CHAPTER 3: COLD CEREMONY

The roses were white—bloodless, perfect, expensive. They filled the Blake family chapel with their cloying sweetness, a cloying scent that tried and failed to mask the scent of old wood and older money. I stood at the back of the small sanctuary, my hand heavy on Richard Blake's arm, and tried to pretend this was anything other than the most elaborate business transaction in history. The lace of my veil felt like a net, catching the air before it could reach my lungs.

"You look beautiful, dear." Richard's voice was gentle, paternal in a way that made my chest tight with an unexpected pang. His weathered hand covered mine where it rested on his sleeve, his grip warm and steady. "My son is a lucky man."

Lucky. The word tasted like a lie on his tongue. I almost laughed, but it would have come out bitter, and Richard Blake didn't deserve my bitterness. He had been nothing but kind since I signed the contract, treating me like a daughter-in-law instead of a temporary house guest.

"Thank you for walking me down the aisle," I said, my voice as steady and professional as a legal contract. "I know it means a lot to Damien."

Something flickered across Richard's weathered face—guilt? Regret? His grip on my hand tightened just slightly, and when he spoke, his voice was rougher than before. "Aria… if there's anything you need to know, anything at all..." He trailed off, looking toward the altar where his son waited. "Sometimes the past casts long shadows. Sometimes we think we're protecting people by keeping quiet, but all we're doing is letting them wander in the dark."

Before I could ask what he meant, the organ began to play. The slow, solemn notes of the processional hung in the air, and it was time. The sanctuary was small, intimate, filled with people I didn't know wearing expressions of polite joy. Damien's family, his friends, his business associates—all here to witness what they thought was a love story. The irony burned in my throat like bile.

At the front, Damien stood perfectly still in his black tuxedo, hands clasped behind his back. He looked less like a groom and more like a man facing a firing squad. When his eyes found mine, something passed between us—not love, not even affection, but a kind of grim, shared acknowledgment. We were both here under duress, just different kinds.

Eleanor Blake sat in the front pew, dabbing at her eyes with a lace handkerchief. She had been nothing but warm to me, telling stories about Damien as a child, showing me photo albums filled with a boy who looked nothing like the cruel teenager I remembered. But grandmothers saw their grandchildren through rose-colored glasses. They didn't see the monsters their sweet boys could become.

Kyle sat three rows back, his presence a constant weight on my consciousness. He had insisted on coming despite the awkwardness, despite the way Damien’s jaw had tightened when I mentioned it.

*“I need to be there for you,” Kyle had said, gripping my hands with that familiar intensity. "After everything we've been through together... I can't let you face this alone."*

*Now he watched from his seat, his face a mask of supportive sorrow. He played the part of the devoted friend who was losing the woman he loved to necessity. It was a good performance. It always had been.*

The words of the ceremony washed over me like white noise, empty phrases for an empty ceremony. I responded when prompted, my voice clear and hollow. Damien's responses were equally mechanical, like we were both reading from a script neither of us had written.

"Do you, Damien Michael Blake, take Aria to be your lawfully wedded wife, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or poorer..."

"I do." His voice was steady, but I caught the slight tremor underneath, a vibration in the air that only I seemed to feel. When he looked at me, there was something desperate in his eyes, like he was trying to tell me something he couldn't say aloud.

"Do you, Aria Rose Chen, take Damien to be your lawfully wedded husband..."

The words stuck in my throat, a dry lump of fear and resignation. This was it. The point of no return. I thought of Kyle's medical bills, of his pale face when he talked about his future, of fifteen years of guilt and obligation that had led me to this exact, terrifying moment.

*“Please don't leave me. Please don't go where I can't follow."*

*The voice, small and filled with a heartbreak that wasn't mine, echoed in my mind. The memory was a fragment, a glimpse of a different time, a different boy, a desperate plea I couldn’t place.*

I took a breath. "I do."

But as the words left my mouth, something else surfaced—a fragment of memory, sharp and sudden. A young voice, desperate and pleading: *"Please don't leave me. Please don't go where I can't follow."* The memory was gone before I could grasp it, leaving only the echo of heartbreak that wasn't mine.

