The Billionaire's Karma

Elena

THE SOFT RUSTLE of silk trailed behind me as I walked down the aisle, every step echoing louder than the last in the hollow space of the cathedral. White roses lined the pews, their petals trembling under the weight of perfection. Somewhere up in the choir loft, violins whispered a haunting rendition of Clair de Lune. I used to love that piece.

Now, it just felt like a funeral.

My wedding dress hugged my frame like a whispered promise I didn’t believe in. Satin gloves clung to my fingers, hiding the tremble I couldn't stop. Every eye in the room was fixed on me—some admiring, some envious, and far too many simply curious. But none of them mattered. I only cared about the man standing at the end of the aisle.

Julian Blackwood.

He stood there like a statue carved in arrogance. Sharp suit, sharp jaw, sharp eyes that cut through me. No smile. No warmth. His expression was unreadable, lips pressed into a line as though this was a chore he had to endure between golf and a whiskey tasting.

Our eyes met. I looked for something, anything, in his gaze. He blinked. Nothing.

The priest’s voice was a blur in the background. I barely heard the blessings, the prayers, the pronouncements of eternal love. Julian didn’t even look at me when he took my hand. His palm was cold, fingers barely curling around mine. It felt like shaking hands with winter.

“You may kiss the bride,” the priest announced, his voice full of ceremony, of tradition.

My heart lurched.

Julian leaned in. For one foolish moment, I thought he might kiss me softly, reluctantly, even. But instead, his breath brushed my ear as he whispered, voice low, cold, final.

“This is never going to work. Don’t fool yourself.”

I flinched.

There was no kiss.

A polite smattering of applause rose like weak thunder in the distance. The moment passed, and the world continued pretending everything was fine. My father smiled from the front row, satisfied. The press cameras flashed like strobe lights, capturing a lie in high definition.

I had never felt so humiliated.

As we turned to face the crowd. Husband and wife in name only. I wondered how many people could tell that my heart had just cracked in half.

IT WASN’T ALWAYS like this. Not long ago, I had color in my life. Paint under my nails, the smell of turpentine on my clothes, sketches tucked under my pillow. My world was messy and alive and mine.

Until he took it from me.

“You don’t understand,” I had screamed at him, the walls of the living room closing in. “It was the showcase of the year, Dad. They invited me. ME, on merit. And now they’ve just… ghosted me?”

My father stood by the fireplace, swirling a glass of scotch like he was in a business meeting and not breaking his daughter’s heart.

“Elena,” he said with that insufferable calm. “You’re being dramatic. Art is a hobby. What we’re talking about is your future. Your real one.”

I could barely breathe. “You called them, didn’t you? You had my name removed.”

“I did what I had to do,” he said, unrepentant. “The Carter name is worth something. You parading around with canvases and bohemian friends doesn’t help it.”

“I earned that spot!”

“You’re a Carter first. And you will marry Julian Blackwood. That is the alliance this family needs.”

I stared at him, betrayal burning through my veins like acid. “You sabotaged me so I’d have no choice.”

He didn’t even flinch. “You were always going to marry him. Better you understand your role now rather than after another failed exhibit.”

I left the room that night with my portfolio shredded and my heart bleeding. I didn’t speak to him for three days. But it didn’t matter. The wedding plans continued. The engagement announcements went out. My mother pretended it was all perfectly romantic. And my father went on with his friends on how proud he was that I was marrying into that family.

BACK AT THE reception, champagne glasses clinked like a chorus of forced congratulations. The ballroom glittered in gold and ivory, a thousand flowers blooming for a love that did not exist. I sat beside Julian at the head table, smiling through gritted teeth as guests toasted to our 'bright future.'

Julian didn’t say a word to me. Not even a sideways glance.

Instead, he scrolled through his phone under the table, lips twitching at something on the screen. A text? A joke? A woman?

I didn’t ask. I already knew.

My fork scraped against the porcelain plate. I wasn’t hungry. The lobster tasted like sand, the wine like vinegar. My skin prickled with the weight of all the eyes, watching, wondering.

“Smile,” Julian murmured without looking at me. “You're the blushing bride, remember?”

I turned to him.

His lips curled into a mockery of a smile. “I’m doing you a favor. You get to wear the Blackwood name now. That’s worth more than anything you’ll ever paint.”

The insult hit harder than I expected.

“I didn’t ask for your name,” I whispered. “I wanted a life. You and my father stole that from me.”

Julian finally looked at me then. His eyes, a shade too sharp to be beautiful, glinted with amusement.

“You’re not the first girl to cry about being Mrs. Blackwood,” he said. “But you’re the first one who thought it would be anything else.”

And just like that, I felt the tears threaten behind my lashes—but I didn’t let them fall. Not here. Not in front of them.

Not in front of him.

THAT NIGHT, in the penthouse suite they’d decorated like a page from a bridal magazine, I stood alone at the balcony, wind teasing the edge of my veil. The city stretched below me, full of lights and life and strangers who didn’t care about Carter deals or Blackwood wealth.

I clutched the railing like it might keep me grounded. Somewhere down the block, someone was playing jazz. A saxophone wept a melody that sounded too much like me.

Behind me, Julian poured himself a drink. His tie was undone, shirt half-unbuttoned like he had already shed the performance of husbandhood.

He didn’t come near me. Didn’t touch me. Didn’t even pretend.

“You can have the bedroom,” he said casually. “I’ll take the guest room.”

I didn’t answer.

He sighed, frustrated by my silence. “Look, Elena. This isn’t a fairytale. You don’t have to love me. I don’t have to love you. We just have to look good on paper. So let’s not make this harder than it has to be.”

I turned then, slowly, holding his gaze. “Do you always ruin things this beautifully?”

He blinked. “Excuse me?”

I stepped closer, my voice low. “You don’t just hurt people. You shatter them with style. It’s impressive, really.”

Julian stared at me like he wasn’t sure whether to laugh or argue. In the end, he did neither. He just took his glass and disappeared into the other room, the door clicking shut behind him.

And I was left standing in a dress made for a dream that didn’t exist.