The morning of her wedding dawned gray, as if the sky itself carried doubts about the union to come. Rain had fallen in the night, leaving the garden outside her room smelling of damp earth and roses. Aria sat before a gilded mirror, her gown cascading around her like liquid ivory. The veil, sheer and delicate, draped over her shoulders as stylists fussed with her hair.
Her reflection looked every bit the bride she had once imagined she might be. Beautiful, fragile, touched with the glow of anticipation. Yet the girl in the mirror felt like a stranger.
"Almost ready, Miss Acherley," one of the women said, adjusting the diamond tiara nestled in Aria's dark hair.
Aria forced a small smile. Ready. As if anyone could ever be ready for this.
Memories drifted unbidden—memories of high school hallways, of Henry Lannister striding past with a book in hand, or laughing quietly with teammates after practice. She had admired him from afar, too focused on skating to think herself worthy of his world. Back then, her love had been a soft, secret thing, folded away in the quiet corners of her heart.
And now, years later, fate had tied them together in the harshest of ways.
"Aria?" Her mother's voice broke through her reverie. "It's time."
The ceremony was held in a cathedral whose spires cut into the sky like knives. White roses lined the aisle, their fragrance heavy in the air. The pews overflowed with society's elite—politicians, businessmen, old money and new. Photographers lurked discreetly at the edges, ready to immortalize every moment.
When the great doors opened, a murmur swept through the congregation. Aria stepped forward, her father guiding her down the aisle. Each step felt heavier than the last, her heart caught between a desperate hope and an aching fear.
At the altar stood Henry.
He looked devastatingly handsome in his tailored suit, but his expression was carved from stone. His gaze did not soften when it met hers; his lips did not curve into a smile. He waited like a man enduring a punishment, not celebrating a union.
Aria's fingers trembled as she placed her hand in his. His grip was cold, unyielding.
The vows began.
"I, Henry Lannister, take thee, Aria Acherley…"
His voice was deep, commanding—but devoid of warmth. Each word sounded rehearsed, stripped of meaning. He might as well have been reciting terms of a contract.
Aria's heart squeezed painfully. Still, when her turn came, she spoke with trembling sincerity.
"I, Aria Acherley, take thee, Henry Lannister…"
Her voice cracked, but she forced the words out, hoping he might hear the truth in them. Hoping he might feel it.
But Henry's eyes never softened.
When the officiant declared them husband and wife, applause thundered through the cathedral. Guests leaned toward one another, whispering about how radiant she looked, how powerful the union would be. Cameras flashed.
And when Henry leaned forward to kiss her, his lips brushed hers with the barest ghost of contact, a cold formality. It was not a kiss of love, nor even of friendship. It was a signature on a deal neither of them had chosen.
---
The reception unfolded in dazzling splendor. Crystal chandeliers glittered above tables laden with silver and gold. A string quartet played softly as champagne flowed, and guests congratulated the newlyweds with practiced delight.
Aria smiled, laughed at the right moments, thanked everyone with polite grace. Inside, she felt hollow. Henry stayed at her side only when duty demanded it. The rest of the time, he moved through the room like a predator circling prey, polite but distant, his eyes sliding past her as though she were a stranger.
When they danced their first dance, Aria's chest swelled with fragile hope. She had once imagined this moment as a dream—the two of them moving together, his hand at her back, his eyes meeting hers with tenderness.
Instead, his hand rested on her waist like an obligation. His gaze drifted beyond her shoulder. He led her through the steps with flawless precision, but there was no intimacy, no warmth.
"Smile," he murmured against her ear, his tone cutting. "Everyone is watching."
Her throat tightened. "I… I thought perhaps—"
"Don't." His grip tightened briefly, warning. "Do not confuse this with affection. You're here because our fathers decided it. Nothing more."
The music swelled around them, beautiful and cruel. Aria smiled for the crowd, even as tears burned behind her eyes.
---
Later that night, when the last guests had gone and the echo of laughter faded, Aria stood at the edge of their suite. The room was lavish—silk sheets, gold fixtures, a balcony that overlooked the glittering city. It should have felt like a fairytale.
But Henry stood near the window, his jacket discarded, his posture rigid.
"This marriage," he said without turning, "will not change my life. I will not play the doting husband. You'll have the title you wanted, the wealth, the status. In return, I expect peace. Do not meddle in my affairs, and I will not interfere in yours."
Aria's hands trembled. "Henry… I don't want wealth. I never asked for status. I—"
He turned sharply, his eyes like shards of ice. "Then what do you want from me?"
The words caught in her throat. You. Just you.
But she could not say it.
Instead, she lowered her gaze. "Nothing," she whispered.
"Good," he replied coldly.
He left her standing there, the sound of the door closing like the final nail in a coffin.
Aria sank onto the bed, her gown pooling around her like broken wings. The city lights flickered outside, but inside the room, darkness pressed close.
She pressed her face into her hands, her heart aching with the weight of a dream crumbling into dust. She had thought love could bloom in arranged soil, that time might melt Henry's frost. But tonight, she understood.
This was not a marriage of hearts.
It was a prison of vows.