HIS HEIR - HER REVENGE

CHAPTER 3: The wedding

IVY

The wedding was beautiful. At least, that’s what everyone kept telling me.

The hall looked straight out of a movie—crystal chandeliers dripping light everywhere, rose arches framing every inch of the doorway, a dance floor so white it felt like we were walking on fresh snow in winter. A perfect, hollow performance.

Cameras flashed everywhere, people smiled, glasses clinked. But I couldn't feel any of it. I stood there, my hands cold like ice, my heart beating too loud in my chest, I could feel it thumping, and all I could think was how none of this was real.

They dressed me in a gown that didn't feel like mine. It was heavy, embroidered with tiny diamonds that caught the light when I moved. The veil brushed against my face, soft but suffocating. I kept thinking I couldn't breathe, but I smiled anyway because the cameras were watching.

Damian stood beside me like he owned the room. Maybe he did. His suit was black, perfect. Everything about him was — his expression, his stillness, even the way he looked at me. There was no warmth, no affection—just a quiet, sharp kind of control.

When the priest said, "You may kiss the bride," I froze. His hand came to the back of my neck, calm and firm, and he leaned in. The kiss was soft and careful, but it wasn't love. It was a warning—a claim. And everyone cheered as if it were the happiest day of our lives.

Inside, I was shaking.

After the ceremony, we posed for photos. Damian's arm stayed around my waist the whole time. He didn't squeeze, didn't comfort — he just held me there, steady, like he wanted to remind me that I belonged to him now. I could feel the heat of his body, his breath near my ear as he whispered, almost too low for the cameras to catch.

"Smile wider, Mrs. Rafe."

So I did. Because what else could I do?

The night stretched on endlessly. Dancers twirled, glasses refilled, and people kept congratulating me. You're so lucky, they said. He's so powerful, so handsome. I nodded, I thanked them, I lied. Inside, I felt like a ghost watching someone else's life.

When it was over, Damian's driver opened the car door, and I slipped inside, my gown swallowing half the seat. The silence between us was thick. I could hear the low hum of the engine, the rustle of my dress when I moved. Damian sat beside me, one hand resting on his knee, his gaze out the window.

"Do you always look this terrified?" he asked suddenly.

I swallowed. "I'm not terrified."

He turned his head, just slightly. "You should be."

His words were quiet, but they sank deep into me. I didn't reply. I couldn't.

When we reached the penthouse, the doors opened to marble floors and golden light. Everything gleamed — the kind of place meant to impress, not comfort. I stood there, too stunned to move, while he loosened his tie and handed his jacket to a waiting servant.

"You can go," he told them. His voice carried authority so effortlessly that it made people obey without question. When the doors shut behind us, the silence pressed in again.

I finally spoke. "You didn't have to do all this."

He glanced at me, a faint smirk touching his lips. "A wedding?"

"This… this performance." I gestured weakly toward the room, the flowers, the glittering lights outside the window. "You didn't have to pretend."

He walked toward me, slow and deliberate, stopping only when we were inches apart. "You think I did this for the cameras?"

My throat tightened. "Didn't you?"

He leaned closer, his eyes dark and unreadable. "I did this for you. You wanted your mother alive. You wanted to save her. This is the price."

I took a step back, but he followed. There was no anger in his face, no cruelty I could point to — just that terrifying calm, the kind that made you realize how powerless you were.

"I don't belong here," I whispered.

He studied me for a long moment. Then, softly, almost kindly, he said, "You do now."

I felt tears sting my eyes, but I blinked them away. I wouldn't cry in front of him. Not tonight. Not ever.

He poured himself a drink and sat on the edge of the couch, watching me like he was trying to understand something about me that didn't make sense. I stood there, unsure, clutching my dress.

"You can stop pretending," he said finally. "You don't have to act brave. I know you're scared."

"I'm not scared of you," I lied.

He smiled at that, but it didn't reach his eyes. "You should be," he said again.

The room suddenly felt smaller. The air is thicker.

He rose to his feet and walked past me, toward the long hallway. His voice drifted back, quiet but firm. "Change out of that dress. It's not you."

I didn't move. Couldn't. My hands trembled as I reached for the pins in my hair. Each one slipped free, dropping like tiny metal raindrops onto the floor. My reflection in the mirror looked like someone else — someone I didn't know.

When he came back, I had changed into the silk slip left on the bed. It felt too revealing, too soft against my skin. I turned when I heard him behind me.

"Do you hate me?" he asked.

The question caught me off guard. My voice broke. "I don't even know you."

He looked at me for a long time and then said something that made my stomach twist. "You will."

He walked closer, his movements unhurried. My pulse raced, my thoughts blurred. The walls felt too close, his shadow too large. He lifted my chin with one finger, forcing me to meet his eyes.

"This isn't about love," he said quietly. "It's about survival. Yours. Mine."

I didn't answer. Couldn't.

"From this moment on," he continued, his voice softer now, almost gentle, "you'll learn what it means to belong to me and me only.

I wanted to scream that I didn't belong to anyone. That I was doing this only for my mother. But the words got stuck somewhere between my throat and my heart; I couldn’t voice them out.

He stepped back, letting go of me like he'd already made his point. "Go to sleep, Ivy."

He left the room, his footsteps fading down the hall.