Married to my Enemy: A Billionaire's Hidden Love

The chapel was cold.

Cold that worked its way under your skin and into your bones, no matter how many clothes you wore.

Asher Collins trembled as he loosened the tight collar of his white dress shirt, his shaking hands.

Not from cold, but from panic pounding against his ribcage.

Today was the best day of his life, it ought to have been — weddings were a celebration of love, weren't they?

Instead, he was standing at the altar with Damien Thorne — the man who detested him, the man he had vowed he would never even kiss, let alone marry.

He couldn't even glance in Damien's direction, not the way the older man stood frozen, chipped from marble, black with anger.

Damien's black business suit was fitting, his broad shoulders wrapped as if molded from a mold, his entire body tense with wrath. His expression was as frosty as the air outside, his jaw set so tightly that it appeared to be about to shatter.

The only sound in the cavernous room was the muffled whisper of the priest clearing his throat.

The dozen or so visitors — if one might even refer to them as such — were nothing short of political vultures.

They hadn't come to see a union of hearts; they came to cement an alliance between two warring empires.

Asher's own family was in ruins — his father's company drowning in debt and litigation.

Damien's family, however, was a bastion of power and prestige, impregnable. except by the scandal Asher's father was threatening to unleash.

It wasn't love that had brought them here.

It was blackmail.

And Asher hated himself for being the pawn caught in the middle.

"I now pronounce you—"

The priest's words receded into the distance in Asher's ears.

He blinked fiercely, forcing the tears burning his eyes back where they belonged — unseeable, unheard.

The flash of the cameras in the corner only made things worse.

Everything about this day was wrong.

Asher's gaze flashed to Damien for a moment.

Their eyes locked.

For a second — for a breath — Asher saw something break through Damien's mask.

Pain? Regret?

It was gone so fast he wasn't even sure if he saw it.

"You may kiss the groom."

The words slammed into Asher like a punch.

A heavy silence descended between them.

The sort that could smother a man alive.

Damien stepped closer, standing over Asher.

He didn't stroke him, didn't even brush his fingers against Asher's cheek like a normal groom would.

Instead, Damien leaned in a little, his lips brushing Asher's in the chilliest, briefest touch possible.

It wasn't a kiss.

It was a war cry.

Asher recoiled, the humiliation burning hotter than any flame.

The guests erupted in shallow, courteous applause.

Asher's mother dramatically dabbed at her eyes with a silk handkerchief; his father beamed like a winner of the lottery.

Asher felt like screaming.

He felt like fleeing.

But instead, he let Damien take his hand — firm, almost bruising — and lead him down the aisle like a convict headed for execution.

---

The limousine had the scent of costly leather and betrayal.

Neither of them spoke as the car drove away from the chapel.

Asher stood in the doorway, as far away from Damien as possible.

He could sense the other man's tension enveloping him like a noose.

At last, Damien broke his silence.

"You'd better do your part, husband," he spat, his tone low and blade-sharp. "Smile when you're instructed. Nod when they inquire as to whether we're in love. I won't have my reputation torn down due to your foolish guilt."

Asher stiffened.

He turned to confront Damien in full for the first time that day.

The man was breathtakingly handsome — dark hair, tempestuous gray eyes, an angled jaw.

A face that could have been sculpted by gods.

And Asher had never hated anyone this much.

"Don't worry," Asher mocked. "I'm as desperate to see this farce through as you are."

Damien's eyes narrowed, but he didn't speak.

The silence returned, thick and dense.

Asher stared out the window, watching the city streaking past in cuts of light.

Somewhere out there, real couples were laughing, holding hands, making promises they actually meant.

Not like him.

Not like Damien.

---

The penthouse Damien brought him to was breathtaking.

Floor-to-ceiling windows framed a glittering view of the skyline.

Marble floors gleamed under the chandeliers, and sleek modern furniture was arranged with cold precision.

It was beautiful.

And completely devoid of warmth.

"This is where you’ll be staying," Damien said coolly, tossing his jacket onto a chair.

"As far as everybody else is concerned, we're head over heels in love. In public, keep your distance."

Asher winced at the words.

This was not a marriage.

It was a prison sentence.

He nodded stiffly and walked to one of the bedroom suites, slamming the door shut behind him.

Only then did he allow himself to collapse onto the bed, burying his face in his hands.

What have I done?

---

Weeks merged into months.

They smiled for gala after gala, hand in hand, their best photographs for the cameras.

Every touch, a performance.

Every glance, a fabrication.

And yet.

There were moments when Asher would catch Damien gazing at him — a look so brutal, so broken, that it left Asher gasping for air.

But when he'd attempt to touch him, Damien would shoo him away again, colder than steel.

It didn't add up.

Damien hated him.

Didn't he?

Then why would his eyes linger at times?

Why did his hand sometimes linger on Asher's a bit too long?

Why, when Asher sobbed himself to sleep, did he sometimes wake up to find the guest room door partially open. like someone had leaned against it, just listening?

It was keeping Asher sane.

Because somewhere, deep beneath anger and pride layers.

He was starting to wonder if hate was the only thing between them.

---

It all went up in smoke one night.

They had just come back from yet another charity event, the cold mask of perfection still in place on their faces.

Asher ripped the bowtie from around his neck, letting it fall on the marble floor.

"I can't do this anymore," he snapped.

"I can't keep pretending for them — for you."

Damien stood across the room, his fists clenched.

"You think this is easy for me?" Damien growled.

"You believe I wanted this wedding? You believe I wanted to be married to a Collins?"

Asher's heart twisted.

"No," he replied quietly. "I believe you wanted revenge."

Damien flinched.

For a moment only.

"I don't know what you're talking about," he said coldly.

But Asher could see it now — the cracks creeping through Damien's armor.

"This has nothing to do with the company," Asher breathed.

"This is about me, isn't it? About how much you despise me for what my family did to yours."

Damien's eyes blazed.

And then, before Asher could react, Damien walked across the room in three furious paces, grabbed him by the shoulders, and pushed him up against the wall.

Asher gasped.

But not from pain.

From the way Damien was looking at him — as though he was both Damien's salvation and his damnation.

"You don't get it, do you?" Damien rasped, his breath hot against Asher's skin.

"I despise you, Asher. I despise that you're kind. I despise that you're beautiful. I despise that you make me want things I shouldn't."

Asher froze, his heart racing against his ribcage.

Their faces were inches apart.

Damien's eyes burned into his — full of anger, grief. and something dangerously close to lust.

"You're my enemy," Damien croaked.

"But God save me. I can't help it."

Then Damien kissed him.

Actually kissed him this time.

It was sloppy, frantic, filled with all the anger and hunger and sorrow of years.

Asher's hands flew up, shoving at Damien's chest — but he couldn't push him away.

He didn't want to.

Because deep down, a treacherous part of him had waited for this.

For Damien.

For them.

---

When at last they parted, gasping, Asher stared up at him, shocked.

"This changes nothing," Damien snarled, his voice rough.

But Asher was not so certain.

Because for the first time since they'd been matched in their arranged marriage, Asher felt something between them that was not cruel or cold.

It was messy and painful and dangerous.

And it was real.