Chapter Two – The Wedding Without Love
596 Words
The wedding was everywhere.
On screens. On billboards. In whispers and headlines.
BLACKWOOD HEIR WEDS VALE DAUGHTER IN SURPRISE UNION.
By noon, my face was already famous.
I stood in the bridal suite of the cathedral, staring at my reflection while strangers adjusted my veil like I was a mannequin instead of a woman about to be sacrificed. The dress was custom-made—silk, lace, hand-sewn pearls worth more than my father’s remaining dignity.
Lucien chose it.
That alone made my skin crawl.
“Smile,” the stylist said gently. “You’re marrying the most powerful man in the city.”
I didn’t respond.
Power wasn’t love.
And this wasn’t a wedding—it was a transaction with witnesses.
The doors outside the suite opened and closed repeatedly. I could hear the low murmur of elites gathering—politicians, CEOs, socialites who fed on gossip like oxygen. They were here to watch Lucien Blackwood claim his prize.
No one asked if I wanted this.
The music began.
My father entered the room, his face pale, his eyes avoiding mine. He looked like a man walking someone to the gallows.
“You look beautiful,” he whispered.
I swallowed. “I feel like I’m being buried alive.”
He flinched.
The cathedral doors opened, and light flooded the aisle. Every head turned. Every camera flashed.
I stepped forward.
With each step, the weight of the dress dragged me closer to the altar—closer to the man waiting for me there.
Lucien Blackwood.
He stood tall and immovable, dressed in black, his expression unreadable. No smile. No nerves. Just control. His gaze locked onto mine as I approached, dark and assessing, like he was measuring how well I fit the role he’d designed for me.
When I reached him, he offered his arm.
I ignored it.
A flicker of something dangerous passed through his eyes.
The priest began to speak. Words about love and devotion washed over me like lies spoken too loudly to believe.
“Do you, Lucien Blackwood, take Elara Vale to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
“I do,” he said smoothly. Too easily.
The priest turned to me.
My throat tightened. The entire room waited.
I thought about running.
I thought about screaming.
I thought about what would happen to my family if I did.
“I do,” I whispered.
Lucien’s hand closed around mine immediately—firm, unyielding. His thumb brushed my pulse, slow and deliberate, as if reminding me he could feel how fast my heart was racing.
When he slid the ring onto my finger, his lips brushed my ear.
“Don’t embarrass me,” he murmured. “You won’t enjoy the consequences.”
The kiss was brief. Cold. For the cameras.
Applause erupted.
Just like that, I became Mrs. Blackwood.
At the reception, crystal chandeliers sparkled above a sea of champagne and false smiles. Lucien never left my side, his hand resting possessively at my lower back, a silent warning to anyone who got too close.
“You play the role well,” I said under my breath as he greeted guests.
His grip tightened slightly. “You haven’t seen anything yet.”
When the final toast ended, he leaned down, his voice calm and lethal.
“Pack whatever illusion of freedom you still have,” Lucien whispered. “Tonight, you come home with me.”
Home.
The word felt like a prison sentence.
As he guided me toward the exit, cameras flashing once more, I realized something chilling—
The contract was only the beginning.
- Writer
