The Wedding Night

The Mercer estate was too quiet.

Not the peaceful kind of quiet. The heavy, watching kind.

Amira stepped across the marble threshold, the chill of the floor seeping through the thin soles of her heels. The faint scent of lemon polish and old books clung to the air, blending with something colder—like stone left too long in shadow.

The butler moved ahead, gliding with a precision that made her footsteps sound like intrusions. Her heels clicked too loudly, echoing up the high vaulted ceilings. Along the walls hung oil portraits of stern-faced ancestors. Their eyes seemed to follow her, pale ghosts of a lineage she would never belong to, painted judges assessing a stranger trespassing their halls.

Her chest tightened. It felt less like walking into a home and more like being escorted through the long corridor of a prison.

At last, the butler stopped at a double door carved with dark wood patterns and pushed it open. His voice was steady, but clipped.

“Your room, Mrs. Mercer.”

The word scraped at her. Mercer. It didn’t feel like a name; it felt like shackles snapping into place.

The room was immaculate. White walls. Cream curtains pulled back with gold ties. A bed too large for one person, the covers tucked to military perfection. No photographs. No warmth. Not a single thing that hinted at belonging. Even the gilded mirror seemed to reflect a version of her she didn’t recognize—flawless hair, flawless makeup, flawless gown… and a hollow ache beneath it all.

She turned to ask where Leon was, but the words died on her lips. He was already there, leaning casually against the doorframe, as if he had been waiting. Still in the same tailored black suit, still with those dark glasses shielding his eyes from the world.

“Comfortable?” he asked, voice smooth, detached.

Her throat tightened. “It’s… fine.”

Leon stepped into the room, his cane tapping lightly against the polished floor with each deliberate step. The sound was soft, but it filled the silence. He stopped at the edge of the bed, tilting his head slightly, as though listening for a reaction she hadn’t given him.

“You’ll find that fine won’t get you very far here.”

Her brows knit. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re not here to be comfortable,” he said simply, matter-of-fact, as if stating the weather. “You’re here to play your part. To stand beside me, smile when required, and keep your family name from crumbling entirely.”

Her jaw clenched. “So I’m just… decoration?”

“Not decoration.” His head tilted again, the dark lenses catching the faint light. “A symbol. Symbols are far more powerful. People don’t invest in numbers. They invest in stories. In faces. And right now, you’re the perfect story.”

She folded her arms tightly across her chest, as though bracing herself against his words. “And you? What’s your story, Leon Mercer?”

A pause stretched between them, heavy and deliberate. Then, in a voice that carried no hesitation, he answered:

“The blind widower who rebuilt an empire out of ashes. The man who doesn’t bend to pity. The man who married Marcus Westwood’s daughter and reminded the world he’s still untouchable.”

The words chilled her—not because of their content, but because of how perfectly rehearsed they sounded.

“You sound like a press release,” she muttered under her breath.

“Better than sounding like a scandal.”

Her eyes burned, but she forced them steady. “You don’t know me.”

“No,” he admitted calmly. “But I know enough. You don’t cry in public. You don’t raise your voice. You’ve been trained to perform since birth. Which makes you… useful.”

She swallowed hard, refusing to give him the satisfaction of an answer.

Leon moved closer, the scent of his cologne—a dark, woodsy blend—brushing over her. He placed his cane carefully against the wall, the small sound of wood against plaster sharp in the silence.

“One more thing, Amira.” His voice lowered, colder, edged with steel. “This marriage is not optional. You break it, you embarrass me, you give the press anything to chew on—your family pays. In ways you can’t afford.”

Her stomach flipped. “Is that a threat?”

“It’s reality.” His lips curved, not quite into a smile. “Learn the difference.”

Her chin lifted, defiance sparking through the fear. “I won’t be your puppet.”

His head tilted once more, as if savoring the words. “Good. Puppets are predictable. Queens are far more interesting.”

For a heartbeat, silence pulsed between them. Her pulse skittered, betraying her. He couldn’t see her expression behind those lenses, but somehow she felt stripped bare under his unseen gaze.

Without another word, Leon turned. His movements were too smooth, too precise. Not a stumble. Not a misstep.

Her breath caught in her throat. Blind men weren’t supposed to move like that.

The door clicked shut, leaving her in the vast, empty room.

Amira sank onto the bed, her heart hammering.

---

Dinner was served in a hall large enough to host a ball. A chandelier glittered above the polished table, the silverware gleaming in symmetrical perfection.

And Amira sat alone.

The butler placed a plate before her, bowing slightly. “Mr. Mercer sends his apologies. He is detained in the study."

Her jaw tightened. Of course he was.

The silence pressed in, broken only by the quiet clink of her fork against porcelain. The food was exquisite, art on a plate, but it tasted of dust. Every empty chair was another reminder that she was not a wife but a placeholder, a symbol, an actress in a performance she hadn’t rehearsed for.

Halfway through the meal she set her fork down, appetite gone. Rising, she walked the length of the hall, her footsteps echoing in the cavernous space.