3 EPİSODE ❣️
2532 Words
Logan
I had to admit that Isabella would be the perfect wife for me, beautiful, wealthy, sophisticated and educated. A dream woman. Dessert was soon served and I watched as Isabella rose gracefully from her chair to get some.
"Would the lady like to have some help?" I asked her.
"No thank you" she said sharply. "This lady is perfectly capable and independent."
I shrugged. "Alright, suit yourself." I said. I noticed her father giving her a pointed look as she rolled her eyes at him as she stalked off to the dessert area.
"I apologize for my daughter's behavior. Perhaps she is having a bad day," he said.
"Or a bad time of the month," I said under my breath.
"What was that?" he asked.
"Oh, nothing. I suppose I should go and help Isabella with her dessert if she would need it," I said, wanting to appear as the perfect future son-in-law in her father's eyes.
I pushed back my chair and strolled toward the dessert table, where Isabella stood, meticulously selecting from the array of decadent options. She reached for a slice of tiramisu, her fingers pausing as if debating between that and the chocolate soufflé.
"Indecisive?" I teased, stepping beside her.
She didn't spare me a glance. "No. I simply have refined taste and prefer to take my time."
I smirked, watching her plate the tiramisu with the same precision she probably used in business. "Tiramisu, huh? I pegged you as more of a fruit tart kind of woman."
She finally looked up, her sharp eyes narrowing. "And what exactly does that mean?"
I shrugged. "Something delicate, sweet, with a bit of a sharp bite. But I suppose tiramisu works too—layered, complex, and bitter beneath the sweetness."
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "If you're trying to impress me with your analysis of desserts, it's failing spectacularly."
I chuckled, grabbing a plate for myself. "I don't need to impress you, Isabella. This arrangement is already set in stone."
She stiffened, her fingers tightening around her fork. "Maybe in your mind, but I don't belong to anyone, Logan. Least of all you."
I leaned in slightly, lowering my voice so only she could hear. "We'll see about that."
Before she could respond, another guest approached, greeting her warmly. Taking my opportunity, I plucked a chocolate soufflé from the tray and turned away, a smirk tugging at my lips.
This marriage would be far from easy, but I enjoyed a good challenge. And Isabella? She was the most intriguing challenge of all.
I watched Isabella as she ate and turned to give me a pointed look.
"What?" she said.
"You look beautiful this evening," I said.
"As if I shall fall for your compliments," she said as she took another delicate bite out of her tiramisu.
"Oh believe me, darling, one day, you shan't only fall for my compliments but for me as well," I whispered in her ear.
She scoffed, dabbing the corner of her lips with a linen napkin before meeting my gaze. "You are delusional if you think I will ever fall for you, Logan."
I smirked, leaning back in his chair as I leisurely sipped my wine. "We'll see about that, darling."
Her eyes burned with irritation, but she quickly masked it with her usual poised elegance. Isabella was fascinating—she wore her confidence like armor, and I enjoyed every second of trying to crack through it.
Just then, her father cleared his throat, drawing our attention. "Logan, Isabella," he said, his tone carrying an air of finality. "I trust you two are getting along?"
I grinned, glancing at Isabella, who merely lifted her chin stubbornly. "Oh, absolutely," I said smoothly. "Isabella and I were just discussing how we'll make this arrangement work."
She shot me a sharp look before forcing a tight smile. "Yes, Father. Everything is... under control."
Her father beamed, satisfied with her response. "Good, good. We'll finalize the engagement announcement soon."
At that, Isabella gripped her fork a little tighter, and I bit back a chuckle. She was still resisting, still fighting against the inevitable. But it was only a matter of time.
As the evening went on, I continued to play the role of the charming fiancé-to-be, indulging in polite conversation, keeping my amusement at Isabella's annoyance well-hidden. She was fire and ice, and I wanted to experience every part of her—whether she liked it or not.
