bride, fairy-tale beginning.

I smile until my face aches. Dance until my feet bleed in my too-expensive shoes. Thank guests I don't know for their congratulations on a marriage that isn't real.

Elena gets drunk and loud, laughing with her friends about how lucky I am. "Damien Wolfe! God, I'd marry him in a heartbeat. You better not screw this up."

Mother cries prettily into her napkin, accepting compliments on how beautiful the ceremony was. Father drinks scotch with Damien's father, already discussing business opportunities.

No one asks me if I'm happy.

No one notices that my husband doesn't look at me unless someone's watching.

No one sees me slip out to the terrace at midnight, still in my wedding dress, and cry into my hands while inside the party continues without me.

When I return to the reception, makeup carefully repaired, Damien is checking his phone. He glances up as I approach.

"Ready to leave?" he asks. "We should make our exit. People will expect it."

Our honeymoon is two nights at a hotel suite downtown. Damien insists on it for appearances—his business associates expect a honeymoon, so we'll have one.

We arrive at the suite at one AM. It's gorgeous—romantic, even, with rose petals on the bed and champagne on ice. Someone's idea of what newlyweds want.

Damien sets his suitcase down, loosens his tie. "I'll take the couch. The bedroom is yours."

I stare at him. "It's our wedding night."

"It's a performance, Claire. The performance is over." He shrugs off his jacket. "Get some rest. We'll do breakfast in the hotel restaurant tomorrow morning, let people see us looking happy, then go home."

He doesn't wait for my response. Just grabs a pillow from the bed and settles onto the couch, pulling out his phone.

I stand in the doorway of the bedroom, still in my wedding dress, and realize: This is my life now. This is what I agreed to.

I think about trying to change his mind. About seducing him, or pleading with him, or somehow making him see me as more than a contract he signed. I think about all the romance novels I've read where the cold husband eventually falls for his bride, where love conquers all, where trying hard enough is always enough.

I think: I can make him love me. I just have to try harder. Be better. Be perfect.

I'm wrong, of course.

Five years of marriage will prove exactly how wrong I am.

But on my wedding night, still young enough to believe in fairy tales, I smooth down my dress and whisper to my reflection: "I can fix this. I can make this work."

The woman in the mirror looks so hopeful.

So devastatingly, foolishly hopeful.

I want to reach through time and shake her. Tell her to run. Tell her that no amount of trying will ever be enough for people who don't want to love you.

But I can't.

So I watch her carefully hang up the wedding dress, put on the silk nightgown she bought for a wedding night that won't happen, and climb into the big empty bed alone.

Through the doorway, I can see Damien on the couch, still scrolling through his phone, already having forgotten I exist.

Don't fall in love with me, he'd warned.

I won't, I'd promised.

Another lie I told myself.