The Cold Wedding
903 Words
POV: Kiara Williams
They say a wedding should feel like a beginning. Mine felt like a funeral.
Not because it was small, only twenty people in a garden courtyard, beneath an arch of white orchids. Not because there were no tears of joy or heartfelt vows.
But because every smile was fake, every camera angle calculated, and the man I was marrying didn’t even look me in the eyes.
Zayn stood at the altar in a black-on-black tailored suit, his grey eyes unreadable, his mouth a flat line carved from stone. I wore a custom Dior dress, soft satin, off-shoulder, perfectly fitted, but I could’ve been draped in armor for all it mattered.
There was no music. No family. No “I love you.”
Just a pen, a contract, and a kiss that didn’t happen.
We signed the marriage license in front of a bored city clerk, posed for six photographs, and walked down the aisle without holding hands.
“Congratulations,” someone murmured.
It sounded like a curse.
---
By sunset, we were in Zayn’s penthouse—our home now—the skyline glowing gold through glass walls.
“Your room is upstairs,” Zayn said as the elevator doors opened. “Second door on the left. Lena, the house manager, will help with anything you need.”
“My… room?” I asked, confused.
He didn’t turn. “We’re married for the law, Kiara. Not for love.”
So much for a honeymoon.
I nodded, dragging my suitcase, heels clicking on marble. The penthouse was cold—glass, gold, black steel, like a showroom, not a home. My bedroom was perfect: ivory silk bed, designer clothes in the closet, a vanity I didn’t ask for. But it felt like a dollhouse built for someone else.
I knew there were cameras. Hidden in ceilings, sensors in hallways. He was watching. Always.
---
Later, Lena handed me a phone. “Mr. Malik’s publicist.”
“Mrs. Malik! Welcome to the brand,” a chipper voice said.
I gripped the phone. “The brand?”
“We’re arranging your first joint appearance in Prague. Business summit. Smile, nod, let the world love the fantasy.”
“I’m not playing dress-up,” I snapped.
She laughed. “It’s a power couple story, darling. Legacy and ambition. You know the game.”
I hung up.
---
That night, I called Ava, my best friend, needing a voice that wasn’t cold.
“Kiara, you okay?” Ava asked.
“No. This marriage… it’s a sham. Zayn’s a wall. He only talks business, never anything personal.”
“Something’s off about him, Kiara,” Ava said. “He’s too closed off. Like he’s hiding something. You sure you’re safe?”
“He’s my husband, Ava. Not a serial killer.”
“Still. Watch yourself. Something’s not right.”
I sighed. “I asked him why he picked me. He said ‘optics.’ But it felt like a lie.”
“Trust your gut,” Ava said. “Dig deeper.”
---
In the downstairs lounge, Zayn sat by the fireplace, drink in hand, staring at his phone.
I stood in the doorway. “Zayn, why me? You could’ve saved my company quietly. Why make it so public? Why me?”
He didn’t look up. “Optics.”
“Bullshit.”
His eyes flicked to mine, a shadow passing through them. “Your name has value. Your face does too. The world loves a fallen heiress marrying a tech mogul. Power’s sexy.”
“So I’m a brand asset?”
He smirked. “Always were. You just didn’t know.”
I stepped closer. “Do you hate me?”
He stood, closing the distance, his voice low. “No, Kiara. I don’t hate you.”
His hand brushed a strand of hair off my shoulder, and for a second, I thought he’d touch me. But he didn’t.
“I don’t feel anything for you,” he said. “That’s the point.”
He walked away, leaving silence louder than a scream.
---
POV Shift: Zayn Malik
She thinks I don’t feel anything. Good.
The truth is dangerous.
I still see her, twelve years old, red velvet dress, on a balcony above the construction site where I nearly died. She looked down. Saw me. Blood, dust, fire. I thought she’d say something. Save me.
She turned away.
I swore then, in the pain, that she’d look again. And this time, she wouldn’t look away.
---
I met Victor in a dive bar, far from the penthouse. He slid a flash drive across the table.
“Files,” he said. “Proof Raymond caused your mother’s death. Not an accident.”
I gripped the drive. “You’re sure?”
“Check it yourself. He’s dirty, Zayn. You telling Kiara?”
“No. She can’t know. Not yet.”
Victor leaned in. “You’re playing with fire, kid.”
“I’ve waited years,” I said. “I’m close.”
---
Back at the penthouse, I called Victor to confirm something from him. I stood in my office as Victor’s voice carried: “She doesn’t know what her father did to you.” he asked
“Good,” I said. “Keep it that way.”
I felt the air shift, as if someone was watching me. Did Kiara hear what I just said? I looked around but saw no one.
- Writer
