Cold Wedding

The air in the grand hall was heavy, not with joy, but with the tense silence of two worlds forced together. Crystal chandeliers glistened overhead, their beauty wasted on a room where not a single smile reached the eyes.

I sat at the edge of the bridal chair, the intricate lace of my white gown brushing against the marble floor. My hands, cold and clammy, clutched the bouquet so tightly the roses were starting to bend. Across from me, Michael stood tall in his black suit, his jaw clenched, eyes fixed anywhere but on me.

It should have been a day for love, laughter, and promises. Instead, it was a treaty—signed with rings instead of pens.

The priest cleared his throat, his voice echoing in the silence. “Do you, Christabel, take Michael to be your lawfully wedded husband…?”

My lips parted, but no words came out at first. I caught a glimpse of my father’s stern face from the front row, his eyes sharp with warning. This marriage was not for me. It was for the family name, for peace between two feuding empires.

“I do,” I finally whispered, though it sounded more like surrender than a vow.

When the same question was posed to Michael, his response was clipped, almost impatient. “I do.”

The exchange of rings felt mechanical. His fingers brushed mine, cool and distant, as if the touch was an obligation rather than a connection. We were bound now—two unwilling hearts tied together by chains no one could see.

The applause was polite, forced. I could almost hear the sighs of relief from our fathers, as if this ceremony was the end of a war. For me, it felt like the start of a sentence I couldn’t escape.

We walked down the aisle side by side, but there was an invisible wall between us. Outside, cameras flashed, reporters shouted questions, and family members feigned delight. Michael’s hand barely brushed mine, just enough for appearances.

The reception was just as stiff. Elegant meals sat untouched, while small talk filled the air. I barely tasted the champagne in my glass. My mind wandered to the life I had before—one where I had choices, dreams, and freedom.

“Smile,” Michael murmured suddenly, his voice low and unreadable. He leaned in, close enough for the photographers to believe in our fairy tale. “They’re watching.”

I forced my lips into a curve, but my eyes betrayed me. I could feel his tension as well; he didn’t want this any more than I did.

The first dance was the hardest. Standing in the center of the floor, his hand rested on my waist, my palm on his shoulder. We moved in slow circles, the music soft and romantic, though neither of us looked at each other. I could feel the heat of his body, but there was no warmth in it.

“Let’s just get through tonight,” he said quietly, his voice laced with exhaustion.

By the time the last guest left, I was drained. The limo ride to his family’s estate was silent, save for the faint hum of the engine. When we arrived, the grand house loomed before us, beautiful but intimidating—like a gilded cage.

Inside, he showed me to a lavish bedroom, the farthest from his own. “You’ll be comfortable here,” he said, standing in the doorway.

I looked at him, searching for any sign of softness, but his expression was unreadable. “Goodnight, Christabel.”

The door closed behind him, and the silence was deafening. I sank onto the bed, my gown still heavy on my shoulders. This was my wedding night—cold, empty, and nothing like the stories I once believed in.

And deep down, I knew this was only the beginning.

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