The Wedding

The organ started playing.

I froze at the chapel doors, heart hammering against my ribs. The echo of the music felt unreal, like I was watching someone else—someone fragile, terrified—walking down an aisle I never imagined I’d be on.

Hundreds of eyes were on me. Cameras flashed, guests whispered. I tried to hold my chin high, tried to look poised, but my hands shook inside the folds of my gown. Every step forward felt like a betrayal of myself.

And then I saw him.

Adrian Vale. Standing at the altar, sharp as ever. His gaze locked on me—not with warmth, not with affection—but with a cold, piercing intensity that made my chest tighten.

I hated him. I hated him for everything.

And yet… my pulse betrayed me.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t reach out to guide me down the aisle. But I could feel his presence like a magnet, pulling me in despite every fiber of my being screaming to run.

The chapel felt too big. Too silent. Too heavy with expectation. My mother’s face flashed in my mind—pale, trusting me to survive this. My grip on the bouquet tightened until my knuckles went white.

Step by step, I moved forward. Each footfall a struggle between fear, pride, and the inexplicable pull toward the man who had ruined me.

When I reached the altar, Adrian’s eyes held me in place. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. I understood. This was a show of power. A test. A reminder that in his world, he controlled everything—even me.

The officiant’s voice droned, but I barely heard it. I was too busy noticing things I shouldn’t: the curve of his jaw under the harsh light, the subtle tension in his shoulders, the way his lips pressed into a thin line as if he were restraining a thought he shouldn’t share.

Then it happened. The moment that made my knees threaten to give out.

He leaned ever so slightly toward me, just enough for only I to hear.

“You look… fragile,” he murmured, his voice low, smooth, and impossibly close.

I choked back a reaction. Fragile. Not beautiful. Not stunning. Fragile. My first instinct was anger. Then disbelief. Then… a strange warmth I couldn’t name.

“I’m not fragile,” I whispered, barely audible. My voice trembled.

“You are,” he countered softly. “And I intend to keep you standing.”

A shiver ran down my spine. I hated him. I hated this, I hated that I could feel this, I hated that my body betrayed my mind.

The ceremony continued. Vows were said, words repeated, promises made. Words that felt hollow, forced, unreal. My hands gripped the bouquet like a lifeline, but I couldn’t stop noticing him. Every subtle movement, every shift of his stance, every fleeting glance—all of it spoke louder than the words anyone was saying.

When it came time to exchange rings, I froze again. The small, golden band felt heavy in my hand, like the weight of everything I had lost and everything I was sacrificing.

Adrian’s hand was steady when he took mine. His touch was brief, cold, calculated… but it left a spark, a shock that shot straight to my heart. I jerked my hand back slightly, pretending it was accidental.

“You’ll get used to me,” he said, almost conversationally.

I glared. “I won’t.”

He smirked faintly, almost imperceptibly, and the smirk didn’t reach his eyes. His gaze stayed locked on mine, a predator watching prey, testing limits, savoring fear and defiance in equal measure.

The officiant asked if anyone had objections. My stomach twisted. My mind screamed.

“Objection!” someone called from the back.

I turned, my heart leaping. Relief, hope—maybe someone else could save me.

But it wasn’t a friend. It wasn’t a relative. It was a reporter, sneaking a stunt for the cameras. Flashbulbs popped. Gasps filled the chapel.

Adrian’s eyes narrowed. In a single motion, he stepped forward, a commanding presence that silenced everyone.

“Do I look like I need saving?” His voice cut through the murmurs, sharp and cold. The reporter stammered, and the guests shrank back, intimidated by the sheer force of him.

I swallowed. My cheeks burned, not from embarrassment, but from something I didn’t dare name.

He leaned closer, his lips almost brushing my ear. “No one interferes with this. Not with me. Not with you. Not today.”

I shivered—not just from fear, but from the way his words pressed against my skin, carved into my mind.

The rest of the ceremony passed in a blur. I moved on autopilot, reciting words I didn’t believe, hearing vows that felt like shackles. Every step reminded me: this was not a love story. Not yet.

And yet… the air between us hummed with something dangerous. Something forbidden. Something I wasn’t ready to confront.

When the officiant pronounced us husband and wife, applause thundered through the chapel. I forced a smile. I lifted my veil. I looked at him. Adrian Vale, standing there like a king surveying his kingdom, the weight of the contract—and my life—between us.

And then, in a moment that made my heart stop entirely, he whispered again, low and steady, just for me:

“Remember, Victoria… this marriage isn’t about love. But I’ll make sure you survive it.”

The words were meant to reassure—or threaten. Maybe both.

I wanted to scream. To pull away. To deny it.

Instead, my lips parted slightly. My knees threatened to buckle.

I had just married the man who destroyed my family.

And for the first time, I realized… I had no idea what I had really stepped into.