Tied to my enemy

Chapter Four: Between Ice and Fire

The wedding became the talk of Velencia before it even happened. Everyone who was anyone wanted to attend not because they cared about Celeste Armand or Lysander Vale, but because the union of two rival empires was too scandalous to miss. Invitations were fought over like tickets to the end of the world.

Celeste had expected the chaos, but she hadn’t expected the quiet that followed. After the ceremony — after the flashes, the champagne, the hollow applause there was silence. No congratulations from her father. No warmth from her new husband. Just a car ride to a mansion by the cliffs, and the weight of a diamond ring on her finger that felt more like a shackle than a symbol of love.

The Vale Mansion was breathtaking — black marble floors, towering glass windows, and the sound of the sea crashing against the rocks below. It was the kind of beauty that demanded awe, not comfort. The kind of house that said, You may live here, but you do not belong here.

When the butler led her through the halls, Celeste could feel Lysander’s gaze on her. He walked beside her in silence, his hands in his pockets, his posture so composed it made her want to break something.

“This way, Mrs. Vale,” the butler said with a slight bow.

The title twisted like a knife.

Lysander’s eyes flicked to her. “Your room is down that corridor.”

“My room?” she repeated, arching a brow. “Not our room?”

“I thought you’d prefer your privacy,” he didn't blink as he replied her.

Celeste’s lips curved into a bitter smile. “How considerate of you, Mr. Vale. You’re truly the dream husband every woman hopes for.”

He ignored her sarcasm and turned away, his voice even. “Dinner is at eight. You may join me if you wish or not. Either way, the chef prepares for two.”

She didn’t reply. He left her standing there, the echo of his footsteps fading into the mansion’s silence.

That night, Celeste couldn’t eat even though the chef had prepared a meal that looked like art — glazed salmon, truffle risotto, red wine poured into crystal glasses but every bite tasted like glass. She sat at the end of a long table, staring at the empty chair across from her. Lysander hadn’t shown up.

Instead, she wandered through the halls, past the library with its locked door, past the grand staircase where her heels clicked like accusations. The house was so big it felt hollow, like a museum of loneliness.

When she reached the balcony, the wind hit her face, cold and briny. The ocean roared below — wild, free, everything she wasn’t allowed to be.

“You shouldn’t stand too close to the edge,” came a deep voice behind her.

Celeste turned sharply. Lysander stood in the doorway, his black shirt unbuttoned at the collar, no tie, no mask of indifference this time. Just shadows on his face and something dangerous in his eyes.

“Why? Afraid I’ll ruin your perfect headlines by falling?” she said.

He stepped closer, his gaze unwavering. “You think I care about headlines?”

“I think you care about control,” she shot back. “And I don’t like being controlled.”

“Then perhaps you shouldn’t have agreed to this marriage.”

She laughed bitterly. “As if I had a choice. My father made it clear what would happen to the Armand company if I refused. And you—” She looked him straight in the eye. “You agreed because it suited your revenge.”

His jaw tightened. “You know nothing about my reasons.”

“Oh, please,” she said softly. “You’ve hated my family for years. This is your victory, isn’t it? The daughter of your enemy wearing your name.”

Something flickered in his gaze — anger, maybe pain but it vanished too quickly to read. He stepped forward until the cold wind wrapped around both of them.

“Believe what you want,” he said quietly. “But you’re not my enemy anymore, Celeste. You’re my wife and I protect what’s mine.”

Her pulse stuttered. The way he said mine — not possessive, not cruel, but heavy with promise made her forget how to breathe. For a second, the silence between them wasn’t hostile. It was alive.

Then he turned away. “Goodnight, Mrs. Vale.”

She watched him leave, her heart warring with her pride.

Days blurred into weeks. They lived together but apart two strangers bound by rings and resentment.

He worked late; she wandered the estate.

He avoided conversations; she filled her solitude with painting, with long walks by the cliffs, with quiet anger.

But slowly, something shifted.

He started leaving small things behind — a cup of coffee on the counter, her favorite pastries from a café she hadn’t mentioned since the wedding. He didn’t say a word, and neither did she, but the gestures spoke louder than pride.

Once, she fell asleep reading in the library — the one room she’d found unlocked after days of trying. When she woke, a blanket had been placed over her. She smiled, though she pretended not to notice.

One evening, as rain lashed against the windows, the power flickered and went out. The mansion plunged into darkness. Celeste lit a candle and wandered the halls, her silk robe brushing against her legs. The sound of thunder drowned out her thoughts.

She found him in the living room, staring at the fireplace he hadn’t bothered to light. Lightning flashed, catching his face in fragments — the cold beauty, the fatigue, the loneliness.

“Storm’s bad,” she said softly.

He looked up, surprised she’d spoken first. “You’re afraid of the dark?”

“I’m not a child, Lysander.”

He gave a faint smirk. “Good then sit.”

She hesitated, then joined him by the cold fireplace. For a long moment, neither spoke. The storm filled the silence.

Finally, she asked, “Why me?”

He looked at her, really looked at her. “Because your father took everything from mine. Because marrying you made him believe he finally won.”

Celeste froze, his words slicing sharper than she expected. “So that’s it? Revenge?”

Lysander’s jaw flexed, his eyes unreadable