Worlds Apart

Wedding Bells

If someone had told me a month ago I’d be standing in a cathedral wearing a gown worth more than my apartment, I would’ve laughed. Or choked on my coffee.

But here I was. Zara Hayes. About to marry Alex Kingston.

The gown was breathtaking—silk that clung and flowed, lace that shimmered under the chandelier light. The veil framed my face like something out of a dream. Except it wasn’t my dream. It was his plan. His performance.

The pews were packed with people whose names carried weight: CEOs, senators, celebrities, the kind of guests who didn’t attend weddings so much as they attended press opportunities. Outside, I knew the street was lined with cameras, desperate to capture a glimpse of the billionaire and his “mystery bride.”

And in the middle of it all, me.

I gripped the bouquet so tightly, my knuckles ached. My stomach flipped as the organ swelled. The doors opened. I started down the aisle.

Alex was waiting at the altar, tall, impossibly composed in his black tuxedo. His gaze found mine instantly, and for a fleeting moment, it steadied me. Like the chaos couldn’t touch me as long as he was watching.

But the calm didn’t last.

Because halfway down the aisle, I saw her.

Claire.

She was seated near the front, dressed in crimson that practically screamed defiance. Her lips curved into a smile that wasn’t a smile at all. The kind that promised trouble.

I forced myself forward, each step heavier than the last. I couldn’t look at her again. If I did, I might crumble.

The ceremony began. The priest spoke, his voice echoing off marble walls. My heartbeat thundered louder. I repeated the words, my lips moving but my mind a blur.

And then—Claire moved.

Just as Alex reached for my hand, she stood. Her heels clicked against the stone floor, sharp and deliberate. Gasps rippled through the crowd.

“Alex,” she said, her voice slicing through the air. “You can’t be serious.”

The priest froze. The guests buzzed. Cameras whirred from the media pit at the back. My blood ran cold.

Claire’s gaze darted to me, her smile dripping venom. “This is a farce. You don’t love her. You love me. Everyone knows it.”

My throat closed. The entire room was watching, waiting, feeding on the drama.

But Alex didn’t flinch. His jaw tightened, his eyes darkening as he turned to her.

“Claire,” he said, calm but lethal, “sit down.”

She laughed bitterly. “You’ll regret this, Alex. She’s nothing but—”

“That’s enough.” His voice cracked like thunder. The authority in it was undeniable. For a moment, even she faltered.

Then he did something no one expected.

He laced his fingers with mine, lifted my hand, and kissed it. Right there, in front of the entire world.

“She is my wife,” Alex declared, loud enough for the crowd, the cameras, the gossip-hungry vultures. His voice was final, resolute. “And I will not hear another word against her.”

Silence. Claire’s face blanched, her mouth opening but no words coming. She sank back into her seat, fuming.

The priest cleared his throat, clearly rattled, but continued. Minutes later, Alex slid the ring onto my finger. Cold metal, hot skin, shaky breath.

When it was my turn, my hands trembled so badly I almost dropped his band. He steadied me, covering my fingers with his own, his touch a silent reassurance.

“I now pronounce you husband and wife.”

The words landed like a hammer. My lips brushed his in the faintest kiss—soft, staged, yet searing enough to leave me breathless. The crowd erupted into applause, flashes blinding, the moment immortalized forever

The applause was still ringing in my ears hours later. The lights, the flashes, the weight of the ring on my finger—it all felt surreal, like I’d been swept into a movie set and forgotten how to act.

Now, instead of collapsing into my bed with leftover Chinese takeout, I was on a private jet bound for the Maldives. Yes, the Maldives. Honeymoon capital of the world.

Except this wasn’t a honeymoon. Not really.

It was a contract.

I sat stiffly in the cream leather seat across from Alex, the silence between us loud enough to make the engines sound muted. He looked at ease, jacket off, tie loosened, flipping through documents like we hadn’t just been married in front of half the city.

I hated how calm he was. I hated how good he looked like this—rumpled, dangerous, impossible to ignore.

Finally, I broke. “You could at least pretend this is awkward for you too.”

His eyes flicked up, slow, deliberate. A half-smile tugged at his mouth. “Why? I don’t find you awkward, Zara.”

My cheeks heated. “That’s not what I meant.”

He closed the file, setting it aside. For the first time that night, he gave me his full attention, and it was suffocating. “You’re forgetting, we’re supposed to be convincing everyone this is real. That means acting like newlyweds. No one believes in awkward newlyweds.”

The words sank like stones in my stomach. Convincing. Acting. That was all this was.

And yet, when we landed and were ushered into the overwater villa—wooden decks stretching into turquoise water, rose petals scattered across the bed, champagne chilling on ice—I couldn’t shake the feeling that reality was slipping.

“This is absurd,” I muttered, setting my bag down. “They expect us to…” I gestured vaguely at the heart-shaped arrangement of towels on the bed.

Alex’s gaze followed mine, then slid back to me with a glint that made my pulse jump. “We don’t have to do anything you don’t want to.”

The relief was immediate, though my heart still raced. “Good,” I said quickly, trying to sound firm.

“But,” he added, stepping closer, “we do need to look convincing. To the staff. To the press. To anyone watching.”

I swallowed hard. “Convincing how?”

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he reached up and tucked a stray strand of hair behind my ear. The gesture was simple. Innocent, almost. But it lit up every nerve in my body like fire.

“Convincing enough,” he murmured.

I froze, caught between wanting to shove him away and wanting to close the distance. The silence stretched, heavy, charged, until I finally blurted:

“I’ll sleep on the couch.”

His lips twitched. “There’s no couch.”

I glanced around wildly—just the massive bed, all silk and roses, mocking me.

My pulse hammered as he shrugged out of his shirt, leaving only the crisp undershirt beneath. “Relax, Zara. I don’t bite.” He smirked. “Unless you ask nicely.”

Heat rushed to my face. I turned away, clutching the nearest pillow like it could shield me.