The Wedding Without Vows

The chapel smelled of candle wax and roses, though the roses had already begun to wilt.

Elara stood in front of the gilded mirror in the preparation chamber, her reflection framed in ivory silk. The gown was exquisite, a masterpiece of lace and satin that clung to her as though stitched from shadows. Yet the longer she stared, the less it resembled a wedding dress and the more it looked like a shroud.

The seamstress had pinned her veil into place with cold fingers. Now she waited alone, the silence broken only by her own shallow breaths.

This was not how she had ever imagined marriage. No whispered vows of love, no trembling joy, no mother to dab tears from her eyes. Instead, there was duty. Debt. A contract signed in ink and threat.

The door creaked open. Damian’s advisor, an older man with a face carved from stone, entered. “It is time, Lady Veyra.”

The title cut into her like a blade. She was not his lady. Not his anything.

Still, she rose, spine straight, and followed the advisor through the corridor. Her heels clicked against marble, each step echoing like a countdown.

The chapel was nearly empty. A scattering of dignitaries, a few members of his shadowed circle, and two priests robed in black. No music. No laughter.

Damian waited at the altar, a figure of ruthless elegance in a tailored suit of midnight. His presence swallowed the space, commanding even the silence. His eyes locked on hers the moment she entered, and the world seemed to narrow to that gaze—obsidian, unyielding, and unreadable.

She walked toward him, the hem of her gown whispering against the stone aisle. Each step was heavy, dragging her further into the gravity of his orbit.

When she reached him, he did not offer his hand. Instead, he gave the faintest tilt of his head, an acknowledgment, nothing more.

The priests began the ceremony, their voices low and solemn. Words of binding, of obligation, of unity. Words Elara barely heard, her mind adrift.

Marriage. The word felt foreign on her tongue, stripped of warmth.

When prompted for vows, Damian’s lips curved into something that was not a smile. “I take her,” he said simply, the words like a verdict passed.

All eyes turned to her.

Her mouth was dry. She forced the words past her lips: “I take him.”

No tremor, no hesitation. She would not give them that satisfaction.

The rings were slid onto their fingers, heavy, cold bands of gold. Final. Irrevocable.

And then it was done.

No kiss. No applause. The priests closed the book, the dignitaries murmured, and the marriage was sealed like a tomb.

As they left the chapel, Damian offered his arm. It was not tenderness, only formality. She hesitated before resting her hand upon it, her fingers barely grazing his sleeve. The fabric was smooth, the muscle beneath tense.

“Smile,” he murmured, low enough that only she could hear.

Her lips curved, though the smile never touched her eyes.

Outside, photographers waited. Not the kind who belonged to glossy magazines, but the kind who dealt in secrets and shadows—mafiosi, royals, and politicians alike would want proof of this union.

Flashes erupted as they stepped into the storm’s aftermath, the sky still bruised and heavy. Damian posed with ease, the perfect husband, his arm a steel band around her waist. Elara held her head high, playing her role.

But behind the façade, she felt hollow. A bride without vows.

Later, in the carriage that carried them back to the estate, silence pressed between them. The city passed in streaks of light beyond rain-speckled windows.

“You endured well,” Damian said at last, his voice quiet but edged with command.

“Endured,” she repeated, staring at her hands clasped in her lap. “That is all this is to you, isn’t it? Endurance.”

He turned his head, regarding her with that inscrutable gaze. “Survival is rarely beautiful, Elara. But it is necessary.”

Her throat tightened. “Is that all you want from me? Survival?”

For a moment, his jaw flexed, as though he might say more. But then his gaze slid back to the rain-soaked glass. “Yes.”

The finality in his tone struck her harder than any lie could have.

They arrived at the estate under a sky split by lightning. The staff greeted them with bows and rehearsed smiles, as if welcoming home a king and queen. Yet beneath the surface, Elara sensed unease, like servants trained not to breathe too loudly.

Damian led her through the halls, his pace swift, his silence impenetrable. At last, he stopped before a set of towering double doors.

“This is your chamber,” he said.

Her heart skipped. “Not yours?”

His gaze lingered on her for a long moment, then drifted away. “No. We will remain… separate.”

She stepped into the room. It was opulent, with a four-poster bed draped in velvet and windows that overlooked the storm-lashed gardens. Yet it felt like a stage, furnished for display rather than comfort.

Behind her, Damian’s voice cut the air. “This marriage is not built on sentiment. Do not mistake appearances for reality.”

She turned, defiance sparking despite the weight of exhaustion. “And what is the reality, Damian?”

He held her gaze, shadows flickering in his eyes. “That you belong to me now.”

The doors shut, leaving her in silence.

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