Amara's POV
The morning light feels heavy — too bright for a day like this. It slips through the curtains of the hotel suite, gold spilling across the white silk of my wedding dress. Everything around me screams perfection — the makeup artist's steady hands, the soft hum of the hairstylist, the scent of roses and expensive perfume hanging in the air. But I feel nothing. Nothing but a cold pit in my stomach.
Today, I become someone's wife.
Not for love. Not for choice.
For business. For power. For a father's ambition.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror. The girl looking back doesn't look like me. She looks like someone's doll — flawless, fragile, hollow. The veil frames my face like a cage. I run my hand down the bodice, the diamonds catching the light, and I almost laugh. All this beauty, yet I feel so ugly inside.
"Are you ready, Miss Stone?" a voice asks softly. The wedding coordinator stands at the door, clipboard in hand, eyes darting between me and the clock.
No, I want to say. No, I'm not ready. I'll never be.
But I just nod.
Lily squeezes my hand. She and Noah had stayed with me the night before, trying to keep me from falling apart. But nothing can stop the ache that lives in my chest.
"You look beautiful," Lily whispers, eyes glossy.
"Yeah," Noah adds, trying to smile through the tension. "Beautiful and doomed, but still beautiful."
I laugh, but it breaks halfway through.
When the door opens again, my father stands there. His suit is perfect, his expression proud but his eyes are cold steel.
"Let's go," he says, like it's a meeting, not my wedding day.
We drive to the estate — his estate, the one he used for high-profile gatherings. Reporters crowd the gates, flashes bursting as the car glides past. My heart thunders in my ears. I press my palms together to stop them from shaking.
Inside, the hall is breathtaking — white roses, gold chandeliers, a thousand candles flickering like stars. Guests murmur behind their champagne glasses, whispering, "That's Richard Stone's daughter… marrying Alexander Voss."
I can feel their eyes on me — pity, curiosity, envy. All of it cuts deep.
Then I see him.
Alexander Voss.
The man I met at the club. The man whose touch I can still feel, even when I don't want to.
He stands at the altar in a black tuxedo, impossibly composed, like the world itself bends to his will. His blue eyes find me, cold and unreadable. No smile. No warmth. Just quiet power.
Every step I take toward him feels like walking into a storm.
When I reach the altar, my father places my hand in his. His skin is warm — too warm ,but his grip is firm, commanding. My fingers tremble inside his.
The officiant begins to speak.
"Marriage is a union of two souls…"
The words blur. I can't breathe. I stare at the floor, counting the seconds, my throat thick with tears.
"Do you, Amara Stone, take Alexander Voss as your lawfully wedded husband?"
My mouth opens, but no sound comes. My father's gaze burns into the side of my face. Everyone is watching. My pulse races, my chest tightens —
"I… do."
The words taste like ash.
Then it's his turn.
"Do you, Alexander Voss, take Amara Stone as your lawfully wedded wife?"
He doesn't hesitate. His voice is steady, smooth, cold.
"I do."
The ring slides onto my finger — heavy, flawless, suffocating. When he leans in to kiss me, it's barely a brush of lips. A performance. A signature sealing a deal.
Applause fills the room. Champagne glasses clink.
But all I hear is the sound of my heart breaking quietly inside my chest.
The ceremony blurs into the reception — speeches, photographs, polite smiles. I feel like I'm watching it all from far away, like I'm trapped behind glass. Every move, every laugh feels forced. Every touch burns.
When the night ends and the guests leave, I stand by the window, staring at the moon. My veil trembles in the wind. Somewhere behind me, I hear his voice — low, calm.
"Tomorrow, we move into the penthouse. Be ready by nine."
I don't turn around. I just nod. Because that's all I can do now.
I married the man I should have run from.
And the worst part is, my heart still remembers his touch.
---
Alexander's POV
The ceremony went exactly as planned. Every detail was perfect — because perfection is control, and control is power.
I stand by the bar, glass in hand, watching her from across the room. She's surrounded by guests congratulating her, smiling through tears. I can tell she's barely holding it together. The fragile tremor in her fingers, the way she avoids looking at me — it almost amuses me.
So this is Richard Stone's daughter.
His pride. His weakness.
And now… my weapon.
I sip my drink slowly, letting the warmth burn down my throat. Lucas's words from the day before echo in my mind: "Be nice to the poor girl, Alex. Don't be too harsh."
But he doesn't understand. This isn't about kindness. It's about justice — calculated and clean.
The moment I saw her at that club, I knew fate had handed me the perfect key. She has no idea who I am to her father, no idea what this marriage truly means. To her, I'm the stranger she fell into one night of rebellion. To me, she's the symbol of everything he'll lose.
Still… when I saw her walking down that aisle, something flickered.
Something I didn't expect.
Fear? No. Admiration? Maybe.
She looked too delicate for this world, too human for the darkness I live in.
But pity is a weakness I can't afford.
When the ceremony ends, I catch her by the window, moonlight falling over her like something divine. I almost reach out — almost. But I stop myself.
"Tomorrow, we move into the penthouse," I tell her, my voice even, detached. "Be ready by nine."
She nods silently, eyes glassy, shoulders shaking just slightly.
For a second — just a second — I wonder what she's thinking.
Then I shut it down.
This isn't love.
It's war.
And I always win wars.