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The reluctant marriage
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2025-04-16 16:19:42Layla’s POV
I positioned myself before the mirror, gazing at my reflection. The white wedding dress hugged my figure like a second skin, its beautiful designs mocking the emptiness I felt within. My hair was styled up, and my makeup was flawless. I looked like a magazine bride, but I didn’t feel that way.
"You look amazing," my mother remarked as she entered the room. Her tone lacked warmth, and her approval was entirely shallow.
"Thanks," I whispered, my throat tight.
She handed me a set of diamond earrings, her face impossible to read. "These belonged to your grandmother." "She would have liked you to put them on today.”
I nodded and put them on silently.
As soon as I entered the church, I spotted Damian by the altar. He appeared flawless—as if he was destined to be there, as if he possessed the entire cosmos. His dark suit fit him perfectly, seemingly made just for him, with every detail sharp and impeccable. He stood tall and calm, his face showing no emotion, as if he felt no uncertainty or second thoughts.
My heart raced with such intensity that it ached, and my hands shook as I grasped my bouquet. Each step I took felt more burdensome, as though the earth was attempting to drag me down. But Damian's eyes remained fixed on me throughout, steady and intense, which only made things worse. He appeared incredibly confident, almost invincible, while I felt so small and insignificant.
When I finally reached him, he extended his hand to me. I hesitated for a brief moment before putting mine in his. His grip was firm, anchoring me even as my world felt like it was crumbling.
The ceremony was quick, the words blending together in my mind. I barely paid attention to what was happening until the officiant announced us as husband and wife.
"You can now kiss the bride," he stated.
Damian faced me, his deep eyes boring into my own. For a fleeting instant, I questioned whether he would back out. He leaned closer, his lips gently grazing mine in a kiss that was short yet meaningful.
As we walked down the aisle together, his hand gently placed on my waist, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was stepping into a trap.
That evening, we reached his penthouse—a vast space that screamed luxury. The windows reaching from the floor to the ceiling provided an amazing view of the city, but I couldn’t force myself to appreciate it. This was excessive for someone who is supposed to be financially ruined.
“From now on, this will be your home,” Damian said, leading me inside.
I stood in the middle of the living room, feeling small and insignificant” “It’s... beautiful,” I murmured gently, although the words felt empty.
He turned to look at me, his expression unreadable. “You don't need to be afraid of me, Layla.”
"I'm not," I lied.
He moved nearer, his presence dominating. “Good. Since fear won’t take you far.”
I swallowed hard, unable to meet his eyes. “What do you expect from me?”
His lips formed a slight smile. "What any husband desires from his wife."
My heart raced, anxiety surging within me. Before I had a chance to answer, he extended his hand, his fingers softly caressing my cheek.
"Nonetheless, you need not worry," he said, his tone now gentler. "We'll take things at your pace."
His sudden gentleness confused me even more, making me feel caught between fear and unwilling gratitude
He called upon the maids to take our luggages to our room. And I followed them to the room.
While I was taking a shower, I heard him talking with his lawyer.
"She is delicate," the lawyer said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "But manageable." "You've handled worse."
"She isn't a hindrance," Damian responded, his voice calm yet edged with something darker. "She's a tool." “Tools can be shaped or thrown away.”
The words made me feel a shiver run down my spine. My breath caught as I leaned against the wall, my thoughts racing.
Who was Damian Blackwood, truly? And what had I gotten involved in?
The following morning, I was woken up from sleep by a knock on the bedroom door. Before I could completely figure what was happening, Damian's voice broke through my haze of sleep.
“Layla, get up”
I glanced at the clock sitting on the nightstand. Seven a.m. The weight of my sleepless night hung heavy on me. I sighed, dragging the blanket over my face.
"What are you thinking, waking me up at this time?" I muttered, my voice rough from slumber.
The door creaked open, and Damian entered without waiting for any invitation. His tall figure loomed in the room, his presence overwhelming even in the morning glow.
"I want you to accompany me to dinner this evening," he stated, his tone indicating that there was no chance for debate.
I propped myself up, throwing the blanket away. “Does that mean you need to wake me at the break of day?” I erupted, even if my voice lacked any real force.
His eyes narrowed slightly, a trace of amusement dancing on his face. "I'm heading to the office at the moment, and I don't have time to debate." Get dressed. "We're going shopping"
“Shopping?” I said again, puzzled.
“Yes,” he responded, maintaining his gaze. "You need something suitable for this evening." "Something elegant."
I froze, my stomach twisting. His tone—calm yet authoritative—made me feel like an obligation, not a person.
“But.”
"No excuses, Layla," he interrupted, his tone sharp. “Be ready in fifteen minutes.”
He turned and exited the room without pausing for my reply, leaving me seated there, shocked. I stared at the closed door for a long moment, the weight of my situation pressing down on my chest.
Fifteen minutes. It wasn't enough time to gather my thoughts, let alone prepare for a day of being paraded around like a doll. But, I didn’t have the courage to defy him. Damian’s control over every aspect of my life was suffocating, and still, a part of me feared the consequences of standing up to him.
With trembling hands, I slipped on a basic dress and tied my hair back, hardly looking at the mirror before stepping out of the room. Damian was already in the hallway, his impatience radiating off him.
"Come on,"he said energetically, taking the lead.
I followed quietly, my head down, my heart racing.
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A Love Forged In Ruins The weight of desperation
Layla's pov From the moment I entered Damian’s realm, I sensed I was a shadow—minor, unimportant, and perpetually eclipsed by his might. His penthouse mirrored his character flawlessly. It was frigid, emotionless, and unbelievably magnificent. The walls were embellished with invaluable artwork, the type you typically find in museums, and the perspective from the large windows extended infinitely over the city skyline. It was stunning yet stifling, a perpetual indication of how distanced I had become from the life I previously experienced. The days went by in a haze of stress. I couldn’t dismiss the recollection of the elderly man at the meal, his enigmatic phrases resonating in my thoughts. "Recovering after what Monroe did to you must have been difficult." What had my dad done to Damian? What was it about the name “Monroe” that held such significance and resentment in this world? Damian, naturally, provided no insight. He stayed true to his usual demeanor—aloof, frosty, and enigma
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