Chapter 2

The Wedding Without Love

The dress felt heavy on her shoulders.

Layers of satin and lace weighed Olivia down as if the gown itself understood she was walking into chains.

Voices echoed around the grand cathedral. Guests in glittering jewels filled the pews, their whispers rising like a storm.

“Lucky girl.”

“She’s marrying Nuel Wilson.”

“She’ll never have to worry about money again.”

Olivia kept her eyes on the marble floor, her hands trembling around the bouquet of white roses.

Lucky. That’s what they called her.

If only they knew.

At the end of the aisle, Nuel Wilson stood tall, commanding, untouchable in his black suit. His gray eyes didn’t soften when he saw her.

No smile. No warmth.

Just possession.

Each step Olivia took felt like a nail sealing her coffin.

When she reached him, he didn’t offer his hand.

Instead, he simply nodded, as though confirming a deal had just been delivered.

Her heart sank.

The vows blurred. The priest’s words echoed, hollow and meaningless.

“I do,” Nuel said without hesitation, his voice smooth and controlled.

When it was her turn, Olivia’s throat closed.

The entire cathedral waited.

Her father’s desperate eyes pleaded from the front row.

Olivia swallowed the lump in her throat.

“I… do.”

Applause erupted around them, but Olivia felt nothing but cold.

The kiss was a brush of lips—brief, detached, claiming, not cherishing.

It was done.

She was Mrs. Wilson now.

⸻

The reception hall glittered with crystal chandeliers and golden decor. Laughter and champagne flowed freely, as though it were truly a celebration.

Olivia sat at the long table beside Nuel, her smile painted on like porcelain.

Her fingers dug into her lap beneath the tablecloth.

That was when she felt a shadow lean close.

“Pretty little bride,” a woman’s voice purred, sweet and sharp all at once.

Olivia turned.

A striking woman with dark hair and red lips smiled at her with eyes full of venom.

“I’m Veronica Steele,” she whispered, her smile never faltering. “I used to stand where you are now.”

Olivia blinked. “You…?”

“Oh, yes,” Veronica said, sipping her champagne. “Nuel’s lover. Once upon a time. Don’t get too comfortable, darling. Men like him don’t change. You’re not a wife to him. You’re a placeholder.”

Olivia’s chest tightened.

Before she could respond, Veronica leaned even closer, her perfume sharp and suffocating.

“And when he’s done with you… you’ll wish he had left you at the altar.”

Her words slithered into Olivia’s ears, sinking deep.

⸻

Hours later, in the privacy of the mansion, Olivia finally exhaled.

Her dress was gone, replaced with silk nightwear. But the weight on her chest remained.

Nuel entered the bedroom, his presence filling the space.

He didn’t speak at first, just removed his jacket, loosened his tie, and poured himself a glass of whiskey.

Olivia’s heart pounded.

He finally turned to her, his gaze unreadable.

“Let’s set one thing straight,” he said, his voice low but firm.

She looked up at him, her fingers twisting the edge of her robe.

“You will not expect love from me,” Nuel continued. “This marriage is for business. For survival. Nothing more.”

Her lips parted, but no words came.

His eyes lingered on her, cold and sharp as steel.

“Expect obedience, Olivia. That, and nothing else.”

He set his glass down with a soft clink.

Then he stepped closer, close enough that she could feel the chill rolling off him.

And in the silence of the room, his next words made her blood run cold.

“If you disobey me…”

He leaned down, his lips brushing her ear.

“…you won’t like the consequences.”

The mansion was breathtaking.

White marble floors stretched endlessly beneath chandeliers that glowed like captured stars. Gold accents shimmered on every surface. Each room smelled of fresh roses and expensive polish.

To anyone else, it would have been paradise.

To Olivia, it was a prison.

She stood at the massive window of her new bedroom, staring out at the perfectly manicured gardens. The gates at the edge of the estate loomed like iron bars.

Freedom was so close… and yet impossibly far.

Behind her, the maids flitted about, arranging her clothes, pressing her dresses, whispering in voices too soft for her to catch. She hated how even they seemed to look at her differently now—like she was a queen, when inside she felt like nothing more than a captive.

⸻

Later that afternoon, she was summoned.

“Mr. Wilson is waiting in the dining room,” a maid announced, her head bowed.

Olivia’s stomach tightened.

She followed silently, her soft slippers echoing on the marble steps.

When she entered, Nuel was already seated at the long table. He didn’t rise. He didn’t even look at her at first.

He simply tapped his fingers against the glass in front of him.

“Sit,” he commanded.

Olivia lowered herself into the chair opposite him, her eyes on the untouched food between them.

He finally looked up, his gray eyes sharp.

“You’re my wife now,” Nuel said smoothly. “That means you’ll be expected to carry yourself properly. No scandals. No disobedience. And no… mistakes.”

Her heart thudded. “Mistakes?”

His lips curved faintly. “Don’t worry. I’ll know if you make one.”

She clenched her hands in her lap, heat rising in her cheeks.

This wasn’t a marriage. It was surveillance.

⸻

The next morning, Olivia asked for air.

The mansion suffocated her, each wall pressing in tighter than the last.

She stepped outside into the gardens, the sunlight warm on her skin. For the first time in days, she breathed freely.

That was when she saw him.

A man leaned casually against a sleek black car near the fountain. Tall. Broad-shouldered. His dark hair fell slightly over his brow, and his shirt clung to him in a way that spoke of strength, not luxury.

He looked up, and their eyes met.

For the briefest second, Olivia froze.

His gaze was steady, curious—not cold like Nuel’s.

“Mrs. Wilson,” he said, his voice deep but gentle. He straightened and gave a small nod. “I’m Ethan. Mr. Wilson’s driver.”

Olivia’s lips parted, but words stumbled on her tongue.

There was something disarming about him—something warm in a world that had turned to ice.

⸻

They spoke briefly. Only simple words, polite exchanges. But Olivia felt it—the quiet pull, the comfort in his tone.

It was dangerous.

And she knew it.

But when Ethan smiled faintly before slipping back into the car, Olivia’s chest tightened in a way she hadn’t felt in a long time.

⸻

That night, Nuel entered the bedroom again.

His jacket was off, his tie loosened. He poured himself whiskey, as always, before looking at her.

“You were in the garden today,” he said casually.

Her breath caught. “I—yes. I needed some air.”

His eyes narrowed.

“And you spoke to Ethan.”

Olivia froze.

He hadn’t asked. He knew.

Nuel took a slow sip of his drink, his gaze never leaving her.

Then he set the glass down with a deliberate click.

“Stay away from my staff, Olivia.”

His voice was quiet. Controlled.

But his eyes burned with warning.

And as he stepped closer, his shadow falling over her, she realized—

Nuel Wilson noticed everything.