The cathedral was drenched in opulence.
White roses adorned every aisle, arranged in arches and cascading bouquets. Golden chandeliers sparkled overhead, casting warm, glittering light onto the polished marble floor. Guests dressed in designer couture murmured among themselves, holding their breath as the ceremony of the year unfolded. Flashing cameras, whispered gossip, and the scent of luxury perfume saturated the air.
At the altar stood Edward Levingston—tall, handsome, polished. He smiled for the cameras, the perfect image of the perfect man. The heir of a powerful dynasty, the Levingstons were royalty in New York's high society, and today, Edward was about to marry Catalina Rivera—the mysterious beauty who'd been his fiancée for six flawless months.
But behind her veil, Catalina's hands trembled.
The lace of her wedding gown itched against her skin. Her breath caught in her throat as she took another step down the aisle. Each movement felt heavier than the last, as if invisible chains were tightening around her ankles.
The whispers in the crowd blurred. Her mother beamed in the front row. Edward's father nodded in satisfaction. The string quartet played the bridal march like a funeral hymn.
And in Catalina's chest, her heart screamed: Run.
Her thoughts raced. You can't do this. You don't love him. You never did.
A bead of sweat rolled down her spine despite the chill of the air-conditioned cathedral.
She could feel Edward's eyes on her, a smile poised perfectly on his lips. But behind that smile lay a life of cold expectations, scheduled dinners, polite obligations, and a future where she would lose herself entirely.
This wasn't a love story. It was a merger.
She was the final piece in the Levingston image of perfection.
She reached the steps of the altar.
Her hands clenched the bouquet so tightly that the stems snapped.
"Catalina," Edward said smoothly, extending his hand.
Her gaze lifted to his.
And something inside her cracked.
The cathedral fell silent.
She took a shaky breath. "I'm sorry."
And then—she ran.
Gasps rippled through the crowd as her heels clacked against marble. Her veil flew off her head. Photographers shouted. Her mother screamed her name.
But Catalina didn't stop.
She pushed past security, tore down the side corridor, and burst through the emergency exit. The metal door slammed behind her as she stepped into blinding daylight.
The cold slapped her bare arms. Her dress dragged through the alley as she ran, eyes burning with tears. Her heart pounded louder than any applause she might've received.
She didn't care where she was going.
She just knew she had to get away.
—
She ended up in the backstreets of Midtown Manhattan, the hem of her designer gown soaked and torn. Her veil was gone. Her feet blistered. Her makeup streaked. People turned to stare, some pulling out phones, others whispering in shock.
Catalina ducked into the first building she could find—an underground parking garage. The lights buzzed overhead, casting long shadows across the concrete. The silence was eerie, a stark contrast to the chaos she'd left behind.
She pressed her back against the wall, chest heaving. Her heart refused to slow down.
"What now?" she whispered to herself.
She had no phone. No purse. No plan. Just the dress.
And then—tires screeched.
A black Maserati turned sharply into the lot, parking in the reserved VIP spot near her. The door opened, and out stepped a man who seemed carved from stone.
Tall. Broad-shouldered. Jet-black hair slicked back with effortless precision. Dressed in a tailored charcoal suit, his presence radiated power and danger.
He stopped when he saw her.
Catalina's breath caught.
So did his.
"What the hell…" he muttered, eyes narrowing. "A bride?"
Catalina straightened, panic rising again. "I—I'm sorry. I'll leave."
He raised a hand, silencing her. "Wait."
His eyes, a deep slate gray, scanned her from head to toe. "You're Catalina Rivera."
Her heart dropped. "How do you know me?"
"I read the news." His voice was cold, sharp. "You just fled a twenty-million-dollar wedding."
The color drained from her face. "Please. Don't call anyone. I just need a moment."
He studied her for a moment longer, then sighed. "Get in the car."
She blinked. "What?"
"You're being followed."
