Chapter Two: Wedding
705 Words
Sienna
“Sienna, what the hell are you doing?”
The woman in the mirror doesn’t answer. She’s all smoky eyes and soft waves, a stranger wrapped in perfection. My reflection blinks back at me, flawless and hollow.
Three hours of makeup, two stylists, and a small army of assistants - and still, I barely recognize myself.
“Nic,” I murmur, tearing my gaze away from the mirror. My best friend since college stands behind me, arms crossed, expression sharp enough to cut through satin.
“We’ve talked about this,” I remind her.
“And I told you it’s bullshit.” Her voice has dropped, low and fierce. “You don’t suddenly marry the most powerful man in LA because you fell in love.”
“Nicole.” I warn softly.
She opens her mouth again, but the door swings wide and an assistant glides in, carrying the dress.
My dress.
My breath catches in my throat. I haven’t even seen it until now - Damian had it commissioned. Custom. Immaculate. Mine, apparently.
Nicole stays silent until the room clears again. Then she steps closer, her hand brushing mine. “Just promise me that you’re not trapped in this thing.”
I meet her eyes in the mirror. “This is my decision,” I lie, the words tasting like champagne and regret. “It’s fine. I swear.”
She doesn’t believe me.
And I don’t blame her.
- ### -
The gown feels heavier than it looks. Silk and diamonds, and decisions I didn’t make.
Nicole squeezes my hand before I step into the hallway, the hush of the estate pressing in around me. Beyond the glass doors, the garden glows with soft white light, the guests already turned toward the altar.
The music begins - a small orchestra playing Pachelbel’s Canon in D.
Every step I take feels choreographed, just like everything else in this marriage.
The garden is a symphony of light and luxury: white roses, crystal chandeliers strung between palm trees, the murmur of a hundred whispered fortunes. All of it for a marriage built on secrets.
The rose-strewn path stretches before me. I take a deep, silent breath and force myself to take one step, then another. My heart hammers in my chest.
Damian meets me at the end. He looks calm. Composed. Somehow more handsome than ever.
He takes my cold hand into his own, his thumb whispering a caress across my knuckles. Then he leans closer, his breath stirring a loose strand of hair.
“Breathe, Sienna,” he murmurs so that only I can hear. “You’re doing fine.”
The officiant speaks, words blur into white noise. Cameras click. Somewhere, someone sighs.
I hear my cue and manage to repeat the vows. When Damian said “I do”, it sounded like certainty.
When I echo it, it sounds like surrender.
The officiant says something about rings, forever and fidelity. Damian’s hand is steady as he slides the platinum and diamond band on my finger, his touch lingering a heartbeat too long. When I lift my hand to return the gesture, my fingers tremble - not from nerves this time, but from the awareness that everybody here believes this is love.
When it isn’t.
“You may kiss the bride.”
Damian’s gaze catches mine. Dark, unreadable and far too intimate for a marriage of convenience. His hand settles at the base of my neck. “Smile,” he whispers, voice low enough that only I can hear. “They’re watching.”
And then his mouth meets mine.
It’s supposed to be polite, perfunctory - a performance. But the second his lips touch mine, the world goes silent. His control, his calm, it all cracks just a little, enough for heat to bleed through. My fingers clutch his lapel enough to steady myself and keep up the illusion.
The crowd cheers.
Damian pulls back, the faintest ghost of a smirk on his lips. The kind that said he knew what had happened, and promising I’d be thinking of it long after champagne stopped flowing.
“Congratulations, Mrs. Hunter,” he whispers.
And for one dizzy, impossible moment, I forget why I said yes.
- Writer
