The wedding day
704 Words
Damien’s POV
The storm outside matched the chaos in my chest.
Tonight, everything would change.
The halls were lit in gold. The flowers were pristine. The chairs lined with white satin. I could’ve bought a cathedral, flown in royalty, hired the Pope himself if I wanted.
But she didn’t care for any of it.
Because this wasn’t her dream wedding.
It was her sentence.
And I was the one delivering it.
I stood at the altar, in a tailored black suit, surrounded by power and silence. The guards disguised as staff. The minister already paid. The guests? None.
She had no family. And I had no one I trusted.
This wasn’t a celebration.
It was a claim.
And tonight, I was claiming Layla Carter — body, soul, and name.
She entered the room.
The silk gown hugged her like it hated her. Her eyes were steel. Her lips didn’t smile. But she was stunning.
My breath caught, and I hated how weak it made me.
“You’re late,” I said quietly, watching her approach.
“I almost didn’t come,” she replied.
“You didn’t really have a choice.”
She didn’t argue.
But her silence cut sharper than any blade.
The minister began. I barely heard the words. My eyes were locked on her. Every flinch. Every breath. Every refusal to look at me.
“I, Damien Blackwood, take you—”
Easy. I’d rehearsed that vow in my head for years.
When it was her turn, she hesitated.
Silence stretched.
The minister cleared his throat. “Do you, Layla Carter, take—”
“Yes,” she said quickly, her jaw clenched.
I saw it then: not fear.
Fury.
She hated me.
And it only made me want her more.
The rings were exchanged. Her hand trembled. Mine didn’t.
“You may kiss the bride,” the minister said.
She didn’t move.
So I stepped forward, placed one hand on her cheek — and for a second, I swore she was about to slap me.
But I kissed her anyway. Softly. Slowly. Like it was real.
Like we weren’t enemies.
Like she hadn’t planned a hundred ways to run.
Her lips didn’t kiss back.
But they didn’t pull away either.
We were husband and wife. Legally. Officially. Completely.
She turned to walk away before the minister even closed his book.
But then—
The doors burst open.
A loud crash of wind and footsteps.
And my blood went cold.
There, soaked from the rain, chest heaving in the doorway—
Ethan.
Layla froze.
He looked at her.
Then at me.
Then at her hand.
At the ring.
“Layla,” he choked out.
Her lips parted. She stepped forward.
“Ethan… what are you doing here?”
“I came to take you back,” he said. “I’m not letting this happen.”
Guards started toward him.
I raised a hand. “No.”
I walked down the aisle, every guestless chair between us like a trigger.
“This isn’t your place,” I said coldly.
“She doesn’t belong to you.”
Ethan’s voice cracked. “She’s not some property you can own.”
“No,” I said, looking at her. “She’s my wife.”
Layla looked between us — her past and her prison. Her freedom and her fury.
For a split second, she looked… torn.
And that broke something inside me.
“She made her choice,” I said.
“Did she?” Ethan asked, stepping closer. “Or did you force her into it?”
That’s when I snapped.
I lunged forward, grabbed him by the collar, and slammed him into the nearest marble column.
“She’s mine now,” I growled. “You had your chance.”
And just before the guards separated us—
Layla screamed.
“Stop it!”
We froze.
She was crying.
“I can’t do this anymore,” she whispered. “I’m not your revenge piece, Damien. And I’m not your savior, Ethan.”
She looked at me like she’d seen my soul.
Then at him like he was a memory she couldn’t hold onto anymore.
She didn’t choose.
She just walked past us both.
Into the storm.
- Writer
