Chapter 2: The Devil's Wedding Night.
Genre: Urban Romance | Female Lead | Contemporary Drama
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The wedding dress wasn't white.
It was blood red.
Not because she chose it, but because she refused to let Damon Blackwood see her as a symbol of purity, of surrender. She wasn't coming to him as a bride—she was coming armed.
Alyssa Hart stepped out of the limousine, her crimson gown hugging every curve like a second skin, her dark hair swept back in a regal bun. Each step she took up the marble staircase of Blackwood Hall felt like walking into enemy territory.
Flash.
Flash.
Flash.
Cameras exploded around her like landmines. Faces she didn't know shouted her name, asked about the dress, the venue, the romance.
What romance?
This was a business arrangement soaked in lies. She wasn't marrying the man she loved. She was marrying the man she had once wished dead.
Inside, Blackwood Hall was a palace. Polished floors. Chandeliers that looked like they'd been stolen from royal castles. The scent of imported white roses filled the air, but it didn't mask the stench of power and pretense.
Then she saw him.
Damon Blackwood.
Her groom.
Her captor.
Her enemy.
He stood at the altar like a king carved from ice. Black tuxedo. Black shirt. No tie. No emotion. Even the boutonnière most grooms wore was absent—as if he refused to pretend even a little.
Their eyes met. Hers burned. His didn't flinch.
"You're late," he said quietly as she reached him.
"I had to decide whether to walk in or run," she replied.
He offered no smile. No hand. Just a cold nod to the officiant, who began the ceremony like it was a hostile merger rather than a marriage.
There were no vows.
No speeches about love or forever.
Just legal statements.
A document placed between them like a loaded gun.
Damon signed it first. Quick. Efficient. Like he was closing another deal.
Then it was passed to her.
Alyssa looked at the pen. Just a simple black pen. But it might as well have been dipped in poison. She took it anyway, signed her name with steady fingers and a heart that thudded like war drums.
The moment the last letter of her name touched paper, she felt it—the end of everything she used to be.
"You may now kiss the bride," the officiant said.
Damon leaned in, but didn't kiss her lips. Instead, he pressed a cool kiss to her cheek, just enough for the photographers. Just enough to make it real for everyone watching.
The camera flashes turned blinding.
Applause broke out in the room, sharp and rehearsed.
Behind them, near the fireplace, sat Chairman Blackwood—Damon's grandfather, the man whose inheritance had dictated this entire farce. He watched with glassy eyes, a smile ghosting across his wrinkled face, his oxygen tank quietly hissing beside him.
Alyssa didn't look at him.
She didn't want to look at any of them.
Because the moment the photos were done, so was the illusion.
The guests dispersed like ash on the wind. No one congratulated her. No one offered warmth. The estate grew silent.
And Damon—without warning—gripped her wrist.
"Let's go."
She blinked. "What? Where?"
"To the penthouse."
"And the reception?"
"There isn't one."
"No honeymoon?"
"You said no romance. I'm just respecting your wishes."
She didn't fight as he pulled her through the corridor and out of the house. A sleek black car waited. She slid into the seat without speaking, folding her gown carefully over her legs as Damon climbed in beside her.
The silence between them was suffocating.
She watched the city blur past the window, tall glass towers and blinking lights. She used to dream about living above the clouds. Now she was being escorted into a prison in the sky.
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The elevator doors opened with a soft chime.
She stepped into Damon Blackwood's penthouse, and immediately she knew—this wasn't a home.
It was a fortress.
Floor-to-ceiling windows wrapped the space like a cage made of glass. The city skyline stretched endlessly beyond, but inside, it was lifeless. Black leather couches. Metallic surfaces. Art that looked expensive but meant nothing.
No family photos. No clutter. No softness.
"This isn't a home," she murmured.
"It's not meant to be." His voice echoed in the sterile space. "Your room is down the hall. You'll find keys, an access card, and your schedule. Don't touch my things. Don't speak to the staff. And don't ever speak to the press."
"So warm," she said with a dry laugh. "You're really leaning into the whole devil husband thing."
He turned to face her, undoing the top button of his shirt. "I never pretended to be anything else."
"And what about me? Am I supposed to smile for the cameras and play the trophy wife?"
He poured himself a drink, the ice clinking sharply in the glass. "Smile if you want. Or don't. Just remember—every time you open your mouth, your brother's life hangs in the balance."
Her heart stilled.
"You're using him as leverage," she said bitterly.
"I'm using what works." He took a slow sip. "You agreed to the terms. Now live by them."
Alyssa stepped closer, the heat in her chest rising like a storm.
"You think this is control? That this house, this marriage, this threat—you think that makes you powerful?"
His eyes didn't flinch. "No. I know it does."
She stared at him for a long moment, searching for anything behind his gaze. A flicker of doubt. A crack in his mask. There was none.
"Then enjoy your throne, Damon," she said. "Because one day, it's going to collapse beneath you."
And with that, she turned and walked down the hall, refusing to let him see how deeply her hands were shaking.
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Her room was too perfect.
Everything in soft cream and gold, like a suite in a luxury hotel. A massive bed, untouched. Silk curtains swayed from the central AC.
But it was all just... staged.
She dropped onto the bed without removing the dress, her entire body aching under the weight of the day.
The fake wedding. The cold kiss. The penthouse prison.
Her phone buzzed in her clutch.
She pulled it out and stared at the message glowing on the screen:
> EVAN: Did you do it? Are we safe now?
Her chest tightened.
She stared at the words, not replying right away. She didn't feel safe. She felt owned.
But she couldn't let Evan know that.
He needed to believe everything was fine.
That his sister was strong enough to walk into the fire and survive it.
So she typed:
> ALYSSA: Yes. Everything's going to be okay.
She hit send.
Then she placed the phone beside her and curled into herself, dress still on, makeup untouched, heart completely exposed.
And for the first time that day, in a stranger's bed, inside a stranger's life…
she cried.
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