Vows With Conditions

The wedding was too flawless. Everything was curated to dazzle—not for joy, but for control. As if grandeur itself could serve as a leash.

Gold and ivory ruled the color scheme, whispering wealth in every fold and petal. Chandeliers loomed overhead like jeweled constellations, casting light upon white roses arranged in symmetrical submission. Even the guests looked manufactured—faces tightened by procedure, expressions trained for cameras, and movements rehearsed like a play no one dared challenge.

I felt more like a pawn than a bride. The gown they draped on me cost more than a car, stitched by hand in a European house that hadn’t dared ask what I wanted. Pearls clung to my neck like obligations. Even my heels—made to elevate—felt like shackles.

The aisle stretched before me like a contract. Every step forward was another signature. Every glance from the crowd, another witness.

And he stood there at the altar—tall, poised, unreadable. Elias Callum Fenwick. The son of legacy. The image of power. The embodiment of disdain.

I knew his reputation. Cold, brilliant, ruthless. I had memorized it in boardroom dossiers, not love letters.

Our families claimed it was fate. Two empires, one union.

But... I knew better. It was a strategy.

We were to marry to fulfill a clause buried beneath generations of wealth, something about inheritance, conditions, and influence.

I didn't even remember the exact phrasing. Only the outcome.

No love. No choice. No escape.

The priest began the vows. His voice echoed too loudly in the gilded room.

I spoke with measured elegance, every word cutting through my mouth like glass wrapped in silk. “I, Kellynne Mea Morleigh, take thee, Elias Callum Fenwick, to be my wedded husband...”

I paused. Just for a heartbeat. To remember who I was. To gather whatever fragments remained of the girl who once believed in affection.

“…to have and to hold from this day forward, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer…” my voice did not waver. But my soul did.

Fuck this.

“…in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death do us part.” the moment the last words left my lips, I saw it.

The tightening of his jaw. A small, restrained flinch—nothing the audience would catch. But I did.

His silence was louder than applause.

Damn it. Did he think he was the only one who hates this?

Later, inside the suite reserved for newlyweds, luxury mocked everyone from every corner. The room smelled like roses and secrets. But… it wasn’t romantic.

He tossed his jacket onto a chair, undid his cuffs with indifference, then muttered, “Fuck this,” with quiet rage.

I blinked. The phrase wasn’t new—he’d said it so many times during the ceremony, under his breath, behind stiff smiles. But now, it landed differently. 

Now that we’re alone.

Why he’s not saying that earlier? Then maybe the wedding shouldn’t have gone through at all.

Out of nowhere, he moved toward me. I flinched instinctively, backing into the edge of the bed. “What are you doing?!”

He smirked. It was arrogant. Empty. Controlled.

I barely had time to react before he leaned in and kissed me—firm, unapologetic, hollow. It wasn’t affectionate. It wasn’t romantic. It was strategic. I felt it instantly.

I know, he wanted to mark me. To prove something. To present a show for the public eye. A photo op waiting to happen. A moment meant to broadcast intimacy for the sake of political optics.

The kiss bruised my soul, not my lips.

I didn’t kiss him back. I couldn’t. I didn’t fight either. My body had gone rigid, heart trying to shrink itself out of existence.

When he pulled away, his eyes fell to my neck. He tilted his head slightly and said flatly, “No one will suspect anything now.”

It wasn’t cruel. It was a calculation.

He did it because everyone expects us to make love. To… have sex since this is our first night.

But hell. What the fuck? He can just kiss me without being rough or… harsh!

“Fuck you,” I said angrily.

Then he turned and walked toward the bathroom, ignoring me. The door clicked shut. No apology. No hesitation.

Only silence remained.

My knees trembled. My hands ached to claw something. My pride wanted to scream, but nothing came.

That was when the tears finally fell. Not loud. But sharp. Like glass breaking under velvet.

I didn't just lose freedom that day. I lost something harder to define. Something deeper than autonomy. I lost the illusion that I could control the terms of my own suffering.

And from that moment forward, my vow became real. Not to him. But to myself.