Chapter 2: The Contract of Hearts

The wedding of Celeste Montaire and Arrow De La Vega was not a celebration, it was a spectacle, a carefully orchestrated performance for the world’s richest eyes. Paris had never felt more like a stage, and Celeste had never felt more like a prop.

Notre-Dame’s bells tolled over as cameras flashed and reporters shouted their names. “The Marriage of Empires,” the headlines proclaimed. In every photo, in every whispered commentary, they were sold as a love story.

But their vows were nothing more than weaponized promises.

Celeste stood at the entrance of the cathedral, fingers trembling beneath her lace gloves. The veil draped over her face felt less like fabric and more like a net. She hated feeling trapped – hated even more that this time, she had walked into the trap willingly.

Because she hadn’t been given a choice.

Her father’s threats still rang in her ears.

You will save this family.

The organ blasted through the cathedral, and the doors opened. She stepped onto the aisle, every step echoing like a countdown. Gasps rippled through the guests – Celeste was breathtaking, a porcelain queen sculpted from anger and heartbreak.

But none of them saw the cracks beneath her flawless surface.

At the altar stood Arrow De La Vega. Impeccable. Controlled. A man sculpted from restraint. His dark suit fit him like armor, his expression cold enough to freeze the candles around him.

Their gazes met.

For one charged second, something unspoken flickered between them – resentment, maybe. Sympathy, perhaps. Something heavy, something mirrored.

Then it was gone.

The priest’s voice droned on. The vows were exchanged. Their hands brushed, cold against cold. And when the time came to seal the ceremony, Arrow placed a barely-there kiss on her lips – brief, hollow, mechanical.

Flashbulbs roared. The crowd cheered. A kingdom applauded the union of two empires.

But Celeste felt hollow.

The reception was an opulent battlefield.

Crystal chandeliers bathed the ballroom in warm light, violins played melodies too soft to be real, and champagne flowed like liquid gold. Guests toasted to their “love” while Celeste felt every stare pinning her down like a butterfly in a glass box.

Arrow stood beside her with maddening composure, answering congratulations with polite nods. He was the perfect groom. The perfect heir. The perfect prisoner.

When the first opportunity came, Celeste escaped onto the balcony overlooking Paris. The night wind sliced through her silk dress, cooling her heated skin. She finally let her shoulders drop.

It didn’t last long.

“You’re quite good at disappearing,” Arrow’s voice murmured behind her.

Celeste didn’t turn. “I’ve had practice.”

He stepped beside her; fingers tucked into his pockets. “Our families are waiting. The photographers too.”

“Let them wait,” she said, voice tight. “I’m not on their payroll.”

He studied her. “You’re angry.”

She let out a bitter laugh. “You think?”

“Look,” he said quietly, “I know this isn’t ideal for either of us. But we need to survive the first night without killing each other.”

Her jaw clenched. “I’m not your enemy.”

“And I’m not your captor.”

“Could’ve fooled me,” she snapped. “Contracts? Press tours? Fake kisses? You’re just as complicit.”

His expression hardened. “I didn’t write the rules.”

“No,” she shot back, “but you’re awfully comfortable following them.”

He inhaled sharply, and for a moment she thought he’d argue. Instead, he reached into his jacket and handed her a leather folder.

“What’s this?” she asked, suspicious.

“The real rules,” he said. “The ones you weren’t shown.”

Her stomach tightened as she opened the folder.

Inside were pages of crisp white parchment bound in gold edges.

MARRIAGE CONTRACT – PRIVATE & BINDING.

Prepared by Montaire–De La Vega Legal Division.

Her pulse quickened.

“Why didn’t my father show me this?” she whispered.

“Because he didn’t want you to know the terms weren’t just his,” Arrow said. “Our fathers planned every line before we even met.”

She turned the pages.

Clause One: Appear together at all essential business events.

Clause Two: Maintain the image of a harmonious marriage.

Clause Three: No involvement in each other’s corporations.

Clause Four: Divorce may be requested after one year – if all conditions are met.

She scoffed. “At least one year of prison instead of a lifetime.”

“Keep reading.”

She flipped to Clause Five, and froze.

Her breath left her body.

CLAUSE FIVE – THE EMOTIONAL CLAUSE

Should either party fall in love with the other, the marriage contract becomes void. All shares revert to the spouse who does not harbor emotional attachment.

Celeste stared, stunned.

“This is insane.”

Arrow nodded. “Agreed.”

“They wrote this?” she demanded. “Our fathers created a clause where love is literally punished?”

“Yes.”

She laughed, a broken, stunned sound. “So, if I fall in love with you, I lose everything.”

“And if I fall in love with you,” Arrow added quietly, “I lose everything.”

Their eyes locked.

In that moment, the cruelty of their fathers crystallized.

Emotion was forbidden. Affection was dangerous. Love was a liability.

Celeste clenched the folder. “They turned marriage into a landmine.”

Arrow’s voice was low. “They want us to stay business partners, nothing more. No heart. No attachment.”

Her anger simmered under her skin. “What if both parties fall in love? What then?”

A faint, sarcastic smile touched his lips. “Then both lose.”

“And the empires win,” she breathed.

“Exactly.”

For a long moment, neither spoke. The Eiffel Tower sparkled behind them, too beautiful for the ugliness unfolding in their world.

Celeste stepped closer, her voice sharp as a blade. “I will never fall in love with you.”

Arrow didn’t flinch. “Good. I have no interest in love either.”

“Then we understand each other,” she said, chin lifting.

“We do,” he replied. “And we stay on our side of the line.”

She closed the folder deliberately. “Fine. One year. I play the perfect wife. You play the perfect husband. Then we go our separate ways.”

His jaw flexed. “Just… don’t trust them. They will try to provoke something. Conflict. Scandal. Emotion. Anything to tip the scales.”

“Let them try,” Celeste said. “I don’t break easily.”

“Neither do I.”

Their eyes met, two storms clashing silently.

Something inside Celeste shifted. Not warmth. Not softness. But the beginning of understanding.

Enemy. Ally. Prisoner.

Maybe he was all three.

“Let’s get this farce over with,” she said.

Arrow extended his hand to escort her back into the ballroom. “After you, Mrs. De La Vega.”

She took his arm.

They walked back into the lights together – two beautiful, dangerous liars performing a flawless illusion.

And in that moment, Celeste vowed something dangerous:

If this was a game… She would learn every rule. Break every trap. And beat every man who thought they could control her.

Even if one of them was her husband.