They said that the happiest moment of a woman is her wedding day. But for Elena, it was more like a burial of her independence to the man who doesn't breath love but power and possession.
The wedding of Adrian Vega and Elena Cruz was the talk of Singapore,
a fairy tale reborn from ashes, or so the headlines claimed.
Every major network covered it, every society column speculated on it, and every camera fought for a shot of the billionaire groom and his mysterious bride.
But fairy tales, Elena thought, were meant to end in love.
This one began with debt. And, it's a shackle she will never get free of. Her eyes darted of the distance wishing this was only a nightmare she can shake off tomorrow.
The ballroom of the Ritz Marina Grand shimmered with white orchids and gold chandeliers.
The scent of wealth was everywhere, from the champagne fountains to the polished marble floors that reflected the world's envy back at itself.
"Smile," her stylist whispered as the final pearl pin was tucked into her hair. "You're marrying Singapore's most eligible man."
Elena looked at her reflection, the perfect bride in ivory silk and lace, her face serene beneath a delicate veil. So, immaculate, if only her eyes says otherwise. But even her eyes betrayed the truth.
They were empty.
A soft knock on the door.
Her lawyer stepped in, discreet and nervous. "It's time."
She nodded once, her throat too tight for words. It's time to live my life sentence, she thought bitterly.
When the doors opened, a hundred heads turned. The orchestra played, the crowd gasped, and camera flashes bathed her in artificial light.
Adrian stood at the altar, black suit, expression carved from marble.
He didn't smile. He didn't even pretend to.
If anything, he looked like a man attending a business merger, not a wedding.
Her heels clicked softly against the aisle, the sound echoing beneath the vaulted ceilings. Each step felt like a sentence being carried out.
Halfway down, she saw his mother, elegant, silver-haired, a woman who'd lived long enough to recognize tragedy when it wore a tuxedo.
When Elena reached the altar, Adrian's mother leaned close, her perfume faint but unmistakably expensive.
Her whisper slid like silk over glass.
"You married a ghost, darling."
Elena blinked, startled. But before she could respond, Adrian's hand closed around hers, firm, unyielding, cold. She took a deep breath. Deep enough to drown back the tears in her eyes.
The priest began the vows.
His voice echoed across the hall, solemn and detached.
"Do you, Adrian Vega, take this woman..." Without waiting for the sentence to finish, Adrian answers just immediately.
"I do."
Two words, sharp and immediate, like a deal sealed with a pen.
"And do you, Elena Cruz..." The voice of the priest came a little trail to Elena's ears.
Her lips parted, but no sound came. The weight of the crowd, the cameras, the reality, all pressed against her lungs.
Then she caught sight of her mother in the front row, frail but smiling, tears of hope glistening in her eyes.
Elena swallowed hard.
"I do," she whispered.
The applause erupted, thunderous and hollow.
A kiss was expected.
Adrian leaned in, his breath barely touching her skin. His lips grazed her cheek, not affection, not even pretense. Just a performance for the world.
The crowd cheered.
The bride's heart did not.
By evening, the ballroom turned into a glittering battlefield of champagne, speeches, and false smiles.
Business magnates toasted. Socialites whispered.
Every guest carried curiosity disguised as congratulations.
"She looks stunning," someone said.
"She looks trapped," another murmured.
Adrian stood beside her, composed and unreadable. Every movement was controlled, every gesture rehearsed. When he placed his hand on the small of her back for photographs, it was calculated, possessive, almost territorial.
"You're trembling," he murmured, low enough that only she could hear.
"Maybe I'm cold," she replied, voice sharp as glass.
His mouth curved in that infuriating almost-smile.
"Then you should remember who holds the fire."
She turned away, hiding the way her chest tightened at the sound of his voice.
Later that night, after the final toast, the crowd dispersed and the ballroom emptied into silence.
Outside, the rain had returned, gentle, uninvited, relentless.
Inside, the bride and groom rode in silence to the Vega penthouse, a fortress of glass and secrets that overlooked the city lights.
The elevator ride was endless.
Elena's reflection in the mirrored walls looked like a stranger, a woman draped in diamonds, her lips painted into perfection, her eyes carrying storms.
When the elevator chimed open, she stepped into her new life, minimalist interiors, art worth millions, and the faint scent of sandalwood and power.
"Your room is at the end of the hall," Adrian said, unbuttoning his cufflinks. His tone was polite. Distant. Businesslike.
"My room?" she repeated softly.
He looked at her then, eyes dark under the soft glow of the city skyline.
"You didn't think this was a real marriage, did you?"
Her lips parted, a mix of disbelief and hurt. "Not even for appearances?"
"For the world, we'll be perfect," he said. "For each other, we'll be nothing."
Elena took a step toward him, anger breaking through her calm facade.
"Then why do this, Adrian? Why drag me through this circus?"
He met her gaze steadily. "Because you owe me more than a name. You owe me every sleepless night I spent building what your father destroyed."
"And marrying me gives you that?" she asked bitterly.
"It gives me peace," he said simply. "And maybe one day, it'll give you perspective."
She laughed, sharp, humorless. "Perspective? You think pain is some kind of lesson?"
"Pain is the only thing that ever taught me anything," he murmured.
For a moment, silence hung between them, heavy, fragile, familiar.
Then, as if catching himself, he turned away. "Goodnight, Mrs. Vega."
Elena watched him walk toward his room, the soft rustle of his shirt sleeves breaking the quiet.
When he reached his door, he paused. "The press will expect a public honeymoon. We leave for Bali on Monday. Play your role well, Elena."
"I always did," she said, her voice a whisper of defiance.
He didn't turn around. He just nodded once and disappeared behind his door.
A moment later, she heard the click of a lock.
Elena stood alone in the vast penthouse, surrounded by silence worth millions.
She moved to her own door, identical, polished, cold.
Her fingers hovered over the handle.
Click.
She locked it too.
From opposite sides of the same wall, two people lay awake,
once lovers, now strangers bound by vengeance and pride.
Elena turned toward the window, the Singapore skyline gleaming like a thousand secrets waiting to be broken.
Her chest ached with the weight of everything she'd lost, her father, her freedom, the man she thought she knew.
And yet, beneath the bitterness, a dangerous question lingered:
If she still hated him this much… why did her heart still remember how to ache for him?
Outside, thunder rolled softly across the bay,
a promise of storms yet to come.
Two locked doors.
One shared silence.
And a love story that had just begun to burn again under the weight of revenge.