The morning light filtered through the thin curtains of Amara's room, soft and golden, but she felt no warmth in it. Instead, her heart was cold, heavy, and restless. Today was the day she would no longer be just Amara Bennett. Today, she would become Mrs. Damian Cross.
She lay in bed for a long time, staring at the ceiling, her fingers clutching the thin sheet like a lifeline. Her phone buzzed beside her—messages from friends, reminders about an assignment due next week, casual gossip about campus life. She stared at the notifications but couldn't bring herself to reply. None of them knew that while they were worried about grades and boyfriends, she was about to marry the most feared man in the city.
Her mother's knock interrupted her thoughts. "Amara, it's time. The stylist is here."
Amara sat up slowly, her throat dry. Her legs felt like lead as she moved to the edge of the bed.
The stylist, a cheerful woman in her thirties, entered with a bright smile. "Oh, you're going to look stunning today! Don't be nervous. Every bride feels jittery."
If only she knew.
As the woman worked—curling Amara's long dark hair, applying subtle makeup, fitting her into the white gown—Amara kept her gaze fixed on her reflection. The girl in the mirror looked beautiful, yes, but she didn't recognize herself. The veil framed her face delicately, the gown hugged her curves with elegance, yet her eyes… her eyes were hollow.
Her mother clasped her hands together when she entered. Tears glistened at the corners of her eyes. "You look like an angel, my love."
Amara forced a smile, though it didn't reach her eyes.
---
The wedding venue was the grandest cathedral in the city, chosen by the Cross family. Outside, luxury cars lined the street. Inside, crystal chandeliers cast dazzling light over rows of guests dressed in their finest attire.
Everyone whispered.
"Is that the Bennett girl?"
"She's marrying Damian Cross? Poor thing…"
"At least her family is saved."
Amara heard every murmur as she walked down the aisle, her arm linked with her father's. Each step echoed in her ears, louder than the organ music playing. Her eyes remained forward, fixed on the man waiting at the altar.
Damian Cross.
He stood tall in a perfectly tailored black suit, his expression unreadable. His eyes were sharp, focused solely on her. Even surrounded by hundreds of people, his presence dominated the room.
Amara's pulse raced.
When they reached the altar, her father released her hand reluctantly, his gaze filled with guilt. Amara stepped forward alone, standing beside Damian.
The ceremony began.
The priest's words blurred together in her ears. All she could feel was the weight of Damian's presence beside her, the way his hand brushed against hers when they were told to join. His grip was firm, unyielding, almost possessive.
"Do you, Damian Cross, take Amara Bennett as your lawful wedded wife?"
"I do," Damian said, his voice low but strong, sending a shiver down her spine.
"Do you, Amara Bennett, take Damian Cross as your lawful wedded husband?"
Amara swallowed hard. The world seemed to pause, waiting for her answer.
"I… do," she whispered.
The words tasted like chains.
"By the power vested in me, I now pronounce you husband and wife. You may kiss the bride."
Amara stiffened as Damian lifted her veil. His face was close, his eyes piercing. For a moment, she thought he might simply brush a polite kiss against her cheek and end it there. But instead, he pressed his lips firmly against hers—not gentle, not tender, but claiming.
The guests erupted in applause.
Amara's heart pounded wildly.
---
The reception that followed was a blur of flashing cameras, clinking glasses, and endless congratulations. Guests approached Damian with respect, some with fear thinly veiled behind their smiles. When they approached Amara, their gazes were curious, pitying, even envious.
Damian never left her side. His hand rested on her lower back, guiding her, anchoring her. Every time someone came too close, his gaze sharpened, cold and territorial.
It unsettled her.
At one point, a young businessman—a family friend—leaned a little too close to compliment her. Damian's hand tightened on hers beneath the table. His voice, low and dangerous, cut through the chatter.
"She's my wife," he said, his eyes locked on the man. "Remember that."
The businessman paled and quickly retreated.
Amara stared at Damian, startled by the sharp possessiveness in his tone. He caught her gaze briefly, his expression unreadable, before turning away as if nothing had happened.
---
Hours later, when the guests finally departed, Amara sat silently in the back of the sleek black car that carried them to the Cross estate. The gown felt heavy, suffocating, and her head throbbed from the weight of the day.
Damian sat beside her, his posture relaxed, his gaze fixed out the window. The silence stretched between them until she couldn't bear it anymore.
"Why… why did you agree to marry me?" she asked softly, her voice trembling.
Damian turned his head slowly, his eyes locking onto hers. The intensity in them made her breath hitch.
"Because, Amara," he said, his tone calm yet chilling, "once I decide something belongs to me… I never let it go."
Her heart skipped a beat.
Belongs to him.
The words echoed in her mind, both terrifying and strangely magnetic.
She turned away, her hands gripping her gown tightly, her pulse racing.
As the car pulled into the towering gates of the Cross estate, Amara realized one thing:
This wasn't just a marriage.
This was a cage.
And Damian Cross was both her captor and her protector.