The rings were platinum, simple, beautiful. Damien's hands shook slightly as he slid mine into place, his fingers gentle against my skin. For a moment, our eyes met, and I saw something raw and vulnerable in his dark gaze—the boy from my fragmented memory, the one who used to watch me with such longing it made my chest ache. But that boy was gone, replaced by the man who had made my teenage years a living hell.

"You may kiss the bride."

The moment stretched between us, loaded with years of history I didn't fully understand. Damien stepped closer, his hands framing my face with a surprising tenderness that made my skin prickle with recognition. His thumbs brushed across my cheekbones, and I caught my breath at the gentleness in his touch.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, so quietly only I could hear. "For all of it. I'm so fucking sorry, Aria."

Before I could process his words, his lips touched mine. The kiss was soft, careful, nothing like I expected. There was no possession in it, no claim of ownership. Just… sadness. Regret. And something else I couldn't name—something that tasted like longing and felt like coming home. My body responded before my mind could object, a warmth spreading through my chest that had nothing to do with attraction and everything to do with recognition. Like my soul knew something my brain refused to accept.

Applause filled the small chapel, and we broke apart. Damien's eyes searched mine for something—forgiveness? Understanding? But I had nothing to give him except confusion and the bitter taste of what might have been.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Blake." His voice was formal again, the brief moment of vulnerability locked away.

Mrs. Blake. The name felt foreign on my tongue, like trying on someone else's clothes. I wasn't Mrs. Blake—I was Aria Chen, Kyle Morrison's debt, a borrowed woman playing a role I never auditioned for.

___**__

The Wedding Reception

The reception was a blur of congratulations and champagne I didn't drink, of Richard's emotional toast and Eleanor's proud beaming. Kyle hovered at the edges, always within sight, his presence both comfort and reminder. When he pulled me aside during a quiet moment, his grip was firm, possessive.

"How are you holding up?" His voice was gentle, concerned, but his fingers dug into my wrist just a little too hard.

"I'm fine." The automatic response, the one that had kept me functional for years.

"You don't look fine. You look..." He studied my face with an intensity that made me uncomfortable. "You look like you're having second thoughts."

"It's done, Kyle. The contract is signed, the vows are said. There's no going back now."

"There's always a choice, Aria." His voice dropped, became urgent. "You know that, right? No matter what anyone tells you, no matter what you think you owe... there's always a choice."

But that's where he was wrong. There were no choices when you were drowning in debt, when every decision had been made for you by circumstances you couldn't control. There were only consequences and the people who paid them.

"I know what I'm doing," I lied.

Kyle's face softened, and he reached up to touch my cheek. "I just want you to be happy. You deserve that much. But remember—" His thumb traced along my jawline, too intimate for the setting. "No matter what happens, you're mine first. You always have been."

Before I could respond, a shadow fell over us. Damien stood behind me, close enough that I could feel his body heat, smell his cologne. When I turned, his face was a careful mask of politeness, but there was something sharp and dangerous in his dark eyes.

"Morrison." His voice was cordial, but there was an undercurrent of barely leashed violence.

"Blake." Kyle's response was equally false, his smile not reaching his eyes. "Congratulations. You're a lucky man."

"Yes," Damien said quietly, his hand settling possessively on the small of my back. "I am."

The two men stared at each other, and I felt caught between them like a bone between two dogs. There was history here, something I didn't understand, something that went beyond Kyle's obvious disapproval of this marriage.

"Well." Kyle's smile turned predatory. "I should let you get back to your wedding. Take care of her, Blake. She's... precious. And she knows where home really is."

The words hung in the air like a threat disguised as well wishes. Kyle squeezed my hand once more before disappearing back into the crowd, leaving me alone with my new husband and the bitter taste of possession on my lips.

"Everything okay?" Damien's voice was carefully neutral, but his hand was still warm against my back.

"Fine." I turned to face him, putting on the same polite mask he was wearing. "Just fine."

But nothing was fine. I was married to a man I barely knew, indebted to a man who owned pieces of my soul, and trapped between them both in a game I didn't understand the rules to. The wedding cake sat untouched on the table, white frosting roses that matched my bouquet. Beautiful. Perfect. Fake.

Just like everything else about this day.

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