The Wedding
794 Words
3 days. That’s all Damian Black needed to turn my life upside down.
Three days from broke designer to Mrs. Black.
The dress was white. Stiff. Expensive. A stylist Damian sent showed up at my apartment at 6 AM with garment bags and orders.
“Mr. Black said size 4. Ivory silk. No lace.” She zipped it up behind me. “Turn.”
I turned. The woman in the mirror didn’t look like me. She looked like his property.
A black SUV waited downstairs. No explanation. No “are you ready?”
Just the driver: “City Hall, Ms. Black.”
Ms. Black. The title tasted bitter.
Damian was already there when I arrived. Waiting on the courthouse steps in a black three-piece suit. No smile. No nerves. Just cold, calculated patience.
He looked at me. His eyes dragged from my heels to my face.
“You’ll do,” he said finally.
“Thanks. You look… threatening.”
His mouth twitched. Almost a smile. “Good.”
Inside, the room was empty except for a judge, two lawyers, and a photographer. No family. No friends. No witnesses except his money.
The judge started speaking. I heard nothing. All I could focus on was Damian’s hand on mine. Warm. Firm. Possessive. Like he was already marking me as his.
“Do you, Damian Black, take this woman—”
“I do.” He cut the judge off.
The judge blinked. “Sir, let me finish—”
“I said I do.” His voice left no room for argument.
Then he turned to me. Grey eyes sharp. Expectant.
“Ava.”
My throat was dry. Rule 2: No feelings. But my heart was hammering against my ribs.
“I do.”
The word fell between us.
The judge said something about rings. Damian slid a diamond onto my finger. 5 carats. Cold. Heavy. A chain around my freedom.
“You may kiss the bride,” the judge said.
It was supposed to be a peck. For the cameras.
Damian’s hand went to my waist. He pulled me flush against his chest. I gasped. Rule 1: No touching.
His other hand cupped the back of my neck.
Then his mouth was on mine.
Hard. Claiming. Not gentle. Not romantic.
It lasted 3 seconds. Maybe 4.
Too long for fake. Too short for real.
When he pulled back, his thumb brushed my bottom lip. Slow. Deliberate.
“For the cameras,” he murmured. But his eyes said something else.
The photographer clicked away. Capturing the moment billionaire CEO Damian Black kissed his new wife like he owned her.
Because he did. On paper.
The lawyers handed us papers to sign. My hand shook. He signed his name with sharp, angry strokes. Like he was stabbing the paper.
Then it was done.
We were married.
In the car ride back to Black Tower, silence stretched between us.
“You didn’t have to kiss me like that,” I said finally.
“The board will see those photos tonight.” He didn’t look at me. “They need to believe it’s real.”
Rule 1: No touching.
His lie burned.
The elevator to the penthouse was glass. We rose 80 floors above Manhattan. I watched the city shrink below us.
The doors opened to his penthouse. All black, white, and glass. Cold. Like him.
Damian dropped his keys on the marble counter. “Your room is down that hall. Last door on the left.” He pointed. “Mine is the master. At the end.”
He paused. Grey eyes met mine.
“Remember Rule 1, Ava. Separate bedrooms. No touching.”
I nodded. My fingers tightened on the strap of my dress.
At 2 AM, I woke up thirsty. The house was silent. Dark.
I padded to the kitchen in bare feet.
He was there.
Shirtless.
Muscles carved from marble. Water dripping down his chest from the glass in his hand.
He turned when he heard me. His eyes darkened.
“You shouldn’t be here,” he said quietly.
“I needed water.” My voice was too loud in the silence.
He set the glass down. Slowly. “Go back to your room, Ava.”
I didn’t move. Couldn’t.
His gaze dropped to my lips. Then back to my eyes.
“Before you break Rule 1,” he said. His voice was rougher now. Lower.
My breath caught.
“Go.”
I ran.
Back to my room. Back to my separate bed.
But I could still feel his mouth on mine.
And I could still hear him say “Good girl” like he meant it.
Rule 1: No touching.
I was already failing.
And he hadn’t even tried to make me stay.
---
- Writer
