The Wedding

POV: Amelia

The clock was ticking down the three days until my wedding. Three days to turn a loyal employee into a believable husband. Adrian had moved into the penthouse that evening. The transition was jarring. One minute he was a discreet bodyguard; the next, he was my fiancé, standing in a walk-in closet the size of my old apartment. The distance between us, however, was still a mile wide.

I found him in the dressing room. "The wedding is in three days," I informed him, my tone rigidly professional. "We will have a small ceremony, invite the judge, and keep it private. You will wear this." I indicated a tuxedo that cost more than his annual salary.

"Three days?" he asked, his voice flat. "That's fast."

"The court isn't patient," I snapped. "We need to look convincing. Tonight, we rehearse the story."

An hour later, I was in the formal living room, putting on a performance for a PR team that looked equal parts impressed and horrified. I was a master performer, weaving a fictional tale of passionate love at first sight, my face glowing with feigned affection. It was a terrifying display of control.

"And Adrian," I coached, stepping close, ensuring my scent of tangerine barely reached him, "when they ask you why you’re marrying the most powerful woman in the city, you say, 'Because she needs a man who isn't afraid of her strength.'"

He repeated the line, his voice sounding rehearsed, but the underlying strength was undeniable. He wasn't afraid of me. He was afraid of failing Martha. That, I knew, was a far greater fear than anything I could manufacture.

"You look like you hate the words," I challenged.

"I hate the lie," he countered, meeting my eyes. "But I understand the necessity. How long do we have to pretend?"

"Until the custody hearing is final. Until Lucia is safe."

Later, I found him alone, staring out at the cityscape, his back to me.

"You're very convincing," I admitted, standing behind him. "You almost make me believe the story."

He turned, a humorless smile touching his lips. "I'm a bodyguard, Ms. Hayes. I'm trained to be whatever the situation demands. But I'm not doing this for the money alone. I'm doing it for Lucia."

The icy mask I wore slipped slightly. "I'm a Hayes. We don't do anything halfway. I will secure custody of Lucia. That is the only goal."

I paused, turning to him, letting him see the fierce conviction I held. "My sister, Eva, was too sweet for this world. She deserved better than Gray and the man she married. I will not fail Lucia."

"Tell me about her," he said, his dark eyes fixed on mine. "Tell me about Eva."

"She was trusting," I whispered, the pain sharp and immediate. "She trusted the wrong man, and she paid the price. I won't let Gray hurt Lucia the way he hurt Eva."

"Then we won't fail," Adrian promised, his voice low, a surprising well of comfort. "We'll play the part until the court is satisfied. You and I, we're on the same team."

The next day, the small wedding was a blur of flashbulbs and hushed guests. We stood before the judge, the lie palpable but carefully crafted. As we exchanged vows, Adrian forced his hand to be steady as he placed the impossibly expensive ring on my finger. My heart pounded, not from love, but from the high-stakes risk of the deception.

Just as the judge announced them "husband and wife," a waiter carrying a tray of champagne glasses bumped into Adrian, splashing his pristine tuxedo.

"My deepest apologies, sir," the waiter said, his voice unusually low and thick. He scrubbed furiously at the lapel with a white napkin. Adrian's eyes narrowed. I caught a brief glimpse of the man's hands, large, strong, and not the hands of a typical waiter.

"It's fine," Adrian murmured, waving him off.

The waiter lingered for a moment, his head bent low. Then, he straightened, locking eyes with me. A sinister, triumphant smirk cracked across his face. He wasn't smiling at me; he was staring right through me.

"Enjoy the rest of the celebration, Mrs. Cole," the waiter said, his voice laced with venomous familiarity.

Adrian’s instincts screamed danger. He grabbed the waiter's arm, his grip like iron. "Who are you?"

The waiter's smirk widened, his eyes mocking me. "Just a man making a delivery." He twisted violently out of Adrian's grip, knocking over the champagne tower with a crash that echoed through the room, and vanished into the stunned crowd.

Adrian looked at me. My face was white with shock.

"That wasn't a waiter," he whispered, the realization hitting us both simultaneously. "That was Gray Thompson."

The realization was a punch to my gut. He was here. He had seen the wedding. He had been close enough to touch me.

"He's mocking us," I choked out. "He saw the performance. He knows it's a lie."

Adrian didn't waste another second. He grabbed my arm, his voice a low, urgent command. "We're leaving. Now. He's escalating. He won't stop with a warning. We have to assume he knows our next move."

We raced out of the ballroom, leaving the confused guests and the shattered glass behind. The contract was sealed, but the war had just begun. Gray hadn't just watched our wedding; he had violated it. And I knew, with a terrifying certainty, that he would stop at nothing to expose our lie and take my niece.

"He's already won," I whispered, stumbling slightly as Adrian pulled me toward the elevator. "He knows we're desperate."

"He knows we're desperate," Adrian countered, pushing the penthouse button. "But now he knows we're fighting. And we're going to use that desperation to destroy him."