Stripper's Love: Addicted To Me

The Golden Gage

The heavy silk of the wedding dress felt less like a garment and more like a gilded shroud.

Celestia sat on the edge of her bed, staring blankly at the floor-length mirror. The lace sleeves clung tightly to her arms, and the massive tulle skirt billowed around her, pinning her to the mattress under its sheer weight. On the mahogany nightstand, her phone vibrated against the wood for the twentieth time that morning.

Sebastian.

The screen flashed his name, a lifeline she desperately wanted to reach for. But Don’s parting words from two weeks ago remained burned into her mind, cold and precise: I will strip him of his inheritance and exile him so far from this city he will become a ghost.

A single tear cut through the flawless makeup the stylists had spent three hours perfecting. She squeezed her eyes shut, forcing her hands to stay clamped in her lap. Forcing him away was the only weapon she had left to protect him. If she answered, if she heard the desperate, volatile edge in his voice, her resolve would shatter completely. She was a lamb walking toward the slaughter, and she had to go quietly to keep him alive.

The heavy oak door to her bridal suite swung open, breaking the silence.

"Celestia, oh my god, you look beautiful, but we have to move right now!"

Her sister, Angel, rushed into the room, a blur of pastel bridesmaid chiffon and high-energy panic. Angel didn't notice the hollow look in Celestia’s eyes or the way her hands trembled against the silk of her skirt. To Angel, this was the wedding of the century—the ultimate alliance of wealth and power that would save their family's name.

"The guests are all seated, the press is outside, and Marco is already waiting at the altar," Angel said, breathless as she reached down and firmly grabbed Celestia’s wrists, pulling her up from the bed. "Come on, deep breaths. Don't ruin your mascara. Today you become a Sinclair."

A Sinclair. The name tasted like copper. Celestia let herself be pulled along, her legs moving mechanically down the long, carpeted hallways of the grand cathedral toward the massive double doors that separated her from her doom.

Outside the sanctuary, the air was freezing. Celestia stood flanked by her father, whose grip on her arm was tight enough to bruise. He didn't look at her; his eyes were fixed on the heavy doors ahead, his jaw set in a hard line of desperation.

"Smile, Celestia," her father muttered, his voice strained. "Everything rides on this afternoon. Do not embarrass me."

She didn't reply. She couldn't.

The heavy church doors groaned open, and a wall of organ music hit her like a physical blow.

Hundreds of faces turned toward her, a sea of high-society elites, politicians, and camera flashes. But Celestia only saw one person: Marco Sinclair.

Standing at the end of the aisle, Marco looked every bit the ruthless heir to an empire. His tailored black tuxedo was immaculate, his posture rigid, and his handsome face wore a smug, possessive smirk. He didn't look at her like a man looking at his bride; he looked at her like a businessman securing a major asset.

Her father escorted her down the long aisle, each step feeling like a countdown. When they reached the altar, her father hand-delivered Celestia's freezing fingers into Marco’s warm, suffocating grip.

"You look pale," Marco murmured under his breath, his fingers tightening around hers just enough to signal his absolute ownership. "But the white dress suits you."

Celestia kept her eyes locked on his silk tie, refusing to look into his dark, calculating eyes. The priest cleared his throat and began the ceremony. The Latin vows washed over her in a meaningless blur. To have and to hold. For richer, for poorer. Every word felt like another brick in the wall trapping her inside this life.

In the front row, Don Sinclair sat with his hands resting on his silver cane, his eyes boring into the side of Celestia's face. A silent reminder of the threat.

"If anyone here knows of any reason why these two should not be wed," the priest’s voice echoed through the vaulted ceilings, "speak now, or forever hold your peace."

A heavy, scripted silence fell over the congregation. The priest began to turn the page of his text, ready to seal the bond.

BANG.

The heavy, reinforced doors at the back of the cathedral slammed open, hitting the stone walls with the force of an explosion. The music violently cut out. Gasps rippled through the pews as hundreds of guests whipped around.

Sebastian stood in the doorway. His chest heaved, his dark hair was disheveled, and his eyes were wild. He didn't look at the guards rushing toward him; his gaze locked entirely on Celestia.

"Get your hands off her," Sebastian shouted, his voice booming through the sacred space as he marched down the aisle, shoving a security guard out of his path with brutal force.

"Sebastian, stop this madness!" Don’s voice cut through the chaos from the front row, lethal and sharp, but Sebastian ignored his father completely. He stepped up onto the altar, his hands trembling as he reached out and grabbed Celestia's arm, trying to pull her away from Marco.

"Celestia, look at me," Sebastian pleaded, his rough voice a stark contrast to the cold perfection of the room. "We're leaving. Right now. I don't care about the money, I don't care about the families. Come with me."

Marco’s jaw tightened, his eyes darkening with dangerous fury as he stepped forward to intervene. His hand moved toward the inside of his jacket, a subtle, menacing gesture that Celestia caught instantly. At the same time, three of Don’s armed men moved into the aisle, their hands hovering near their holsters.

Celestia felt the cold, calculating gaze of Don piercing into her back. The invisible strings were tightening around her neck. If she ran with Sebastian today, he wouldn't make it out of the parking lot alive. Don would destroy him, Marco would kill him, and her family would be ruined. The fallout would leave both dynasties soaked in blood.

With a heart that felt like it was breaking into a thousand pieces, Celestia tore her arm out of Sebastian’s grip.

"Stop it, Sebastian," she forced out, her voice loud and steady enough to echo through the silent church, though it tore her throat to say it.

Sebastian froze, his eyes widening. "Celestia... what are you doing? Let's go."

"No," she said, looking him dead in the eyes, forcing every ounce of emotion out of her face until she looked as cold as the marble pillars around them. "I am not going anywhere with you. This is my choice."

The lie tasted like ash.

"You're lying," Sebastian hissed, stepping closer, his chest heaving. "He's forcing you. My father is forcing you"

"I said no!" Celestia interrupted, her voice cracking slightly under the weight of her despair. "I want this, Sebastian. I want the Sinclair name. I want this wealth. You were just a distraction, a temporary mistake. Please... leave."

Sebastian stumbled back a step as if he had been physically struck. The fire in his eyes died out, replaced by a hollow, devastating betrayal. He looked from Celestia to Marco, who was now watching with a triumphant, cruel smile.

"A mistake," Sebastian whispered, the words bitter on his tongue.

He looked at her for one final, agonizing second, searching her face for the girl who had clawed at the wooden table in his arms two weeks ago. Finding nothing but a masked stranger, Sebastian turned on his heel and walked back down the aisle, his shadow stretching long and dark across the chapel floor.

The heavy doors shut behind him, leaving Celestia alone at the altar.

"Shall we continue?" Marco asked smoothly, taking her trembling hand once more and squeezing it until her bones ached.

Celestia stared ahead, her ruin finally complete. "Yes," she choked out. "Let's finish it."