The Wedding day

The morning of the wedding broke like a cruel joke—bright, cloudless, filled with the promise of beauty, 

yet inside me, everything was storm. The sun streamed through the vast windows of the bridal suite, 

turning the ivory silk gown draped across the mannequin into something blinding, holy even. 

But to me, it wasn’t holy. It was a shroud. A cage stitched together by needle and thread, 

a silent declaration that I was no longer mine.

The house was alive with movement. Florists bustled in the hallways carrying bouquets of imported roses. 

Chefs shouted orders in the kitchen as silver trays clattered. Security men in suits whispered into earpieces, 

stationing themselves like shadows at every exit. There was no escape. 

Every doorway was guarded, every hallway watched. Alexander had made sure of it. 

Even here, on what was supposed to be my day, I was a prisoner disguised as a bride.

Maria, one of the older maids who had practically raised me, 

adjusted the pearl pins in my hair with trembling hands. Her eyes shone with tears. 

“You look like a queen, Isabella,” she whispered. “Your mother would have been so proud.”

I forced a smile, though my throat tightened. My mother—

God, how I wished she were here. She would’ve seen through the facade, 

seen how hollow my smile was. She would have told me to run, 

to fight, to choose myself instead of this gilded prison. 

But she wasn’t here. And I was alone. 

Except I wasn’t really alone. Not with Alexander watching. 

Even if I couldn’t see him, I felt him. 

Like a shadow pressed against my skin, like a hand curled around my heart. 

Somewhere in this mansion, he was waiting, counting down the minutes until I would walk down the aisle, 

until I would vow myself to him in front of hundreds of guests, 

until the last piece of me was his.

---

The ceremony was set in the grand cathedral downtown. 

The space had been transformed into something unreal. 

Pillars wrapped in silk, chandeliers dripping with crystals, 

a carpet of rose petals leading to the altar. 

It was beautiful, breathtaking even, 

and yet all I could see were the bars of the cage closing around me.

The limousine ride there was suffocating. My father sat beside me, 

frail but radiant, his pride shining brighter than the morning sun. 

He held my hand in his trembling one. 

“This is a good match, Isabella,” he murmured, his voice weak but warm. 

“Alexander will take care of you. And of Ethan. You’ll never want for anything.”

His words pierced me. If only he knew. 

If only he understood the kind of man Alexander really was—

the hunger in his eyes, the way he used control as both weapon and promise. 

But I couldn’t tell him. Not when he smiled at me as though this wedding 

was the one thing keeping him alive. 

So I nodded, swallowing my pain. “I know, Papa. I know.”

---

The cathedral erupted in gasps when I entered. 

Hundreds of faces turned to me, every eye devouring the sight of the bride in white. 

The organ swelled, filling the air with music, 

and I forced myself to take step after step down the aisle. 

My father leaned heavily on my arm, and together we moved toward the altar, 

toward the man waiting there.

Alexander Knight stood at the end, dressed in a suit as dark as midnight, 

a living portrait of power and command. 

His eyes locked on mine the instant I appeared, 

and the rest of the cathedral fell away. 

I couldn’t breathe under the weight of that gaze. 

It was fire and ice, hunger and claim, warning and vow. 

He looked at me as though he had already stripped me bare, 

as though this ceremony was nothing more than formality. 

To him, I had been his long before today.

When my father placed my hand in Alexander’s, 

I nearly crumbled. His grip was firm, unyielding. 

Possessive. The vows began, 

but I barely heard them over the pounding in my ears. 

Words like “forever” and “obey” and “in sickness and in health” 

floated past me like smoke. 

My lips moved when they told me to repeat, 

my voice shaking as I said the words that sealed my fate.

“I do.”

The cathedral erupted in applause. 

The organ blared. 

But all I could hear was the whisper inside me screaming: 

I don’t. I don’t. I don’t.

Alexander pulled me into his arms for the kiss. 

The world erupted in flashes of cameras, 

gasps and sighs echoing around us. 

But the moment his lips touched mine, 

the facade shattered. 

His kiss wasn’t gentle. 

It wasn’t for show. 

It was a claim, a warning, a promise. 

It was him telling me: you are mine now, and there is no escape.

---

The reception was a blur of glittering chandeliers, 

toasts that meant nothing, and endless congratulations. 

I danced when commanded, smiled when expected, 

laughed when prompted. 

Inside, I was hollow. 

Every time Alexander touched me—

his hand at the small of my back, 

his fingers brushing mine as he raised my glass—

I felt the invisible chains tighten. 

To everyone else, he was a groom doting on his bride. 

To me, he was a captor tightening his hold.

But then I saw Ethan. 

Maria had brought him to the reception for a short while, 

and his little face lit up when he spotted me in my gown. 

“Mama!” he cried, running to me. 

I scooped him into my arms, holding him close, 

burying my face in his soft hair. 

For one blessed moment, the world melted away. 

It was just us, mother and son. 

My reason for enduring all of this. 

My reason for surviving.

But Alexander was there, always there. 

He touched Ethan’s hair, his voice low. 

“Our son looks proud of his mother.”

I stiffened. He said it so easily—our son. 

And though rage burned inside me, 

I couldn’t correct him. 

Not here. Not in front of Ethan. 

So I stayed silent, 

clutching my boy tighter as Alexander’s hand lingered on my back.

---

By the time the night ended, 

I was exhausted beyond words. 

The guests had left, the lights had dimmed, 

and the limousine carried us to the penthouse that was now “ours.” 

I sat stiff and silent, the weight of the gown heavy on my skin. 

Alexander’s presence filled the space, suffocating and electric. 

He didn’t speak, but his eyes told me everything. 

This wasn’t the end of the day. 

It was only the beginning.

When we entered the penthouse, 

I froze. The space had been transformed—

candles flickered on every surface, 

roses draped across the bed, 

champagne waiting on ice. 

The air was thick with expectation, 

with possession. 

The consummation. 

The final seal of the vow. 

My chest tightened. 

I wanted to run, 

to scream, 

to fight. 

But his hand caught mine, 

pulling me into the room, 

his voice low and unyielding.

“There’s no more running, Isabella. 

Tonight, you’re mine. Entirely mine.”

And as the door shut behind us, 

I knew the cage had fully closed. 

The wedding was over. 

But the real story—the war between love, hate, 

desire, and survival—was only just beginning.