Chapter 5

“Some vows are spoken by the lips, but whispered differently by the heart.”

The sound of church bells was supposed to be beautiful.

But to Evan Monteverde, it felt like the slow toll of a prison gate closing.

He adjusted his tie for what felt like the hundredth time, his reflection staring back from the mirror — neat, composed, emotionless. He had practiced that look for years. The look that said: “I’m fine. I’m in control. I don’t care.”

“Sir, the car’s ready,” his assistant said quietly.

Evan nodded, brushing a speck of lint from his sleeve. “Let’s get this over with.”

He didn’t hate Arielle Santos.

In fact, he barely knew her.

She was simply… the cost of peace. The price to pay for silence — his father’s silence, the board’s approval, the family’s reputation.

"Marry her, and everything stays in order."

That’s what Arthur Monteverde had said.

And Evan had learned long ago that in their family, love was a luxury no one could afford.

The church was full. Every seat occupied, every camera waiting.

A performance masked as a sacred ceremony.

Evan stood at the altar, jaw tight, shoulders straight.

He could feel every stare — investors, politicians, socialites, all here to witness a merger disguised as matrimony.

“Relax,” his cousin Marco whispered beside him. “You look like you’re attending a funeral.”

Evan gave a humorless smile. “Aren’t I?”

The music began.

The massive doors creaked open.

And there she was.

Arielle Santos — walking down the aisle, light catching the crystals of her gown, veil floating behind her like a whisper. Her steps were small but steady. Her eyes, though glistening, were calm — too calm for someone about to surrender her freedom.

Evan didn’t know why, but his breath caught.

She looked fragile, yes. But there was something else — a quiet defiance beneath the softness.

She wasn’t the kind of woman who fought with words or fire.

She fought by enduring.

When she finally reached him, she hesitated for a fraction of a second before placing her hand in his. Her skin was cold.

His wasn’t any warmer.

The priest’s voice echoed faintly through the cathedral.

Words about unity, destiny, and God’s will filled the air like distant thunder.

Evan kept his eyes on Arielle, studying her profile beneath the veil. She was staring straight ahead, lips pressed together. Every once in a while, her fingers twitched — a small tremor of nerves she tried to hide.

He wanted to look away, but couldn’t.

When the priest said, “Do you, Evan Monteverde, take Arielle Santos to be your lawfully wedded wife…?”

He paused. Just for a moment.

His father’s gaze burned from the front pew.

The cameras waited.

The silence thickened.

“I do,” he said finally, the words sharp and cold, like glass.

Arielle turned her face toward him, meeting his eyes.

There was no anger there. No hatred.

Just quiet understanding — as if she already knew he didn’t mean it.

When it was her turn, she spoke softly.

“I do.”

And somehow, her voice felt heavier than his ever could.

The ring slipped onto her finger easily.

Simple. Gold. Cold.

She took his hand next, her touch trembling slightly as she slid the band over his knuckle. Her gaze flickered upward, meeting his — a storm hidden behind calm eyes.

Then came the words everyone waited for.

“You may now kiss the bride.”

He leaned in, hesitating just long enough for her to notice.

Their lips barely touched. A fraction of a second — polite, distant, hollow.

The crowd erupted in applause. Flashbulbs went off.

The perfect illusion captured forever.

Evan stepped back, his expression unreadable.

But inside, something twisted. Not guilt — not yet — but something close to discomfort.

At the reception, everything sparkled — chandeliers, champagne, laughter that felt too loud, too bright. Evan moved through it all like a ghost wearing a groom’s suit.

He said the right words, shook the right hands, and smiled when expected.

Arielle did the same — a perfect counterpart in this elaborate lie.

They were both actors trapped in the same scene.

At one point, while cutting the cake, their fingers brushed. Arielle flinched slightly, withdrawing her hand too fast.

Evan noticed.

“You don’t have to act so afraid,” he murmured quietly.

“I’m not afraid,” she replied, eyes fixed on the cake. “Just tired.”

He didn’t know why, but her honesty stung.

Later, during the first dance, he placed his hand on her waist. Her body was stiff, distant.

He leaned closer. “You can relax. I won’t bite.”

Her lips curved slightly — not a smile, but close. “That’s not what I’m worried about.”

He almost laughed. Almost.

She had fire, hidden beneath all that calm. He hadn’t expected that.

As they moved slowly across the floor, their eyes met — two strangers locked in rhythm, surrounded by people who thought they knew their story.

For the first time that night, Evan wondered what she was thinking.

Was she counting the seconds until this was over, like he was?

Or was she silently hoping for something real to spark?

He’d never know.

Because when the song ended, she stepped back and gave him a polite nod before walking away — leaving him standing in the center of the ballroom, applause fading into a blur.

Hours later, when the guests were gone and the lights began to dim, Evan found himself outside the hotel balcony, staring at the city lights.

His jacket hung loosely over his shoulders, his ring cold against his skin.

“She’s not what I expected,” he muttered to himself.

“Who?” a familiar voice asked.

He turned. It was Arthur, his father, holding a glass of brandy.

“Arielle,” Evan said quietly.

Arthur smirked. “You don’t need to expect her. You just need to keep her happy. Appearances, son — that’s all that matters.”

Evan looked away. “You really think happiness can be faked forever?”

Arthur’s tone hardened. “Everything can be managed, Evan. Even hearts.”

Evan said nothing. But inside, a quiet rebellion stirred — small, fragile, dangerous.

When he finally returned to their suite, Arielle was already there — sitting by the window, her veil folded neatly beside her, the city lights reflecting in her eyes.

“You’re still awake,” he said.

She didn’t look at him. “Hard to sleep when your life just got rewritten.”

He slipped his watch off, setting it on the table. “We’ll make this work, for both our families. Nothing more. Nothing less.”

She turned to face him then, her gaze steady. “I know the deal, Mr. Monteverde. You don’t have to remind me.”

Something in her tone — calm yet cutting — made his chest tighten.

He nodded slowly. “Then let’s keep it simple. No expectations. No complications.”

“No love,” she finished softly.

Evan looked at her — really looked — and for a second, the weight of those words hit him harder than he wanted to admit.

“No love,” he echoed.

She gave a small, tired smile. “Then we’ll get along just fine.”

That night, as he lay awake on one side of the bed, he listened to the quiet rhythm of her breathing.

Somewhere between duty and exhaustion, something shifted — a strange awareness of the woman sleeping a few feet away.

He didn’t understand it. He didn’t want to.

But for the first time, the silence between them didn’t feel empty.

It felt... waiting.

And though his vows had been cold, somewhere deep inside him —

a part he’d long buried — whispered softly,

*“Maybe one day, I will mean it.”*