Vanished Vows

Chapter 3

The suite was silent.

Too silent.

Amelia stood in the center of the opulent bedroom, the satin hem of her gown brushing against polished marble, her reflection fractured across the massive gold-framed mirrors. The room screamed wealth—crystal chandeliers, champagne on ice, petals on the bed like a scene from a romance movie.

Too bad the leading man hadn't followed her in.

She toed off her heels, the pain in her feet nothing compared to the ache curling in her chest.

He hadn’t said a word.

Not after her remark.

Not after she turned her back on him in front of half the city's elite.

She wasn’t sure if it was satisfaction or regret coiling in her stomach. Maybe both.

She walked toward the balcony, pushing open the glass doors. The city glittered below, distant and untouchable, like the life she’d just left behind. Her fingers gripped the railing as the wind lifted her hair from her shoulders.

This wasn’t how her wedding night was supposed to feel.

Not cold. Not empty.

Not like the end of something before it even had a chance to begin.

A soft knock broke the silence.

Her heart skipped—but it wasn’t excitement. It was dread.

She turned as the door creaked open.

Alejandro stood there, jacket off, tie loose, jaw set. His eyes didn’t move over her like a husband looking at his bride. They pinned her like a man calculating his next move.

He stepped in and closed the door behind him with a soft click.

“You think this is a game, Amelia?”

His voice was low. Dangerous. Controlled.

Amelia didn’t flinch.

“No,” she said, her voice just as calm. “I think it already was one. You made it one. I just finally learned how to play.”

He stared at her for a long moment.

Then—unexpectedly—he smiled.

Not warmly.

Like a man who had just found a worthy opponent.

Perfect—here's how Chapter Three continues, right after Alejandro’s chilling smile, shifting into a raw emotional breakdown for Amelia once he leaves. It peels back her strength and shows the vulnerability she’s been holding in:

Alejandro’s smile lingered like a threat.

Then, without another word, he turned and walked out.

No slammed door. No heated argument. Just silence.

Like she wasn’t even worth the fight.

Amelia stood frozen in place, her back straight, chin still high—until she heard the faint click of the door closing behind him.

Then, everything shattered.

She pressed a hand to her mouth as her knees gave out, collapsing onto the edge of the bed. The tears came fast, hot and unforgiving—burning down her cheeks, soaking into satin and silence. She’d held it together all evening, through the cutting looks, the smiles that weren’t real, the moment he touched Isabella like she was the woman he belonged to.

Now, there was no one watching.

No cameras. No press. No father lurking with expectations.

Just her.

Her—and the stinging truth.

She had married a man who hated her.

And worse, somewhere deep inside her stubborn, traitorous heart… she’d wanted him to love her, to make the marriage work.

She cried until her chest hurt. Until her throat went raw. Until the city lights blurred beyond the balcony glass.

But when the sobs faded and only the quiet remained, Amelia sat up. Wiped her face. Breathed in.

She wouldn’t break in front of him. Not again.

Let him play cold king. Let Isabella play perfect mistress.

This wasn’t over.

The door opened with a quiet creak.

Amelia hadn’t heard him return, but she sensed his presence the moment the air in the room changed. It was thick—charged, suffocating, like a storm had rolled in, but the thunder hadn't yet cracked.

She turned her head slightly, just enough to see him standing in the doorway, towering, still wearing his jacket, the tie gone but the coldness in his eyes unchanged. The man who was supposed to be her husband was barely more than a stranger to her now. His gaze raked over her, lips curling slightly—not in affection, but in thinly veiled disdain.

"Are you finished with the melodrama?" His voice was flat, clipped—like he was irritated by her very presence.

Amelia’s throat tightened. She wanted to respond, to shout, to tear into him and demand he acknowledge her pain. But the words felt like they were caught in her chest.

She swallowed hard. "Why are you here?" she managed to ask, voice barely above a whisper. She didn’t look at him. She couldn’t. It was easier to keep her gaze on the floor, on the glittering strands of her broken heart that had scattered all over the room.

"I had to come back." He stepped forward, though not in the way a husband would after a painful night. No, he was more like a king irritated by a subject’s rebellion. His presence alone was a command. "I don’t appreciate being made a fool of in front of my guests."

Her breath caught, and she forced herself to stand up, even though her legs felt like jelly. She lifted her chin, wiping at her damp cheeks, trying to hold onto whatever dignity she had left.

"You’re not a fool, Alejandro. You’re just a man who wants things his way and doesn’t care about who gets trampled on in the process." The words left her lips before she could stop them.

He laughed, but it wasn’t a laugh of amusement. It was an arrogant, self-satisfied chuckle. "Trampled?" His voice dropped to a low murmur. "You really think you're in a position to talk down to me, Amelia? You’re a gold-digging wife in a designer dress, pretending to be something you're not."

Amelia’s chest tightened as if the breath was slowly being squeezed out of her. His words stung, but she refused to show it. "I don’t want this life, Alejandro." The words were ragged, raw. "I don’t want you. I don’t want any of it."

For the briefest second, something flickered behind his icy gaze—something almost like pity, but it was gone before it could settle. He stepped closer, his presence overpowering. "You think you have a choice? You think you can walk away from this?"

The sharp edge of his words sliced through her. "I’ll let you in on a little secret, Amelia." He reached out and tilted her chin, his fingers cold as ice. "You were never meant to have a choice. You never will."

Her breath hitched at the touch, but she refused to break down in front of him. "You’re disgusting."

Alejandro’s lips curled into something dangerous—half-smile, half-snarl. "No. What’s disgusting is your little delusion. You think this marriage is about love?" He shook his head slowly, his hand dropping away from her. "It’s business, Amelia. A contract. A transaction. You’re just a pawn in my game, and you’ll stay that way."

She flinched, but he didn’t notice. Or maybe he just didn’t care.

"You know, I thought you might be able to rise to the occasion. But you're just like every other woman I've ever had to deal with. Weak. Pathetic."

Amelia’s hands curled into fists, her nails biting into her palms. She tried to say something, to scream at him, but nothing came out.

He turned toward the door, his back to her. "I’ll give you some time to pull yourself together.

Because this... this little breakdown? It’s not even worth my attention."

And with that, he left her standing there—alone. Her entire body shook as the door clicked shut behind him.