By the end of the gala, as guests began to leave, Isabella turned to me, her voice low but firm. "If you think for one second that I will make this easy for you, you are sorely mistaken."
I smirked, offering my arm to escort her out. "Darling, I wouldn't want it any other way."
I was in my office working the next Monday when I heard the sharp clacking of heels make their way to my office and found Isabella standing in front of the office.
"You didn't knock," I said, going back to my paperwork.
"I didn't need to. I just came to tell you that if you wish to propose to me to become your wife, I shall be expecting the most expensive diamond ring in the store on my finger," she said as I scoffed.
"Typical greedy woman," I said as I watched her bite the bottom of her luscious lip to hold herself back from talking back to me.
"I am my father's princess and your soon-to-be-queen. If I am to be yours, then I shall appear as so starting with the lavish diamond ring shining brightly on my finger," she said.
I leaned back in my chair, lacing my fingers together as I studied her. Isabella stood tall, poised, her sharp eyes daring me to deny her request. She was challenging me, testing how far she could push.
"A queen, huh?" I mused, tilting my head. "And what makes you think I'd entertain your demands?"
She smirked, crossing her arms. "Because, Logan, this arrangement is as much about business as it is about marriage. If I am to stand by your side, representing our union, I will not do so with mediocrity." She leaned forward slightly, her perfume subtly intoxicating. "Besides, it's not as if you can't afford it."
I let out a short chuckle. "Oh, I can afford it, sweetheart. But I don't believe in rewarding entitlement."
Her jaw tightened, but she masked her irritation with a practiced smile. "Then consider it an investment. If I am to be your wife, I will be nothing short of perfection. And perfection requires a certain... standard."
I had to admire her boldness. She was no meek, helpless heiress waiting for a prince to sweep her off her feet—no, she wanted control, wanted to dictate the terms of our engagement. And I? I found that utterly fascinating.
Pushing my chair back, I stood and walked around my desk, stopping just inches from her. She didn't step away. Instead, she met my gaze, unwavering.
"Fine," I said, voice low and firm. "You'll get your ring. But, Isabella, if you think for a second that I'll be the one bending to your every whim, you're mistaken."
Her lips curled into a knowing smirk. "We'll see about that, darling."
With that, she turned on her heel and strutted out of my office, leaving behind the faintest hint of her perfume and the thrill of a challenge I was more than willing to accept.
Our engagement and wedding ceremony was held on Saturday in the ballroom of another one of her father's hotels which was called, The Grand Orchid. The venue was as luxurious as expected, with shimmering chandeliers hanging from the high ceilings, reflecting the soft glow of the golden candlelight on the tables. A long aisle was adorned with white roses, leading up to the elevated platform where we would exchange our vows—if you could even call it that.
I stood at the front of the room, dressed in a tailored black tuxedo, my expression calm, composed, though my mind was a whirlwind. This whole thing felt more like a business transaction than a celebration of love. Isabella, my so-called bride-to-be, stood beside me, her icy demeanor not hiding the fact that she was as displeased as I was. We weren't here to fall in love; we were here to seal a deal.
The guests, mostly from both our families and business circles, watched expectantly, murmuring quietly among themselves. I caught a few glances in my direction, some congratulatory, others calculating. But I kept my focus straight ahead, trying not to show any cracks in my usually impenetrable mask.
Then, Isabella walked into the room, and everything seemed to halt.
Her gown was an elegant white satin creation, custom-designed, of course, to match her royal standards. The deep V-neckline and intricate lace detailing along the bodice made her appear like a vision, her beauty only heightened by the cold, regal way she carried herself. She was every inch the queen she imagined herself to be, and though I despised the idea of marrying her for anything other than business, I couldn’t deny that she looked absolutely breathtaking.
She met my gaze briefly as she walked down the aisle, and for just a split second, I saw something behind her steely expression. Was it doubt? No, that couldn’t be it. She was too calculating to let anything slip.
