The cathedral smelled of lilies and polished marble, but to Selene Hart, the scent had turned sour, like perfume masking rot.
She stood at the back of Saint Helena's Cathedral, the aisle stretching before her like a guillotine's path. The guests, politicians, socialites, media sharks turned, expecting to see Alexander Grayson's bride, glowing with love. Instead, their eyes widened, lips parted, and camera shutters clicked like automatic gunfire.
The man at her side was not Alexander.
Kieran Wolfe's hand was a vice around hers, his palm warm, commanding, his stride unyielding. The morning light streaming through the stained-glass windows painted him in molten reds and deep sapphire blues, as though heaven itself was forced to crown the devil.
Selene's pulse thundered in her ears. The night before had been a blur of panic, adrenaline, and that terrifying video of her father. She'd seen him Raymond Hart shaking hands with a man in a back alley, exchanging an envelope fat with cash. Kieran had played the rest of the footage with cold precision: her father signing fraudulent documents worth millions.
Kieran's ultimatum still rang in her head. Two hours. Marry me, or I'll let the press and the feds feast on this.
She'd tried bargaining. Pleading. Even threatening. But Kieran Wolfe had simply leaned in, his dark eyes unreadable, and said, "Hart, you've been bred to smile in front of the wolves. Now, you're going to marry one."
Now she was walking down the aisle toward the priest, her father sitting stiffly in the front pew beside her trembling mother, both wearing smiles carved from stone. Alexander Grayson sat two rows back, his jaw tight, knuckles white against the pew.
The whispers grew.
"Is that...?"
"Where's Alexander?"
"That's Kieran Wolfe, isn't it? The CEO of Wolfe Dominion?"
"My God, what is she doing?"
Every camera lens seemed to pierce her skin.
When they reached the altar, Kieran released her hand just long enough to offer a shallow bow to the priest, as if nothing about this day was unorthodox. The priest, clearly aware of the switch, swallowed hard before opening his book.
The vows were a blur. Her voice trembled on the words I do, the syllables tasting like betrayal.
When the priest declared them husband and wife, Kieran's lips curved, and he leaned close enough for only her to hear:
"Now the game begins."
His mouth brushed her ear not a kiss, but a claim and the heat of his breath made her skin prickle. The applause that followed was fractured, hesitant.
Selene risked a glance over her shoulder. Alexander's gaze met hers, sharp as a blade. His phone buzzed in his hand, and a moment later, her own hidden phone vibrated in the folds of her gown. She checked it when Kieran wasn't looking.
You've made the worst mistake of your life.
The reception was not canceled.
Kieran, apparently relishing the spectacle, had insisted they keep the Hart-Grayson reception venue, the opulent Glasshouse Ballroom. Only the groom had changed.
It was a calculated move Selene could see that. He was letting the world know that he had taken Alexander's place not just in business circles, but at her side. The guest list was filled with people who hated him, feared him, or owed him.
She was seated beside him at the head table, smiling until her cheeks ached, while the low hum of gossip slithered around them.
Kieran raised his champagne glass for a toast. "To the union of Wolfe and Hart," he said, his voice carrying. "Some things in life can't be planned. Sometimes, you see what you want and you take it."
The crowd's reaction was split between polite applause and thinly veiled shock. Selene's fingers tightened around the stem of her glass.
When the first dance began, Kieran's hand settled on the small of her back, leading her with effortless control. "You're holding yourself like a prisoner," he murmured.
"That's what I am," she replied, her voice a sharp whisper.
His mouth quirked. "No, Selene. Prisoners wait to be freed. Queens learn to rule the cage."
Before she could reply, he spun her just enough to keep her in motion, the cameras capturing every angle.
The evening ended with a sleek black car waiting outside. Kieran didn't speak until they were inside, the city lights streaking past.
"Your silence is intriguing," he said at last.
"What do you want me to say?" she asked, eyes on the window.
"That you understand the terms," he said. "You are mine now. My wife in name, my asset in reality. You will smile when I say, stand when I say, and..."
She turned to him sharply. "And when I don't?"
His jaw flexed. "Then you'll learn the consequences. Quickly."
A shiver ran down her spine, equal parts anger and something far more dangerous.
Wolfe Manor was not a home. It was a fortress. High steel gates, motion sensors, and an entryway of black marble and glass greeted her. Inside, it was all clean lines and ruthless elegance Kieran's taste made manifest.
He didn't show her a bedroom. He showed her his bedroom.
"This will be yours," he said.
"I'm not sleeping here."
"You are," he replied, unbuttoning his cufflinks with unhurried precision. "Because if you don't, I'll send a copy of that video to the Times before breakfast."
She stared at him, heart hammering. He wasn't bluffing.
That night, lying rigid on one side of the bed, she listened to the steady rhythm of his breathing beside her. Sleep never came.
The next morning, she woke to find a garment bag at the foot of the bed. Inside was a crimson dress fitted, commanding, impossible to ignore.
A note was pinned to it:
Wear this. Press conference at 10. Smile, Selene. You're going to make history.
By 10:00, they stood before a wall of reporters in Wolfe Dominion's skyscraper.
Kieran stepped to the microphone. "As of yesterday, the Hart and Wolfe empires are joined in marriage and in business. This union marks the beginning of a new era."
He slid an arm around her waist, his hand possessive. She smiled, perfectly poised, the way she'd been raised to do.
Inside, she was already plotting.
If Kieran thought she would simply accept his cage, he was wrong.
As the conference ended, her phone buzzed in her palm. Unknown number.
A text:
If you want to destroy Kieran Wolfe, meet me at midnight. Come alone.
She looked up across the room, Alexander Grayson was watching her.