Chapter 5 – Wedding Without Love

Weddings are supposed to be beautiful. White dresses. Champagne. People pretending they like each other while judging your choice of centerpieces.

Mine? Oh, mine was stunning—on Instagram. In real life, it was colder than Damien Cross’s heart. Which, by the way, could probably freeze entire oceans.

The hotel ballroom was an explosion of wealth: crystal chandeliers, imported orchids, and a carpet so plush I was scared of spilling my dignity on it. High society vultures filled every table, dressed in smiles sharper than the knives they’d gladly plunge into your back for a headline.

Photographers swarmed like flies on spilled champagne, their lenses clicking with the desperation of people who live for other people’s misery. Spoiler alert: they were about to feast on mine.

Damien stood at the altar, wearing a black suit that cost more than my entire college education. He didn’t look nervous. He didn’t even look bored. He looked… calculated. Like a man closing a merger, not a man getting married.

Me? I walked down the aisle in a designer gown that wasn’t mine. Vera had picked it. Before… well, before she became my stepsister-cum-homewrecker. Poetic, right? Wearing the dress your betrayer chose while marrying the man she fears most. If karma had a Pinterest board, this would be pinned front and center.

As I reached the altar, Damien offered his arm like a gentleman out of a fairy tale. Except in this fairy tale, the prince was the villain, and the princess was carrying enough spite to fuel a nuclear reactor.

“You look beautiful,” he murmured, low enough that only I could hear.

I almost laughed. Almost. But sarcasm won the battle for my mouth. “Thanks. You look like you’re about to fire someone for breathing too loudly.”

His lips curved—just slightly. For Damien, that was basically a standing ovation.

The priest droned on about love, unity, and vows that sounded like cruel jokes in our context. I tuned him out, wondering if hell has a VIP section for people who marry out of revenge.

When it came time for the vows, Damien went first. His voice was smooth, steady, dripping with sincerity so convincing I almost believed it. Almost.

“I promise to honor and protect you,” he said, his eyes locking on mine like chains. “To stand by your side through every storm.”

Translation: You’re mine now. Try leaving, and I’ll burn the world down.

Then it was my turn. I smiled sweetly, like a cobra wearing lipstick. “I promise to play my part perfectly,” I said, voice honeyed and venom-laced.

Gasps rippled through the audience. Damien’s lips twitched again—amusement or warning, hard to tell.

The rings slid onto fingers like shackles disguised as jewelry. Then came the kiss. The one moment every guest, every camera, every gossip blogger was waiting for.

His hand cupped my jaw, his breath warm against my lips. For a split second, the world held its breath. And then—he kissed me.

Not a polite peck. Not even a fake show-for-the-cameras kiss. No, this was a full-blown, spine-tingling, soul-snatching kiss that could launch a thousand scandals.

Gasps erupted. Flashbulbs exploded. My brain short-circuited.

When he finally pulled back, I was dizzy—not because I liked it (don’t get ideas), but because Damien Cross kissed like he declared war.

“Smile,” he whispered, his lips still brushing mine. “The wolves are watching.”

So I smiled. Perfect, practiced, poisonous.

The applause thundered. Hashtags were probably trending within seconds: #CrossWedding, #IceKingAndQueen, #CoupleGoalsButMakeItTerrifying.

As we walked back down the aisle, arm in arm, I spotted Vera in the crowd. Her face was a Picasso painting of shock, rage, and desperation. Beautiful. Absolutely beautiful.

For one glorious moment, I felt victorious. But victories like these? They come with fine print. And Damien Cross was the kind of man who wrote the fine print in blood.

The reception was a blur of clinking glasses and fake laughter. People I didn’t know congratulated me like I’d won the lottery, when in reality, I’d just mortgaged my soul to the devil in a designer suit.

Damien stayed glued to my side, a human iceberg in Armani. Every smile he gave was rehearsed. Every word, calculated. And yet, he played the doting husband flawlessly—feeding the media narrative like a master puppeteer.

“Careful,” he murmured against my ear as we posed for another photo. “Your smile looks real. People might think you actually like me.”

I resisted the urge to step on his foot. “Don’t flatter yourself. I’m just imagining Vera choking on her champagne.”

He chuckled, low and dark, and for a fleeting second, I wondered what he sounded like when he laughed for real. Then I reminded myself that curiosity kills more than cats.

By the time the night ended, I was exhausted—not physically, but mentally. Pretending to be happy is harder than bench-pressing a planet.

As the last guest left, Damien escorted me to the waiting car, his hand resting lightly on my lower back. Possessive. Proprietary. A silent warning to the world: She’s mine.

When the doors shut, silence enveloped us. Heavy. Charged.

I turned to him, my voice dripping with irony. “So… husband.”

He met my gaze, his eyes dark and unreadable. “So… wife.”

And just like that, reality sank in. This wasn’t a fairy tale. It wasn’t even a nightmare. It was something worse.

It was a story with no happy ending in sight.

At least, not yet.

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