Chapter Four-The Wedding without Love

(Adrian’s POV)

There should have been flowers, music, laughter or perhaps a lace-trimmed handkerchief delicately dabbing at a joyful tear. Weddings were meant to be grand affairs, filled with promises and scandalous dances under glittering chandeliers. But this wedding wasn't it.

Instead it was a dimly lit conference room at the Celeste Regent Hotel with a disinterested officiant shuffling papers like this was a tax audit rather than the binding of two lives together. It was Helena, the bride in black, standing rigidly before me, looking as if she were walking to the gallows instead of the altar.

Helena does not wear white, of course, she won't, she was never going to make this easy for me. She is definition of rebellion wrapped in silk, a reminder that this is not love.

Yet, here we are.

She doesn’t look at me, her eyes drift past my shoulder, toward the door, like she’s thinking about running.

But I know she won’t, not because she wants this, but because she has no other choice.

And i know that makes me a selfish bastard, but fuck it i don't care. I was never a good man, not when Daniel introduced her to me as his fiancée, not when I shook her hand, my eyes meeting those wide, hazel eyes, and the way my eyes followed her supple breasts and luscious figure and felt something I had no right to feel.

Not when I watched her walk down the aisle with my best friend, smiling, while I stood in the front row clenching my fists so hard my knuckles ached.

And certainly not now, as I prepare to take her for myself. Daniel must be turning here in his goddamn grave cursing me out.

This is wrong, but it doesn’t matter. Because I want her, I always have.

The officiant looks up, waiting for confirmation before he begins. His expression is blank—just another civil servant with too many forms to process and not enough time to care.

I nod.

Helena sways just enough for me to notice.

Did she eat this morning? Is she sick? I want to reach for her, steady her, pull her close but I know she won’t want that. Touching her now would only push her further away.

I shouldn’t care. But I do, she’s been a part of me in every breath, every quiet ache, every moment she was never mine.

A sharp breath leaves her lips and finally, she looks at me. Anger burns in her gaze, but underneath it, there’s something else.

Something she doesn’t want me to see. Uncertainty? Resignation ? The slow, painful acceptance of a fate she never wanted.

She has no idea that this entire arrangement was never about debts or convenience.

That the trap was set the moment she walked into my office, asking for a loan.

She wanted help and I wanted her and she delivered herself to me on a silver platter.

"Shall we begin?" the officiant asks, adjusting his glasses.

Helena exhales, barely nodding.

My fingers twitch at my sides. The need to touch her, to claim her properly, thrums through me like an ache. I tell myself it’s just desire, the need to possess her every being.

I told myself a lot of things, but none of them are true.

The officiant recites the legal formalities, voice dull and disinterested.

We are to enter this union willingly, we are to honor each other, we are to forsake all others.

Daniel’s ghost must be lingering between us, unseen but unshakable.

Does she think of him now?

That even as I stand here, about to make her mine, I still hear his voice—years ago, laughing, completely unaware of the way I stared at his future wife when he wasn’t looking.

"She’s perfect, isn’t she?"

"I can’t believe she’s mine."

The officiant turns to me. "Do you, Adrian Cavendish, take this woman to be your lawfully wedded wife?"

The question seems meaningless , she was always going to be mine. I grip her hand, tightening my fingers around hers, willing her to feel me.

"I do."My voice deepening as i look into her eyes

Her breath catches she wasn’t expecting that, not the way I said it. But she doesn’t speak.

The officiant turns to her. "And do you, Miss Helena Whitmore, take this man—"

"I do," she interrupts.

No hesitation and no emotions. Just two words spoken like a punishment.

The officiant simply nods, closes the file, and pronounces us husband and wife.

It’s done, legally, she’s mine now. But she has been for far longer than she knows, sliding the ring onto her finger the final seal of ownership.

She flinches, just as my thumb brushes over her skin but doesn’t move away.

Good girl.

"You belong to me now," I murmur.

A sharp exhale leaves her lips, but her frown doesn’t contradict me, because no matter how much she hates me I own her now.

The officiant gives us a cursory glance, waiting to see if we’ll seal this union with a kiss.

Helena stiffens beside me, her lips pressed into a firm, unyielding line.

She won’t kiss me, not yet and that’s fine.

I can wait. I have all the time in the world to make her mine.

I tilt my head, watching her with an amusement I know she hates. "Shall we go home, then?"

She slowly inhaled, then a measured nod. She thinks she can treat this marriage like a contract, a cold, impersonal agreement that begins and ends with ink on paper.

That’s fine, with time she'll learn.

I let my fingers trail over her wrist, lingering there just a second too long. Her pulse jumps beneath my touch.

Leaning in, just enough to watch her breath hitch.

"Welcome to your new life, Helena.”

Her jaw tightens.

For a second, I think she’ll fight me. Spit venom. Run.

But she doesn’t.

She just lifts her chin, eyes burning into mine. Defiant. Unyielding.

And in that moment, I know. She hates this. Hates me.

But she feels it too, an attraction.

And that? That makes her mine.