The wedding

The cathedral was a cavern of white roses and cold stone. Its walls rose high and unforgiving, carved by centuries of wealth, power, and selective devotion. It was one of the oldest churches in the city, a place reserved for the kind of people whose names were etched into plaques and stained glass, whose donations ensured their sins were softened into footnotes. To Mary, it did not feel holy. It felt like a mausoleum beautiful, reverent, and designed to honor the dead.

Every surface was covered in flowers. White roses climbed the pillars in thick, suffocating garlands. Lilies overflowed from marble urns, spilled across the altar steps, lined the pews in precise, symmetrical rows. The scent was overwhelming. It pressed in on her from all sides, sweet and heavy, cloying enough to make her stomach churn. It reminded her of funerals. Of closed caskets. Of rooms where grief had nowhere to go.

Outside, just moments ago, the flashbulbs of the paparazzi had exploded around her like lightning strikes, violent, blinding, relentless. Shouts had followed her name. Cameras had been shoved too close to her face. Hands had brushed her veil as if she were already public property. Inside the cathedral, the doors had closed with a dull, final thud, cutting off the noise and replacing it with something worse.

Silence.

Not peaceful silence. Not reverently quiet. This was the silence of expectation. The silence of a hundred wealthy guests seated in polished pews, waiting patiently to witness a transaction. Waiting to see the girl who had been sold to the highest bidder walk herself to the altar.

Mary stood at the back of the aisle, her gloved hand trembling where it rested on her father’s arm. His grip was firm, possessive, as though he were afraid she might evaporate if he loosened it. The dress weighed her down, layers upon layers of silk and lace pulling at her shoulders until her spine ached. It felt less like a gown and more like a shroud. With every breath, she was acutely aware of how trapped she was inside it.

“Don’t trip,” Silas whispered, leaning closer. His voice cut through her haze, sharp and precise, like a blade pressed against her skin. “And keep that chin up. You look like you’re going to faint.”

Her throat tightened. “I can’t do this,” she breathed, barely audible, the words trembling as badly as her legs.

“You will.” His tone hardened instantly, all pretense gone. “Because if you turn around now, I will ensure you regret every breath you take from here on out.” His fingers tightened on her arm, a warning disguised as support. “Walk.”

The organ began to play.

The sound was immense deep, booming notes that reverberated through the cathedral and settled into her bones.

Silas began to move, dragging her with him. His grip dug painfully into her arm through the silk sleeve, his fingers leaving impressions she knew would bruise. Mary’s feet obeyed even as her mind screamed. One step. Then another. The aisle stretched endlessly before her, lined with white flowers and silent witnesses.

She walked.

She didn’t look at the guests as she passed them. She didn’t see the women appraising her dress, her youth, her future. She didn’t see the men calculating the value of the alliance being sealed before them. She kept her eyes forward, fixed on the dark figure waiting at the altar.

Arthur Sterling.

He stood beneath the towering arch like a monument carved from shadow. His black tuxedo was stark against the sea of white surrounding him, a dark stain at the heart of the ceremony. He was enormous—broad, heavy, immovable. His posture was relaxed, confident, as if he were exactly where he belonged.

He was smiling.

It wasn’t the nervous smile of a groom. It wasn’t joy or affection or even excitement. It was the smile of ownership. Of satisfaction. Of a man who had waited a long time for a delivery and was finally watching it arrive.

Mary’s stomach twisted violently.

When she reached the altar, Silas stopped. For a brief moment, his grip tightened once more, a final reminder of who was orchestrating this. Then he took her hand and placed it into Arthur’s.

The contact was immediate and unbearable.

Arthur’s hand was hot and damp, his grip firm to the point of pain. It sent a jolt of pure, cold revulsion through her body, sharp enough to make her flinch. He closed his fingers around hers and pulled her closer, far closer than protocol required, until she could feel the solid weight of him at her side.

The priest began to speak.

His voice droned on, low and even, rising and falling with practiced cadence. The words washed over Mary without meaning. Honor. Obey. Cherish. They sounded hollow, stripped of truth by the context in which they were spoken. Each word felt like a lie uttered beneath a vaulted ceiling that had heard far too many like it.

“Do you, Arthur Sterling, take this woman—”

“I do.”

Arthur didn’t hesitate. His voice was loud, booming, filling the cathedral and bouncing off the stone walls. There was triumph in it. Certainty. Applause rippled softly through the pews, quickly subdued.

Then came the pause.

A silence heavier than any before.

“And do you, Mary Vance, take this man—”

Mary looked up.

Through the veil, the priest’s face came into focus. He looked bored. Impatient, almost. This was routine for him. Another wealthy union. Another generous donation. Another young woman standing where countless others had stood before her.

She glanced toward the front row.

Her father was watching her intently, his eyes narrowed, his jaw tight. There was no encouragement in his expression. No doubt. Only expectation—and threat.

The silence stretched.

Someone shifted in their seat. Fabric rustled. A camera shutter clicked softly somewhere behind her.

“I…” Her voice caught. Her lungs burned as if she hadn’t breathed in hours. “…I do.”

The words tore at her throat as they left her mouth. They felt wrong. Violent. Irrevocable.

“Then by the power vested in me,” the priest said smoothly, “I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

Arthur moved instantly.

He reached up and flipped back her veil without waiting, without asking, his fingers brushing her face in a gesture that felt invasive rather than intimate. His face loomed inches from hers. Up close, she could see every line etched by age and indulgence, every mark of a life spent taking what he wanted.

Mary squeezed her eyes shut.

Her entire body recoiled as his lips pressed against hers. It was dry, rough, carrying the stale scent of wine and tobacco. It wasn’t a kiss. It was a claim. A demonstration. A public seal on a private ownership.

The cathedral erupted into applause.

The sound crashed over her like a wave, loud and feral, echoing endlessly off the stone walls. It terrified her. It sounded like approval. Like celebration. Like the roar of a predator pleased with the outcome of a hunt.

Arthur’s arm locked around her waist as they turned, his grip unyielding. He pulled her flush against his side, steering her with ease. Mary felt dizzy, breathless, swallowed whole by his presence and the reality settling around her like a tightening cage.

As they walked back down the aisle together, she realized she was no longer walking on her own.

She was being led.

Step by step, through the cheering crowd, toward a life she had never chosen. Toward doors that would open not into freedom, but into another kind of confinement.

She was no longer Mary Vance.

She was Mary Sterling.