Chapter 15.
1309 Words
Chapter 15: Vows, Velvet and Vengeance
Dream Dauntson.
It is today. The day is finally here. The day of my doom.
The sun rose like it was mocking me, golden and glorious, as if it didn’t know I was about to march down the aisle to marry a man who made Lucifer look like a choirboy.
Today, I became Mrs. Dream Davina-Drawson.
Today, I married Mr. Drowning Demon—also known as Devon Damien Drawson.
I was doomed.
It feels like being devoted to the devil himself. Shackled in silk. Imprisoned by pearls.
Dorey was my little bride. She twirled around the room, giggling in her puff of a dress, her white tulle skirt bouncing like a whipped cloud. She spun so fast her curls fanned around her head, a halo of joy that made the air itself lighter.
“You look like a princess,” she squealed, her cheeks rosy and eyes sparkling like little lanterns.
“And you look like a sugar cube,” I said, trying to keep my voice light. But my heart was hammering in my chest like it was attempting jailbreak.
Her laugh bubbled out, sweet and unbothered, filling the bridal suite with a kind of innocence I no longer owned.
My mother’s voice broke through my internal chaos.
“Are you okay?” she asked for the millionth time, pressing a cool hand to my cheek. Her eyes were soft, but her mouth was tight with concern.
I gave her my best fake smile. “I’m fine, Mum.”
I lied.
I was about to marry the devil in designer shoes. Of course I wasn’t fine.
I turned to the mirror and inhaled sharply.
My dress…
Silhouette: A hybrid of A-line and soft mermaid. It hugged my waist and hips perfectly, then melted into cascading tulle layers like a waterfall of resignation. Every seam whispered compromise, every ruffle looked like surrender stitched with a needle.
Neckline: Off-the-shoulder sweetheart with illusion lace that trailed like vines, teasing my collarbone with elegance I didn’t feel. The lace looked delicate, but it felt like a net.
Fabric: Soft tulle and organza shimmered subtly, almost rebelliously, beneath the lace embroidery. It looked like waves and feathered fire—like someone had stitched my battles, my dreams, my secrets, into the hem.
Color: Not pure white. Definitely not. It was blush champagne, with hints of warmth—like a hidden flame refusing to be snuffed. My rebellion was in the color, and only I knew it.
Sleeves: Detachable tulle. Optional. Magical. Like me. Like my ability to walk away—if only I could.
Details: Tiny pearls and moonstones scattered across the bodice like fallen stars. A cathedral-length train spilled out behind me like a prophecy, like a shadow dragging me toward my fate.
Dorey wore a similar gown in pure white. She looked like innocence.
I looked like revenge wrapped in velvet.
“Time to go,” my mother said softly, her reflection standing behind mine in the mirror, her eyes glistening with something she tried to hide.
My knees buckled slightly. “Right. To go sacrifice myself at the altar.”
“Dream,” she warned, but her eyes twitched like she was holding back a laugh. Even she knew I wasn’t walking into love—I was walking into battle.
“He might be the devil himself... but now he’s my devil. My husband. And if I can’t love him, I’ll outwit him. Respect is earned — and I plan to make him work for every ounce.”
I adjusted my veil, straightened my spine, and stepped out of the room with my little sugar cube bride at my side.
---
Devon Drawson.
They said I was the devil.
Maybe I was. But even the devil had taste.
And as I stood at the altar, the church bursting with roses and venomous stares, I watched her appear at the entrance—and I forgot to breathe.
Dream Davina Dauntson. Miss Daunting Dream.
Walking toward me like she was fire and frost wrapped in silk. The blush of her gown, the soft shimmer of moonstones, the deliberate fierceness in her stride. She wasn’t walking to me.
She was daring me.
She looked like a war.
And I had never wanted anything more.
The chandeliers above caught the shimmer of her dress, scattering fragments of light around the sanctuary as though the universe itself wanted to frame her. She was a battlefield dressed in lace, and every eye turned toward her, caught between awe and envy.
Dorey skipped beside her, a flower basket in hand, her white dress bouncing with every step. She smiled at me like I was a hero. Like I deserved any of this.
I didn’t.
But I was taking it anyway.
Because I was Devon Damien Drawson, and I didn’t lose.
Dream stood before me. Our eyes locked.
She didn’t smile.
Neither did I.
The priest cleared his throat, looking between us like he knew he was officiating a storm.
“We are gathered here today to join these two in holy matrimony...”
I tuned out. All I could hear was her breath. All I could feel was the tension thick between us, alive, electric.
Then it was time for the vows.
The priest turned to her. “Dream Dauntson, do you take Devon Damien Drawson—”
“—To be my living nightmare? My walking migraine? My personal demon in a suit?” she interrupted.
The entire church gasped. My mother dropped her program. Someone choked on champagne. A camera clicked twice, eager to catch the scandal.
I chuckled.
She smirked.
“I do,” she added smoothly, eyes never leaving mine.
Then it was my turn.
The priest looked horrified. “Devon, do you take Dream—”
“To be my stubborn little hurricane? My unexpected addiction? The chaos I didn’t ask for but can’t live without?”
Dream blinked.
I smiled.
“I do.”
The priest blinked like he regretted ever becoming ordained.
We exchanged rings.
Her fingers trembled.
Mine didn’t.
“You may now kiss the bride,” the priest said, looking like he wanted to run.
I leaned in.
She leaned back.
“Don’t you dare,” she whispered, her breath brushing against mine.
“I’ll make it worth it,” I whispered back.
I kissed her.
The entire room erupted into chaos—some cheering, some gasping, some laughing nervously.
She didn’t kiss back.
Until I bit her lower lip.
Then she slapped me.
The sharp crack echoed through the church like a pistol shot.
Let her slap me. Let her fight. In the end, she’s mine — and that’s all that matters.
The crowd gasped again.
“He deserved it,” she told them, her chin high.
And they all agreed.
---
Dream Dauntson.
The reception was a circus.
Dancing. Cameras. Champagne that tasted like regret. Everyone pretending they love, love. Pretending to toast to happiness. Pretending I wasn’t shackled in velvet vows I hadn’t truly chosen.
Except me.
I was too busy plotting my vengeance.
Because I knew this wasn’t over.
He looked too satisfied. Too smug. Like a man who had finally won a war.
But he hadn’t seen anything yet.
I watched him from across the hall.
The ballroom glowed with gold lights, chandeliers dripping crystal tears, roses blooming in silver vases tall enough to tower over children. Laughter bounced off the walls. Music swelled. Couples spun across the floor. But none of it mattered. My world narrowed to him.
He raised his glass to me.
I raised my eyebrow.
He winked.
I smiled.
Because love isn’t blind.
It’s tactical.
And this velvet vow?
It was just the beginning.
Of a very dramatic war.
Between vengeance and velvet.
Between Mr. Drowning Demon.
And his blushing bride from hell.
- Writer
