Chapter 10: The Wedding Day

POV: IVY

The moment the wedding music began, I realized that everyone in the room was celebrating a marriage built on a lie.

I woke long before the sun broke through the autumn fog, the quiet hours of dawn stretching out like an endless, suffocating hallway. By six o'clock, the private bridal team sent by Evelyn arrived, a sharp group of makeup artists, hair stylists, and personal dressers who had worked with Gemma for years. They brought massive leather trunks filled with cosmetics, hair extensions, and styling tools, treating me not as a person, but as a doll that needed to be sculpted into the exact image of my twin sister.

Evelyn supervised every single detail from a velvet armchair in the corner of my room, her arms crossed over her chest, her dark eyes tracking every movement.

“Lift your chin,” Evelyn instructed sharply as the lead stylist swept a heavy layer of liquid foundation over my skin. “Gemma has a sharper jawline when she smiles. Make sure the contouring reflects that.”

Every brushstroke felt heavy, a deliberate erasure of my own face. When the stylist moved to my neck, she applied a thick layer of opaque medical concealer over my collarbone before dusting it with setting powder. Then, she fastened the heavy, multi-strand diamond choker tightly around my throat, burying the faint, crescent-shaped birthmark deep beneath layers of ice-cold metal and jewels.

Next came the gown. The white silk and handmade lace fit my frame like a second skin, hugging my waist and sweeping across the floor in a cloud of pristine tulle.

Finally, the stylist stepped back and gestured toward the full-length gilded mirror.

I stood up slowly and walked toward my reflection. Staring back at me wasn't Ivy. The honey-brown curls, the perfectly shaped eyebrows, the haughty slope of the nose, and the designer veil cascading down my back belonged entirely to Gemma. The resemblance was so chillingly precise that even I felt a momentary vertigo, wondering if my real face had ever existed at all.

Yet, as I looked into those painted eyes, I didn't feel like a bride. My heart was completely hollow, my pulse drumming a frantic rhythm against my ribs. I felt like an actress standing backstage, about to step onto a stage where a single false line could destroy everything.

“You look the part,” Evelyn said, standing up and smoothing her emerald-green designer dress. “Do not forget your lines.”

Four hours later, the private limousine rolled up to the grand cathedral downtown.

The venue was breathtaking, a towering historic chapel adorned with thousands of white orchids and glowing candles, rented out entirely to keep the media at a safe distance while accommodating high-society elites, corporate partners, and family friends.

As the heavy oak doors at the back of the chapel swung open, the soft murmur of the gathered crowd hushed. My father stood beside me, his arm rigid as he offered it for me to hold. He didn't look at my face; he was entirely focused on keeping his posture upright and looking like the proud father of a high-society bride.

“Don't trip,” he muttered under his breath as the organist struck the first heavy chords of the processional march.

We stepped out into the aisle.

The sea of faces blurred into a glittering mosaic of diamonds, expensive suits, and staring eyes. Camera flashes flickered from the press box at the back, capturing every step. People smiled, whispered, and applauded softly as I passed.

“She looks stunning.”

“The Sterling merger of the year...”

“Gemma is glowing.”

Every congratulation stabbed at my conscience like a needle. I kept my chin tilted up, maintaining the cool, elegant smile I had practiced for hours in the mirror, playing my sister's role with terrifying perfection.

And then, standing near the altar under the soft amber light of the stained-glass windows, I saw him.

Michael Sterling.

Up close, the photograph on my nightstand hadn't done him justice. He wore a custom-tailored charcoal tuxedo that accentuated his broad shoulders and commanding stature. His dark hair was combed back sharply, and his striking, stormy gray eyes were fixed directly on me as I walked toward him.

There was no warmth in his expression, no nervous excitement, and no hint of a smile. His face was a mask of cold, controlled discipline, as if he were standing on a corporate stage closing a hostile acquisition rather than marrying his wife.

My father placed my hand into Michael’s.

Michael’s skin was warm, but his grip was firm and dry. His gray eyes swept over my face with intense, analytical scrutiny, lingering for a fraction of a second on my eyes before shifting away. For a terrifying heartbeat, I thought he saw through the disguise, that he recognized the subtle difference in the way I held my breath. But then he turned his gaze forward toward the officiant.

The ceremony moved with dizzying speed.

The vows were traditional, rigid, and devoid of personal sentiment. When the time came to exchange rings, Michael slid a heavy platinum band encrusted with flawless diamonds onto my finger. It fit my hand with eerie precision. I repeated the vows in a clear, steady voice that didn't betray the earthquake happening inside my chest.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife,” the officiant declared. “Groom, you may kiss the bride.”

The applause from the congregation swelled around us like a crashing wave.

Michael lifted my lace veil, folding it back over my crown. He stepped closer, his tall frame blocking out the rest of the world. His gaze remained cold and indifferent as he leaned down to press his lips against mine.

It was a brief, purely performative gesture meant for the camera, cool, detached, and utterly empty of affection.

Just as his lips brushed mine, and before he pulled back to face the cheering crowd, he tilted his head down. His breath brushed against my ear, his voice dropping into a low, razor-sharp whisper that only I could hear above the applause:

“Let’s get this over with. I have no intention of pretending this marriage is anything more than business.”