Chapter One

Chapter One 

 Soren’s Pov

“You’re joking.”

The words came out flat and clipped, but the silence that followed told me nobody thought it was funny. Not the wedding planner wringing her hands, not the trembling assistant who looked like she might faint. Not even Clara, my sister, who had never been speechless in her life.

“She’s gone,” the planner whispered, her voice cracking like glass under pressure. “Celeste… she’s not coming.”

I stared at her. At the pristine chapel lined with white roses, the chandelier dripping with gold, the flashes of cameras waiting outside. At the hundreds of guests dressed in diamonds, pearls, and ambition.

“She wouldn’t,” I said. It wasn’t hope. Celeste Moreau was many things, vain, spoiled, manipulative, but she was not stupid. She wouldn’t walk away from the deal of the century.

But my sister’s eyes told me otherwise.

“She’s not in the hotel nor in the dressing room, not anywhere.” Clara’s voice softened. “She left, Soren.”

A cold, hollow sound filled my ears. Laughter, except it wasn’t laughter, it was the sharp crack of my father’s voice echoing in memory. “A Knight never loses control. If you can’t control it, you don’t deserve it.”

My hands curled into fists. Around me, the air seemed to collapse, the whispers rising, the weight of humiliation pressing down. This wedding wasn’t just about marriage. It was a merger, it was the board, it was everything I had worked for, standing on the edge of ruin and Celeste had just walked away.

I turned on my heel. My sister called my name, but I didn’t stop. The room, the flowers, the whispers were all suffocating. The walls closed in and all I could hear was my father’s voice, cold and merciless.

Failure.

The hotel bar was too bright and loud. Crystal glasses clinked, strangers laughed, music pulsed through the air. I welcomed it. Noise was better than silence.

“Whiskey. Neat.”

The bartender’s hand hesitated, just for a fraction of a second, before he nodded. They had seen the news already. Good, let them.

The first glass burned down my throat. So did the second. By the third, the burn was gone. Only numbness remained.

I should have been thinking of solutions, controlling the narrative, and calling the press. Find Celeste. But for the first time in years, I didn’t care.

All I could see was the smirk on my father’s face when he found out.

By the time I stumbled out into the night, Vegas lights blurred into a haze of gold and red. Laughter spilled from the casinos. I didn’t know where I was going. I didn't care.

Until I pushed open a door and found myself inside a chapel.

“Stop!”

The shout hit me first, sharp and exasperated. Then a man came into focus, messy dark hair, sharp brown eyes that glittered even under the cheap lights, and a posture that screamed both defiance and exhaustion. He wasn’t in a suit like the rest of Vegas’ wedding victims. He wore a faded jacket and jeans, his shoes scuffed, his jaw tense.

“You can’t do this!” he barked, glaring at the couple standing at the altar.

The bride, a girl barely twenty, clutched the arm of her equally terrified groom. The priest looked lost.

“This is a mistake,” the man continued, running a hand through his hair. “You don’t love each other. You don’t even know each other. This is Vegas. You’ll regret it in the morning.”

The bride sniffled. The groom frowned. The man sighed, muttering under his breath about “idiots throwing their lives away.”

And for some reason, maybe the whiskey, maybe the ache in my chest,I laughed.

The sound made him snap his head toward me. His eyes locked on mine.

“What the hell is so funny?”

I leaned against the pew, lips curling. “You, lecturing them about mistakes, in a Vegas chapel. That’s funny.”

His brows shot up. “Excuse me?”

“Marriage is always a mistake,” I said, the words dripping from my tongue like venom. “It’s just contracts wrapped in flowers. At least they’ll figure it out now instead of twenty years later.”

The bride gasped and the groom sputtered. The priest looked scandalized. But the man, the stranger, his jaw tightened, and fire lit in his eyes.

“You don’t believe in love,” he said flatly.

“Love,” I scoffed. “The most expensive illusion ever sold.”

His lips parted, then curved into something between disbelief and anger. “You’re an ass.”

“True.” I pushed away from the pew, swaying slightly. “But at least I’m honest.”

He stared at me for a long moment. Then, to my surprise, he laughed, not a polite chuckle, not a cruel smirk, real laughter. It was sharp, warm, and alive.

“You’re drunk,” he said.

“And you’re meddling.”

“I’m trying to save them.”

“They don’t want saving. They want to escape.” I tilted my head, meeting his eyes. “We all do.”

The room had gone silent, the young couple slipping away, the priest muttering excuses as he followed. Now it was just us. Two strangers in a chapel, standing on the edge of something reckless.

He folded his arms. “You think you know everything, don’t you?”

“I know enough,” I said.

“Prove it.”

Something in his tone, challenge, dare, cut through the haze of alcohol.

“How?”

“Marry me.”

The words hung in the air, ridiculous, impossible and yet…

My lips curved. “Why not?”

He blinked. “Wait, what?”

“You wanted to stop them from making a mistake,” I said, stepping closer. “So let’s make one ourselves.”

“You’re insane.”

“Maybe.” I offered my hand. “But so are you, if you think you can stand here and lecture me about love and choices and not follow through.”

For a moment, he just stared at me. I expected him to walk away. Instead, his eyes flicked to my hand. His jaw worked and then—slowly, reluctantly—he took it.

The priest reappeared at that exact moment, blinking at us. “You… want to go through with it?”

“Yes,” I said.

“No,” he said at the same time.

We stared at each other. His hand twitched in mine. His lips parted, a protest on his tongue.

And then he whispered, almost to himself….

“God help me.”