Cold Marriage

A soft knock pulled me out of the little sleep I’d managed to get.

Groaning, I shuffled to the door and cracked it open. The mother stood there, perfectly composed, with a maid hovering behind her like a shadow.

“Good morning,” she said, her voice brisk. “You do know what today is, don’t you?”

I rubbed my eyes, still half-asleep. “The wedding?”

“Yes. The wedding. We’re on a tight schedule,” she snapped. “The maid will help you. The dress is ready. Just make sure you smile at the venue.”

She didn’t wait for a response, just turned and disappeared down the hall. The maid gave me a curt nod and gestured for me to follow her.

When I stepped into the next room, I stopped short. It looked like a tornado had ripped through a high-end boutique. Gowns hung off every available surface, shoes were scattered across the floor, and jewelry spilled out of boxes like an afterthought.

“Choose something,” the maid said, her tone as lifeless as her expression.

I scanned the chaos, my gaze settling on a gown near the window. It was simple yet stunning and elegant,and far less overwhelming than the others. I grabbed it without hesitation.

“Good taste,” she said flatly. “Get ready. Be downstairs by nine. And don’t forget to smile the president is attending.”

She left without another word, leaving me to wrestle with my own thoughts. Who was this heir I was marrying? And why hadn’t he shown his face yet?

I didn’t have time to dwell on it. After a quick spa bath that felt more like a countdown to disaster, I was back in the room. The maid worked fast, painting my face and lacing me into the dress like it was just another day at work.

Before I knew it, I was fully dressed, veil in place, bouquet in hand. I barely recognized myself in the mirror.

But as I turned to leave, a loud crash shattered the quiet mansion.

I froze. Another crash followed, the sharp sound of glass breaking. Then a voice—low and furious—echoed from upstairs.

“I don’t want to get married!”

My chest tightened. The desperation in his tone was unmistakable.

A second voice, calmer but firm, responded. “It’s just a formality. Do it for the family.”

Another crash. “No! I don’t care! I’m not marrying anyone but Sasha!”

The words hit like a slap. Whoever Sasha was, she clearly wasn’t me.

The mother stormed past me moments later, her face wore a mask of fury. Blood dripped from her hand, but she didn’t seem to notice or didn’t care.

“Take her to the car,” she barked at the maids, not sparing me a glance.

The drive to the venue was suffocatingly quiet. By the time we arrived, my nerves were shot.

The venue was massive, every inch dripping with wealth. As I stepped out of the car, I could feel the weight of everyone’s eyes on me. Whispers rippled through the crowd. The bride was here but where was the groom?

Then another car pulled up. Security swarmed it, adding to the buzz.

My heart pounded as the car door opened.

And there he was.

I stopped breathing. It was him.

The same man who’d barged into my room yesterday , all tattoos and scars, with an attitude that screamed trouble.

His eyes locked on mine, recognition flickering across his face.

“You?” he said, his voice sharp and disbelieving.

I forced a smile, every instinct screaming at me to run.

His expression didn’t change. He turned and walked toward the altar, leaving me to follow.

The ceremony was a blur. Every word the pastor spoke felt heavy, like chains dragging me down. When it was over, I realized what had just happened.

I was married.

To him.

And somehow, this felt like the start of something far worse than I could’ve imagined.

After the ceremony, with my face aching from all the fake smiles, it was finally time to leave. I was now Mrs. Harry Hendrix officially. The title felt foreign, heavy, like a collar I didn’t agree to wear.

The guests clapped politely as I walked toward the car, hand-in-hand with a man who hadn’t spoken more than three words to me all day. His grip was firm, almost punishing, as if reminding me to stay in line. I kept my head high, but my mind raced with a thousand questions.

Who really was Harry Hendrix? And what had I just signed myself up for?

As the car pulled away, it hit me we weren’t going to his parents’ place. We were heading to his mansion. Alone.

It was just the two of us now. The silence in the car felt heavier with every passing second. I gripped the edge of my dress, my thoughts racing. What if I opened the door and ran? But one glance at him, sitting there calm and distant, killed the idea.

Who even was this man I’d just been forced to marry? And what the hell was waiting for me at the end of this ride?

We finally arrived at his mansion. It was bigger and grander than his parents’.

He stepped out of the car without a word, slammed the door, and disappeared inside, leaving me standing there like an idiot.

I stared at the massive doors, gripping my dress tighter. Was I supposed to just walk in? Or wait out here like a delivery package?

Ten minutes passed, and I was still standing outside. No sign of him. No word. I shifted from one foot to the other, feeling the cold air against my skin. My patience was running out, but I wasn’t sure if I should just go inside or wait for him to bother.

The sky grew darker, and I could feel the rain coming.

Just got married, and here I was, standing outside, left to wait. Was this really how it was going to be?

The rain came down in heavy drops, soaking me through. I stood there, drenched, feeling more like a fool than a bride.