When she reached the altar, we both exchanged a glance before turning to face the officiant. The ceremony was short, no vows to be exchanged, just the formalities that marked the beginning of our inevitable union. I could see Isabella’s tight smile, the one she wore when everything was going according to plan.
“Do you, Logan Matthews, take Isabella Vidal to be your lawfully wedded wife?” the officiant asked.
I hesitated, not because I had any second thoughts, but because I realized I wasn’t just agreeing to a marriage—I was agreeing to a life where my every decision would be scrutinized, where power plays would become the norm. This was my chance to expand my empire, to solidify my position in the industry, but at what cost?
“I do,” I finally said, my voice unwavering.
The officiant turned to Isabella. “And do you, Isabella Davenport, take Logan Matthews to be your lawfully wedded husband?”
She smiled, but it was more of a victory smirk than a loving expression. “I do.”
“Then by the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
The room erupted into applause, but I barely heard it. I was too focused on the woman beside me, the woman I would soon share a life with—a life that was more about power and business than affection.
Isabella turned to face me, her eyes locking with mine, and for the briefest of moments, there was no mask, no facade. There was just the quiet understanding between us that this was a beginning, but not one filled with romance.
It was a beginning filled with strategy.
Our wedding reception was soon held as my friends spoke of me in a high regard and proposed a toast to me. Dinner was soon served and Isabella and I were called upon to cut the wedding cake together.
The room buzzed with excitement as the guests raised their glasses in my direction, offering congratulations and well wishes. The clinking of crystal filled the air, but I barely registered it, too focused on the woman beside me. Isabella looked every bit the part of a glamorous wife, her radiant smile belying the cool detachment that always seemed to define her. The cake stood before us, a towering, intricate creation that had been carefully designed to match the elegance of the event—pure white with delicate sugar flowers cascading down the sides.
A spotlight flickered above us as we made our way to the cake, the crowd quieting in anticipation. As we stood side by side, I felt the weight of the moment pressing down on me. We weren’t here to celebrate love; we were here to display power, wealth, and the union of two empires.
Isabella’s hand brushed mine briefly as she took hold of the knife, and for a moment, I wondered if this marriage was as much a cage for her as it was for me. But I quickly pushed that thought away. I wasn’t here for sympathy. I was here for progress.
We both grasped the knife together, the cold steel slipping into the smooth frosting, and I caught her eye for a brief second. There was no warmth there, just business. No romance, no connection. I wondered if there ever would be.
“Shall we?” I asked, my voice smooth and controlled.
Isabella gave me a slight nod, her expression unreadable. As we cut the first slice, the crowd erupted in applause once again, their cheers echoing around the ballroom. It was all too perfect, all too rehearsed.
Isabella held her slice delicately, offering it to me with a tight-lipped smile. I took it from her, our fingers grazing briefly before I held out the slice for her. Her lips curled into that same forced smile as she took the piece from me. The delicate exchange was performed with the precision of two actors reading their lines.
“To our future,” I said, raising my glass in a toast.
“To our future,” Isabella echoed, her voice icy but steady.
As we clinked our glasses together, I felt the distance between us grow even wider. She was the perfect image of a bride, but the woman I’d married was a stranger, one who saw this marriage as nothing more than a transaction. A means to an end.
We moved through the reception, each step calculated, each smile measured. Isabella’s family and mine exchanged pleasantries, and I caught a glimpse of her father’s satisfied expression. This deal was already paying dividends. But the reality of this marriage weighed heavily on my shoulders.
It wasn’t love that had brought us together—it was ambition. We were two powerful people bound by circumstance, not desire.
As the evening wore on, I found myself drawn into conversation with various business partners and colleagues, all eager to talk shop in between rounds of champagne. But my mind kept drifting back to Isabella, who stood across the room, exchanging words with some of her friends.
She looked beautiful, as always. But her beauty only highlighted the emptiness of this union.
This was the price we paid for power.
- Writer
