THE BILLIONAIRE'S FORGOTTEN WIFE

CHAPTER ONE — DIAMOND CAGE It was supposed to be the beginning of something — of a life, of a forever. But Liana stands at the centre of a wedding she didn’t plan, beside a man who won’t even look at her. The air in the ballroom is warm and perfumed, but it does nothing to calm the strange twist in her stomach. Her heels click lightly against the marble floor as she steps beneath the tall archway. The surface gleams beneath her, too shiny, too clean, almost like it’s trying to reflect the things she doesn’t say out loud. The faint taste of champagne lingers in the air, it's sharp, bitter, like regret dressed up in gold. The quartet in the corner begins to play the opening notes of "Pachelbel’s Canon". It's familiar and predictable. Beautiful in a way that's suffocating. Each pull of the violin strings tightens the coil inside her. She glances to the left. Everyone’s here. Lined up like dolls at a museum exhibit. Family friends in tuxedos, bankers with polished shoes, cousins she can’t remember their names, women in shimmering gowns with diamonds at their necks. Their smiles are perfect, glossy and wide but none of them reach the eyes. They’re not smiling for her. They’re smiling for the headlines. Her father’s hand finds her elbow, steady and unyielding. He doesn’t look at her, he just walks forward, gently guiding her. She digs her fingers into her gown, the ivory silk stiff beneath her touch. The lace at her collarbone itches faintly, and she remembers those endless childhood lessons: how to stand, how to smile, how to keep her chin up and her mouth shut. They weren’t lessons in joy. They were rehearsals for silence. She breathes in, or tries to. The bodice squeezes her ribs, and every breath feels like a small rebellion. Every step feels borrowed. And there he is. Cassian Holt. He stands at the end of the aisle, impossibly composed. He doesn’t shift, fidget nor does he blink. He might as well have be carved from marble. His tuxedo is perfect — jet black, satin collar, sharp lines. The kind of elegance that's pronounced. He doesn’t smile, doesn't even glance up. Her heart flutters and not in a good way. She wants him to look at her, to at least acknowledge her. To offer some tiny thread of connection that might make this feel less like a transaction. But he doesn’t, he’s busy reading from the officiant’s tablet, his face blank and closed off. The organist swells to full volume. Chandeliers glitter above them, scattering gold across the room like fake sunlight. Her father gives a small nod, and she steps forward. The guests rise, all at once. A choreographed move. The silence that follows is so heavy she can hear her heartbeat in her ears. She keeps her eyes low, focused on the long white runner beneath her. It stretches endlessly ahead of her like a red carpet lined with expectations. Her knees want to shake, but she can’t let them. Her bare hand drifts to her throat, fingers brushing the single pearl at her neck. It’s delicate and choking. When they reach the altar, her father lets go. He steps aside without a word. Without even looking back. Cassian doesn’t move or pretend to make space. She inches closer, and their shoulders brush. The contact jolts her — not warmth, but cold. His cologne hits her nose: expensive, woodsy, unmoving. The officiant begins. “We are gathered today to unite two families…” His voice flows smoothly, like he’s reading off a boardroom script. There’s no mention of love. No softness, only structure, legacies, contracts which are veiled in vows. Cassian lifts a silver pen from the table. It catches the light. The registry lies open, pages thick and creamy. The pedestal it sits on is wrapped in a bed of white roses. Too perfect. Too staged. He signs without hesitation. One flick of his wrist and it’s done. When he passes the pen to her, it touches her fingers like a warning. Heavy. Final. She smells ink and roses. Breathes out. And with that breath, she lets go of the last bit of herself she’d been holding onto. Her hand doesn’t shake as she signs beneath his name. Liana Eden Holt. That’s it. It’s done. She looks up and the officiant only nods. “I now pronounce you married.” Applause bubbles up, polite and very shallow. Cameras snap, flashing like fireworks. Her mother watches from the front row with an unreadable and her hands clasped in satin gloves. She doesn’t cry or smile, she lifts her chin slightly — proud and satisfied. A job completed. Cassian turns toward her, arms held out just enough to suggest unity, not closeness. She places her hand on his arm. It feels more like placing a pawn on a chessboard than joining lives. They walk down the aisle together. Each footstep echoes while her train drags behind her, catching every so often like something tugging her back. She keeps walking because she cannot fall. At the far end, by the doors that lead to the balcony, Cassian stops. He doesn’t turn to her or say something soft. He pulls out his phone, scrolling as if the wedding didn’t happen. “Midnight flight,” he says. “Pack light.” She swallows. “Where?” “Nice. Then Geneva. Two nights. We’re back on Tuesday.” She nods. The itinerary was emailed to her father’s assistant last week. She’d seen it printed and folded on her breakfast tray days ago. Cassian steps through the doors without looking back. They close behind him. With a click, it’s sealed. --- The bridal suite is quiet. Too quiet. The chandelier here is smaller, but its crystals still scatter light like broken glass. A chaise lounge sits beneath tall windows. A silver tray holds two champagne flutes. Her mother stands beside it. “You were radiant,” she says, offering Liana a glass. “Posture, smile, everything was just right.” Liana takes the flute, the bubbles brushing her lips. She drinks because she’s supposed to, not because she wants to. “He didn’t say anything,” she murmurs. Her mother raises an eyebrow. “Words are for poets. You’re not marrying poetry. You wear his name now. That’s the statement.” Liana’s chest tightens. “I just… I wanted him to see me.” Her mother steps closer, voice soft, cool but firm. “This isn’t about being seen. It’s about what the two of you represent. His name. Your presence. Power. That’s what matters now.” Those words land heavy. Power. She looks down at her hand. The diamond ring gleams. It's brilliant, blinding, beautiful. And also cruel. Like an iron cage. Her mother turns away. Her heels click toward the door, and with one final glance, she leaves. The room is still again. Liana sets the flute down. The sound like soft crystal on marble makes her flinch. The windows glow with city light. Life pulses beyond the glass — headlights weaving, laughter rising from open bars, music drifting through the air. But not for her. She takes off her veil slowly, pulling out the pins one by one. Stray curls fall loose, brushing her neck. She doesn’t fix them, she just let's them be. She slides the gown off next. It pools around her feet. She steps out of it, standing in nothing but a white slip that clings softly to her body. It’s the first thing all day that doesn’t feel like a costume. She walks to the window, presses her palm to the cold glass. The city is alive down there — people moving freely, unaware that somewhere above them, a girl in a diamond cage just said yes to a life she never chose.