Her blood ran cold. She turned—and sure enough, three paparazzi had appeared at the edge of the garage, cameras aimed, shouting her name.
He opened the passenger door.
"Now."
Instinct took over. She jumped in.
He slammed the door and slid into the driver's seat. The car roared to life, tires screeching as they peeled out of the garage. Catalina gripped the door handle, heart racing.
They didn't speak until they reached the freeway.
Catalina finally dared to look at him. "Who are you?"
"Alexander Moretti," he said simply.
Her eyes widened. "The CEO of Moretti Enterprises?"
"The same."
She stared. Of all the people in New York, she had landed in the car of him—the man known for hostile takeovers, emotionless interviews, and a reputation so ruthless he was dubbed "The Ice King."
"Why are you helping me?" she asked.
He didn't answer immediately. "Because you're useful to me."
Her spine stiffened. "Useful?"
He glanced at her. "You need to disappear. And I need a wife."
She gaped. "Excuse me?"
"I have a deal falling through unless I appear… domesticated. A marriage would fix that. Temporarily."
"You want me to marry you?"
"Not for real. Just for appearances. A fake marriage. No strings."
Catalina shook her head. "That's insane."
"So is running from your wedding in front of the entire East Coast elite."
She fell silent.
Alexander tapped the wheel. "You'll stay with me. We'll present the illusion of a perfect couple. In return, I'll keep you hidden from the press, your fiancé, and whoever else is chasing you."
"And when it's over?"
"We part ways. Quietly. No questions."
Her heart pounded. This was madness. But what other choice did she have? Go back to Edward? Face her mother's wrath? Be devoured by the media?
"I'll think about it," she said.
"You have five seconds."
"What?"
He looked at her, serious. "Paparazzi will be waiting at your apartment. The Levingstons are already spinning their version of the story. Your window is closing. Decide."
Catalina's head spun. Her chest rose and fell with each frantic breath. Then, with a whisper:
"Okay."
Alexander gave a single nod. "Then we have a deal."
—
Catalina awoke the next morning in a luxury penthouse overlooking Central Park.
The bed was softer than clouds, the sheets cool against her skin. She sat up slowly, blinking at the sunlight streaming through floor-to-ceiling windows.
The dress was gone. In its place was a silky robe and a note on the nightstand:
Meeting at 9AM. Wardrobe in the closet. Don't be late. —A
Her stomach flipped.
This was real.
She was in Alexander Moretti's home. Engaged—in name only—to the most powerful man in the city.
She stood, her legs shaky. The closet doors opened to reveal an entire wardrobe in her size—designer dresses, shoes, coats, accessories.
He was serious about this.
By 8:45, she was dressed in a cream blouse, fitted pencil skirt, and heels. Her hair was pulled back in a low bun. She looked like someone who belonged in boardrooms and five-star restaurants.
At 9AM sharp, she stepped into his private office.
Alexander sat behind a massive glass desk, reviewing documents. He looked up, eyes cool.
"Sit."
She obeyed.
"We'll hold a press conference in three days," he said. "You'll play the devoted fiancée. Smile. Speak softly. Be charming. Do not contradict me."
Her lips twitched. "Sounds romantic."
His gaze sharpened. "This isn't a game."
She held his stare. "Then stop treating me like a pawn."
Silence.
Then—to her surprise—he smirked. Just slightly.
"You're not what I expected."
"Neither are you."
Their eyes locked.
And something shifted.
Not warmth.
Not yet.
But a spark.
Dangerous.
Unspoken.
Catalina stood. "Fine. Let's play pretend, Mr. Moretti."
She turned to leave.
But his voice stopped her.
"One more thing."
She turned her head.
"No falling in love." His voice was low, almost warning.
She smiled without humor. "Not a problem."
Yet neither of them noticed how tightly her fingers curled around the doorknob…
Or how Alexander's eyes followed her just a second too long.
Because sometimes, the most dangerous vows...
Are the ones they never meant to keep.