The Wedding Announcement

The next morning, my phone buzzed like it was possessed.

Messages. Missed calls. Notifications from people I barely recognized—or people I had once trusted. I ignored them all. My thumbs hovered over the screen, but I couldn’t bring myself to open any. I didn’t have the energy. I didn’t even have the will.

Then came a knock at the door. Sharp. Insistent.

I froze. Who could it be? No one came to see me anymore—not since my father’s name hit the headlines. Not since he…

I shook my head and tried to push the thought away.

The envelope waiting on the mat was pristine, white, and terrifyingly official. A golden seal stamped on the front gleamed in the morning light like a warning. I tore it open. Inside, a single card:

“The wedding is tomorrow. 6 PM. St. Augustine Chapel. Vale Holdings will cover everything. Attendance is mandatory.”

Mandatory.

The word lodged in my chest like a knife. My pulse spiked.

Tomorrow. The wedding.

I sank onto the edge of my bed, head in my hands. I had no dress. No makeup. No idea how to act like a bride—or worse, like someone who belonged in Adrian Vale’s world.

My apartment felt smaller than ever. The walls seemed to close in, mocking me. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t think. I couldn’t figure out how I was supposed to marry the man who had destroyed my family, who had my mother’s life in his hands, and still… somehow make it look real.

I thought about her—my mother, fragile and pale in the ICU bed, the steady beeping of the monitor a cruel reminder of what was at stake. My mother’s life hung on my compliance. And suddenly, the luxury of pride, the comfort of anger—they were worthless.

I hated Adrian Vale with everything in me.

And yet… a dangerous flutter of something unnameable stirred in my chest.

I barely had time to process it when there was another knock—this time sharper, more confident.

I opened the door.

Adrian Vale.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t apologize for barging into my life—or my apartment. He simply stood there, tall, impossibly put together, like a predator assessing its prey.

“Good morning,” he said, voice calm, measured, but with an edge that made the air itself tense.

I wanted to slam the door in his face. Instead, I swallowed, nodding slightly. My stomach twisted. “What… what are you doing here?”

He walked in as if he owned the space—which, I realized painfully, he probably did. His eyes scanned the room like he was cataloging everything, judging me silently. Then they landed on me, and suddenly I felt exposed, vulnerable.

“You’re not going to the wedding dressed like this,” he said. Flat. Commanding.

I blinked at him. “Excuse me?”

He pulled a black folder from under his arm and placed it on the table. My hands shook as I reached for it.

Inside: plans, schedules, and photos. My dress. My makeup. My hair. Everything arranged as if I were a mannequin to display his control.

“You’ll be ready by 5 PM,” he said, tone final. “Don’t waste my time arguing.”

I wanted to scream. To tell him I hated him, I would never forgive him, I wouldn’t let him control me. But the truth was, I couldn’t. Not if I wanted my mother alive.

I nodded slowly, swallowing the lump that had lodged in my throat.

“Good,” he said, like a predator satisfied with its prey. “I’ll pick you up at 4:30. Be ready.”

And just like that, he was gone.

I sank onto the bed, feeling like a puppet, my strings pulled taut by fear, pride, and something else I wasn’t ready to admit.

The day passed in a blur of panic and preparation. My mind spun with every possibility: what if I tripped down the aisle? What if the reporters found out and ruined me again? What if—God forbid—I actually felt something for him?

By 4:15 PM, I was dressed. The gown was beautiful—too beautiful. Too rich, too perfect. It made me feel like a stranger in my own skin, like someone else was playing the part of Victoria Reyes while I watched helplessly.

And then came the car. Black, sleek, waiting outside like a statement of power.

He was already there when I stepped outside. Suit sharp, expression sharper. His eyes caught mine, and for a second, I saw something I wasn’t prepared for—a flash of… amusement? Interest? It was impossible to tell.

“Come on,” he said simply. His hand didn’t reach for mine, didn’t need to. I followed anyway.

The ride was quiet. Tense. Every stoplight, every turn, every honk of a horn seemed amplified in the confined space. I wanted to say something, anything—but words felt useless.

When we arrived at St. Augustine Chapel, I froze. Hundreds of people were gathered. Flashing cameras. Reporters. Guests in designer suits and gowns. They whispered my name, stared at me. I felt naked, exposed, humiliated.

And Adrian? He stepped beside me, calm, controlled, untouchable.

The air between us crackled. I hated him. I hated that he made me feel so small. And yet… I couldn’t deny it: I was noticing him more than I wanted to. The sharp line of his jaw. The dangerous glint in his eyes. The way he didn’t just command the room—he owned it.

I wanted to run. But I couldn’t.

I was standing there, about to walk down the aisle, about to marry the man who destroyed my family…

And my heart refused to obey reason.