Chapter 2: The Cold Ceremony
868 Words
The black car arrived at exactly eight o’clock the next morning, a monument to precision that felt like a mockery of the chaos swirling inside Lia. She had spent a sleepless night, her mother’s confused tears and her own gnawing dread warring with the desperate relief that the hospital bills would be paid.
The driver, a silent man in a crisp uniform, held the door open for her. She clutched her small bag containing everything she deemed necessary from her old life and slid into the leather lined interior. The air smelled of polish and wealth. It was nothing like her life, and everything like his.
They didn’t go to a church or a courthouse. The car glided to a stop in front of a stark, modern building that seemed to be made of glass and steel. Alexander’s office, she realized.
He was waiting for her in a minimalist lobby, looking as if he’d just stepped out of a boardroom, not about to step into a marriage. His eyes scanned her simple, knee-length ivory dress the best she owned, bought for a college graduation that now felt a lifetime ago. His expression didn’t change, but she felt assessed and found lacking.
“This way,” he said, his voice offering no comfort, no reassurance. He turned and walked, expecting her to follow. It set the tone for everything.
The ceremony was conducted in a sterile, sun-drenched conference room by a justice of the peace who spoke in a bored monotone. There were no flowers, no music, no guests. Only a single, stern-faced woman she assumed was Alexander’s lawyer, there to witness the signing of additional documents.
Lia’s hands were ice-cold. When it was time to say her vows, her voice was a faint whisper. She promised to love and cherish a man who looked at her like she was a necessary acquisition. Alexander, in contrast, repeated his vows with cool, detached clarity. Every word was pronounced perfectly, and utterly empty.
The justice of the peace pronounced them husband and wife. “You may kiss the bride.”
A jolt of pure panic shot through Lia. This wasn’t in the contract. Alexander’s stormy eyes met hers, and for a terrifying second, she thought he would. To seal the deal. To make it look real.
Instead, he offered a faint, cold smile the first she’d ever seen on his face, and it held no warmth. He simply leaned in, his lips brushing her cheek. The contact was brief, impersonal, yet it sent an unexpected shiver down her spine. He smelled of expensive soap and winter air.
“A formality,” he murmured, his voice so low only she could hear it.
The lawyer handed Alexander a pen, and he signed another document with a swift, slashing signature. The marriage certificate. He didn’t hand her the pen. The moment was over.
“The car will take you to the penthouse,” Alexander said, already turning his attention to the lawyer, dismissing her. “I have business to attend to. I’ll be there this evening.”
And just like that, Lia was ushered out. Twenty minutes after arriving, she was alone in the back of the car again, a wedding band of cold, heavy platinum on her finger, and a new last name she shared with a stranger.
The car took her to the heart of the city, stopping at a towering skyscraper that pierced the clouds. A doorman in a peaked cap greeted her with a respectful, “Mrs. Blackwood,” making her flinch. He escorted her to a private elevator that required a key card to activate. It opened directly into the penthouse.
The air left her lungs in a rush.
It was breathtakingly luxurious, a symphony of floor to ceiling windows, modern art, and minimalist furniture. The entire city sprawled beneath her like a toy model. It was also utterly, completely soulless. There were no personal photos, no knick-knacks, no signs that anyone actually lived here. It was a museum. A very expensive, very cold cage.
Her suitcase had been placed neatly by the door. She was alone.
She walked slowly through the vast living room, her footsteps echoing on the polished concrete floor. She found the kitchen, a chef’s dream of stainless steel and marble, untouched. She found a hallway with several doors. One was slightly ajar.
Pushing it open, she found a bedroom. It was decorated in neutral tones, impeccably styled, and as impersonal as a hotel room. A note lay on the king-sized bed.
This is your room. Mine is at the end of the hall. Do not enter.
The finality of it, the cold command, was the last straw. The grandeur, the silence, the utter loneliness of it all crashed down on her. The tears she had been holding back since she signed the contract finally fell, silent and hot against her cheeks.
She was Mrs. Blackwood. She lived in a palace. And she had never felt more desolate in her entire life.
The click of the front door opening downstairs made her freeze. Her heart hammered. He was home.
The deal was over. The act was about to begin.
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End of Chapter 2
- Writer
