CHAPTER 2: THE UNLIKELY MARRIAGE

The cathedral glistened under the late afternoon sun, its stained-glass windows casting kaleidoscopic reflections across the red carpet that stretched from the doors to the altar. The air was thick with perfume, whispers, and the clicks of designer heels. Outside, a fleet of luxury cars and SUVs lined the street as paparazzi clamored for the perfect angle.

Eva had never worn lipstick before.

Now, in the backseat of a Rolls-Royce Phantom, she sat silent as a beauty artist dabbed a rose-gold shimmer on her lips, completing the transformation. Her veil was pinned into her hair, her bare shoulders dusted with glimmering powder. The air inside the car smelled of Chanel No. 5, leather, and quiet dread.

“She’s here!” someone gasped.

The bride stepped out.

“Breathe,” her makeup artist said gently. “You're the bride. Today, the world is watching you.”

Eva only nodded.

If only they knew they were watching the wrong girl.

Eva’s veil was long enough to drag shadows behind her. Her gown a custom Elie Collen piece meant for her sister felt like a costume on her skin. Every step toward the altar felt like betrayal. The cameras flashed mercilessly, her face hidden beneath lace and layers, as influencers narrated the moment live to their millions of followers.

Inside the cathedral, Jeremi Moretti, the groom, stood tall, emotionless. A billionaire by thirty-two, heir to a legacy steeped in politics and pharmaceuticals, he was the type of man whose presence alone could silence a room.

He hadn’t glanced back as she walked the aisle.

Not once.

Not even when she finally stood beside him, trembling, with hands that had once held rosaries, now clutching a man’s hand in false matrimony. Jeremi Moretti didn’t smile when she reached him.

He only looked at her.

His gaze was cold, piercing, unreadable like a man accustomed to lies, and prepared to live with them.

"You’re late," he whispered, barely moving his lips.

“I came,” she replied, her voice steady.

He turned back toward the priest.

“Dearly beloved,” the officiating priest began, “we are gathered here today...”

As the priest spoke, Eva’s mind floated somewhere between reality and ritual. Every line of scripture twisted her insides. She thought of the convent, of mornings spent kneeling in quiet prayer, of the vow she’d made not to a man, but to God.

And now, here she was. Swapping one altar for another. One silence for a louder one.

The guests were smiling, murmuring approval. Influencers live-streamed the moment, hearts and reactions bursting across screens.

She repeated her vows, lips trembling. The ring slid onto her finger. Gold. Cold. Too heavy.

Then came the moment that made her entire body lock.

Eva felt her knees wobble. Her vow of silence at the convent had been broken yesterday. Her vow of chastity being challenged today.

The ceremony went on, dripping with formality, tradition, and cold elegance. Influencers whispered commentary, filming their faces, lip-reading the bride’s responses. The congregation seemed less like witnesses and more like spectators waiting for something to go wrong.

“You may now kiss the bride.”

The words thundered in her ears. A cheer rose from the pews. Jeremi turned toward her. Slowly. Deliberately.

Their faces inches apart. He didn’t move. Neither did she.

He leaned in just enough for the cameras. The crowd was on its feet now eager to see the passion, the love, the I*******m moment.

Eva’s heart raced.

“Don’t faint,” he murmured.

“I might,” she whispered.

Then, just as the crowd leaned in he pressed his lips to her forehead. Not her mouth.

Just the slightest touch intimate, but distant.

The crowd gasped in confusion. Then clapped. Then erupted in louder applause, mistaking the move for romantic restraint. But inside, Eva knew the truth.

He didn’t want her. She didn't want him too. He didn’t kiss her lips because this wasn’t love. It wasn’t even a marriage. It was a transaction.

And somehow as much as she was glad, she realized, that was more humiliating than being exposed.

As they turned to face the audience, hands locked, smiling for the cameras,  Jeremi whispered:

"You're lucky I hate scenes."

So was she.

For now.

                                             ********

The door closed with a soft thud behind them.

The world outside, with all its flashes and noise, faded into a muffled blur the moment the bulletproof Rolls-Royce pulled away from the cathedral steps. The air inside was quiet, too quiet except for the gentle hum of the engine and the soft clink of champagne glasses nestled in the crystal tray.

Eva sat to his right, close enough that her gown brushed against his tuxedo. Their hands lay side by side on the cream leather seat almost touching. Almost.

Between them, a bottle of Dom Pérignon Rosé, already chilled, rested in a platinum ice bucket. Across from them, the Rolls-Royce's fireplace flickered yes, a fireplace in a car its orange glow reflecting in the mirrored panels above.

Eva kept her eyes forward, careful not to let her gaze fall on his profile. But she could feel him.

His presence filled the space like a forcefield. His posture was relaxed, one arm draped lazily along the back of the seat behind her, the other resting on his knee. It was the kind of closeness that would’ve seemed romantic to anyone looking in.

From outside, they were the perfect couple. Inside, they were strangers trapped in an exquisite cage.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Jeremi said finally, breaking the silence, “but I instructed the driver to take the longer route through Central Park.”

Eva turned her head slightly. “Of course.”

His eyes flicked to her. “You’ve always liked the trees. Or… i mean i did a bit of research about you?”

The moment hung like smoke. Eva didn’t respond.

He poured a glass of champagne and offered it to her. She accepted, her fingers brushing his, soft and warm. A gesture for the camera that wasn’t there. She took a sip, the bubbles stinging her throat more than the silence.

Outside, the city blurred into gold and silver streaks as they coasted past Fifth Avenue.

Inside, he leaned closer again, not out of love, but for the pose. His hand rested behind her neck, thumb brushing gently beneath her veil as if to fix it. The chauffeur saw it in the mirror and smiled discreetly.

Affection.

Elegance.

A dream.

But Eva sat still, her heart pounding like war drums beneath the silk and lace. Every breath she took felt measured. Every movement choreographed for a lie. Jeremi finally pulled his hand away.

“Tonight,” he said, voice cool and clipped, “we smile. We toast. We dance once. Then, you go to your wing. I go to mine. No drama. No surprises.”

Eva nodded once. He raised his glass, as if to seal the contract.

She clinked hers against it.

Cheers to their beautiful deception.