Chapter 2: The Wedding Without Love
The ceremony was small, silent, and stripped of everything that made a wedding feel like a dream. No flowers, no music, no laughter—only the quiet echo of footsteps and the faint clicking of cameras from the press Damian had allowed to attend.
Amara stood in a simple white dress, her fingers twisted around the bouquet that had already begun to wilt. The scent of roses mixed with the cold air of the city hall, sharp and suffocating. Damian stood beside her, tall and distant in his black suit, his expression unreadable.
"Do you, Damian Cole, take Amara Lewis as your lawful wedded wife?" the officiant asked.
Damian's jaw tightened slightly. "I do."
His voice was steady, but there was no warmth in it—only duty.
"Do you, Amara Lewis, take Damian Cole as your lawful wedded husband?"
Amara hesitated. The words caught in her throat, trembling like glass about to shatter. She looked up at him, into those gray eyes that revealed nothing. Then she nodded once. "I do."
The officiant smiled faintly, unaware of the storm brewing beneath the surface. "By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife."
Damian leaned in and brushed her lips with his. It wasn't a kiss; it was a formality, a performance for the flashing cameras. When he pulled back, the applause from the few witnesses felt hollow.
After the ceremony, they stepped out of the hall into the cool evening. The city lights blurred behind the falling drizzle. Amara's heart ached with confusion—this was supposed to be the happiest day of a woman's life, yet she felt like she was walking into a cage.
In the car, silence stretched between them. Damian scrolled through his phone, giving her no glance. She sat beside him, her fingers nervously tracing the edge of her dress.
"Where are we going?" she asked quietly.
"To my house," he replied without looking up. "It's your home now."
Her chest tightened. "Home," she repeated softly, the word tasting bitter.
When they arrived, the mansion was everything she expected from a man like him—cold beauty, perfect order, and not a trace of warmth. A maid greeted them, bowing slightly.
"Prepare the guest room," Damian said.
Amara blinked. "Guest room?"
He met her gaze briefly. "We may be married, but we won't be sharing a bed. Don't misunderstand what this is."
Her throat tightened. "And what exactly is it?"
"A business arrangement," he said flatly. "You're here because of a deal. Don't expect affection or attention. You'll have your own space, your own life—just don't interfere with mine."
He turned away before she could reply. His footsteps echoed down the hall until they disappeared behind a door.
Amara stood there, motionless, her bouquet still in her hand. She looked down at the flowers and saw that one of the petals had fallen, crushed under her thumb.
That night, she lay awake in the guest room, staring at the ceiling. The rain outside had stopped, but inside her chest, it still poured. Every sound in the mansion felt too loud, too empty.
She thought of her father, probably smiling in his sleep, believing his daughter had married a good man who would protect her. If only he knew the truth—that she had sold her freedom for his life.
Tears burned her eyes, but she wiped them away. She had made a choice, and now she had to live with it.
Down the hall, Damian sat alone in his study, a glass of whiskey in his hand. His eyes were fixed on the window, though his thoughts were far away. On his desk lay a single photograph—him and a woman with soft eyes and a cruel smile.
He turned the picture face down and exhaled. "This isn't love," he muttered under his breath. "It's business."
But even as he said it, something in his chest ached—something he had spent years trying to bury.
In the quiet of that vast, lonely mansion, two hearts began their strange, painful dance—one bound by duty, the other haunted by loss. And neither of them knew that this cold marriage was about to change everything.