Chapter Four: Wedding of Strangers — A Cold but Lavish Wedding
1154 Words
Alessia stood in front of the gilded mirror, staring at the woman she barely recognized.
A thousand tiny crystals shimmered from her wedding gown like frozen tears, catching the warm glow of the chandelier above her. The designer dress, hand-sewn in Italy, clung to her body like a secret she didn’t want anyone to uncover. The ivory silk whispered elegance, but it felt like a costume — a lie stitched together with money and necessity.
She could barely breathe.
Her hair, styled into a glossy updo, was pinned with diamond-studded clips. Her lips were painted a seductive red. Her eyes smoked with shadows she didn’t know how to wear. She looked like the perfect bride — graceful, composed, beautiful. But inside, Alessia Hart was trembling.
Today, she was marrying a stranger.
Not just any stranger — Damian Blackwood. Billionaire. Tycoon. Ice king.
And her husband by contract.
“You look breathtaking,” a voice whispered behind her.
Alessia turned slightly to see Olivia, her personal stylist and one of the few people who had been kind to her over the last week.
“Thanks,” Alessia replied softly, though her voice barely sounded like her own.
“It’s almost time,” Olivia said. “The guests are seated. Press are waiting outside the gates. And Mr. Blackwood... well, he’s already at the altar.”
Of course he is, she thought bitterly. On schedule. Cold. Precise. Predictable.
It had been seven days since she signed the contract, and every moment had been orchestrated to perfection. She had moved into a luxury penthouse, met with trainers, stylists, and publicists. She’d been drilled on what to say, how to smile, how to pose beside her new husband. Her social media was wiped clean. A new online identity had been crafted for her — one that fit Damian’s elite lifestyle.
And now, the final scene was about to begin: the wedding.
But there was no love story. No first kiss, no butterflies, no whispered vows filled with meaning.
Just strategy.
Just spectacle.
“Are you sure you want this?” Olivia asked gently, studying her face.
Alessia nodded slowly. “It’s not about want. It’s about need.”
And that was the truth. Every step, every choice, had led her here. Her mother’s hospital bills were already being paid. Her debts were erased. Her apartment keys now belonged to someone else.
She had traded everything for this moment.
The music began.
A soft gasp echoed in the hallway as the heavy doors opened. A hush fell over the guests, their designer-clad bodies turning toward her like moths to a flame.
Alessia took her first step down the marble aisle, her heels clicking like a countdown.
The cathedral-style ballroom was filled with over 200 people — all friends, business partners, and high-society elites. Not one of them knew the truth. To them, she was a mysterious beauty who had stolen the heart of the elusive Blackwood heir.
White roses draped from every corner of the massive hall. A grand chandelier sparkled overhead like stars trapped in glass. Classical music filled the space, played by a live orchestra imported from Paris for the event.
She felt dizzy under all the eyes.
And then she saw him.
Damian stood at the altar like a statue carved from ice. Black tuxedo. No boutonnière. No smile. Just the same expression he always wore — unreadable, composed, deadly calm.
He didn’t look at her with awe or desire. He simply looked.
When she reached the altar, he extended his hand. She placed hers in his and tried not to flinch at the contact.
“Miss Hart,” the officiant began, “do you take Mr. Blackwood to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
She inhaled.
“I do.”
Her voice echoed like a ghost through the room.
“Mr. Blackwood, do you take Miss Hart to be your lawfully wedded wife?”
“I do.”
The officiant smiled.
“You may now kiss the bride.”
A beat of silence.
Alessia turned toward him, heart pounding.
Damian leaned in — but instead of pressing his lips to hers, he placed a chaste kiss on her cheek. Cold. Controlled. Contractual.
The crowd erupted in applause.
Alessia smiled through it, trained and perfect, even as her chest ached.
The reception that followed was lavish beyond imagination.
Guests sipped champagne worth more than her student loans. Tables overflowed with delicacies she couldn’t pronounce. A string quartet played elegant music while servers glided like dancers across the marble floor.
But amidst the sparkle and laughter, Alessia felt like a prop.
Every time Damian introduced her, it was the same lines: “My wife, Alessia. Yes, we met overseas. Yes, it was sudden. When you know, you know.”
Lies, polished and repeated.
She played along, laughed when expected, nodded, posed for endless photos. But beneath the surface, she felt invisible.
At one point, she caught him watching her from across the room. Their eyes met — just for a moment — and something flickered between them. But then he looked away, already speaking to another investor, another deal.
Hours passed. The first dance came and went. They moved stiffly through the steps, no sparks, no whispered jokes. Just two strangers keeping up appearances.
When the final toast was made and the guests began to leave, Alessia found herself alone in the powder room, hands gripping the porcelain sink.
Her makeup was perfect. Her smile was flawless. Her ring glittered like a promise she couldn’t trust.
But inside, she was unraveling.
The door opened. Damian stepped in.
“You’re not supposed to be in here,” she said quietly.
“I needed to speak to you,” he replied, voice calm.
She turned toward him. “You could’ve spoken to me at the altar. Or during the dance. Or when you handed me off like a prop.”
His jaw clenched. “I didn’t think you’d want theatrics.”
“I didn’t want to be treated like an object.”
He took a step closer, but not too close. “This isn’t real, Alessia. You knew that when you signed.”
“Maybe not. But I didn’t expect it to feel this cold.”
He studied her for a long moment. “It’s a transaction. Not a romance.”
She looked down at the ring on her finger.
“Then why does it hurt?”
He didn’t answer.
Silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.
“I’ll have the car ready in ten minutes,” he finally said. “You’ll be escorted to the penthouse. Your room is on the east wing. I’ll be on the west.”
Separate wings. Separate lives.
“Of course,” she said, voice flat.
He turned and walked out without another word.
And just like that, her wedding day — the most extravagant, heartless
performance of her life — was over.
- Writer
