CHAPTER THREE

Damian's POV

She's not the bride.

That was my first thought when the chapel doors opened.

The second?

I'm going to kill someone for this.

She walked like Sienna—same posture, same veil, same dress we picked out together—but it wasn't her. This girl was too rigid, too hesitant, too honest in the way her body moved. With every step, I knew.

She wasn't Sienna Lancaster.

Sienna was many things—a liar, a manipulator, an heiress—but never hesitant.

This girl had fear stitched into her spine.

I clenched my jaw, refusing to look away as she moved down the aisle. Each step screamed, I don't belong here.

And I agreed.

Where was my bride?

My mind wandered, but I didn't show it. She stopped in front of me—chin high, lips painted in defiance. She wasn't trembling. I'll give her that. She stood with elegance, but beneath the shield, I saw the truth.

The priest began speaking—something about vows and eternal love. Like they always do at weddings. But none of it mattered.

My eyes stayed on her. Hers stayed on me.

I leaned in, kept my voice low—just for her.

"You're not Sienna."

To my surprise, she matched my tone, leaning closer.

"And you're not the man I would've chosen."

My brow twitched. She didn't blink.

So, the mouse had claws.

Interesting.

I could've stopped it—right then and there. Called off the ceremony. Torn off her veil and exposed the Lancasters for what they were: frauds, cowards, liars.

But I didn't.

Because this wasn't just a wedding.

This was leverage.

Sienna ran. That was their first mistake. Replacing her with this girl? That was their second.

Now, they owed me.

And I never leave debts unpaid.

The ceremony dragged on.

Words were said. Promises made. A lie presented to me as a bride.

The audience clapped when it ended—some out of politeness, some because they were paid to. I didn't extend my hand. She didn't offer hers. When it was required, we turned to face them together—husband and wife by contract, enemies by instinct.

We rode in silence to the reception venue.

Until she spoke.

"I didn't want this," she muttered, eyes still on the window.

I leaned back, watching her.

"So you just agreed to wear your sister's dress, take her name, and lie in her place. That's worse."

"I didn't have a choice."

"There's always a choice."

She turned to face me fully then—something sharp glinting in her eyes.

"I didn't want this. Believe whatever makes you happy."

"No," I said coldly. "But you will be happy soon."

"What's that supposed to mean?" she blinked.

"It means you signed up for a life you know nothing about. And I don't like surprises."

She laughed—bitterly.

"Oh, trust me. You were a surprise."

I leaned in again, voice low and even.

"Let me be clear. You're not my wife. You're a placeholder. A lie dressed in white, wrapped in pearls that don't fit."

She didn't flinch.

"Good. I'd rather be a lie than belong to a man like you."

She's got nerve.

"You think this is funny?" she asked, voice laced with pain.

I didn't care.

I was deceived.

"I think it's useful," I murmured, drawing even closer.

"For what?"

"For ruining your family."

I smiled.

We arrived at the venue. I opened the door before she could react, offering my hand.

"Come. Spread your lies around the place."

She ignored it—stepped out from the opposite door. I was mortified. The guests pretended not to notice the switch.

The perfect Lancaster image—taped together with desperation and pearls.

I gave them the obligatory smile. The toasts. The photos.

But my fury simmered beneath it all.

I stared at her like a monument I intended to break—and never pay damages for.

"Ladies and gentlemen, let's welcome the bride and groom to the dance floor," someone announced.

I didn't move.

She looked at me. I ignored her. Then I turned—only to find her in the center, dancing alone.

She smiled—fragile and pure—as she stretched her hand toward me.

The crowd clapped.

I walked past her. But she spun toward me and I caught her by instinct. That enraged me more.

We made it to the penthouse by midnight. The wedding was over.

The doors closed behind us with a finality that echoed in my chest like a warning.

She walked ahead, pulling the veil from her head and tossing it onto a chair.

"I'm not sleeping with you."

"You must be sick. You think I want to?"

I laughed once, sharp and cold.

"Good," she said, spinning to face me. "Then don't touch me. Don't talk to me unless you have to. Let's just survive this year and be done."

"Only I give orders around here," I said harshly. "You think this ends in a year?" I scoffed.

"That was the agreement."

"When did we ever make such an agreement?"

A flicker of panic crossed her face—but it vanished quickly.

"It was so with Sienna."

"And you're not her. But you're already mine. And I don't give back what's mine."

"I'm not something you own," she said, her voice tight.

"Too late," I murmured. "The ink's dry. You belong to me now."

She stepped closer, chin lifted.

"Then maybe I'll burn everything you touch."

That made me pause.

For a second, everything stilled.

There was something dangerous in her voice—not Sienna's calculated charm, but something raw. Wild. Untamed.

I leaned in—just inches from her.

"Try it."

My eyes locked with hers.

"Watch me."

Her breath hitched—then she smiled. Sweet, but laced with poison.