Aria Cole's hands shook as she adjusted the delicate lace of her wedding gown. The mirror reflected a woman who looked poised, elegant, and completely composed—but inside, she was a storm of fear, anger, and disbelief. She was about to walk down an aisle to marry a man she barely knew, a man whose reputation was as cold and unyielding as steel.
The ballroom was breathtaking. Crystal chandeliers cast a soft glow over polished marble floors. The air smelled of expensive flowers and faint perfume. Cameras flashed from every corner, capturing the image of a glamorous union, while whispers of astonishment floated through the crowd. Every detail screamed perfection, but Aria felt like a pawn in someone else's game.
Damian Blackwood stood at the end of the aisle, impeccably dressed in a tailored black suit. His expression was unreadable, his posture flawless, but his dark eyes—those piercing eyes—seemed to cut through everyone in the room. When they met Aria's gaze, a shiver ran down her spine. He said nothing, but the intensity in that single look was enough to make her heart skip.
"Bride, are you ready?" The officiant's voice echoed in the vast room.
Aria swallowed hard, forcing herself to nod. She took a deep breath and stepped forward, the weight of every eye in the room pressing down on her. Each step was heavy, each flash from the cameras like a spotlight on her vulnerability. She felt the judgment, the curiosity, and maybe even envy—but most of all, she felt trapped.
Damian's expression remained cold, unwavering, as if he were a statue carved from ice. He extended his hand slightly, a gesture formal and detached. Aria's fingers brushed his briefly—an accidental touch that sent an unexpected jolt through her. She quickly pulled away, cheeks flaming. No. This is a contract. Nothing more.
The ceremony passed in a blur of scripted vows and formal gestures. Damian's voice was measured, controlled, repeating words that were meant to bind them legally, not emotionally. When Aria repeated her vows, her tone was precise, restrained, as though she were reciting a line from a play rather than confessing anything heartfelt.
And yet… as she glanced at him, she couldn't ignore a flicker of something beneath the surface. A subtle tightening of his jaw, a brief narrowing of his eyes—was that… irritation? Curiosity? Or the tiniest hint of something more dangerous? She shook her head. Stop imagining things. He doesn't care.
The rings slid onto their fingers, cold metal symbolizing their cold arrangement. Her hand brushed his again, and this time, she noticed a faint grip—not firm, but enough to make her pulse quicken.
When the officiant pronounced them married, the crowd erupted into applause. Flashbulbs popped like tiny explosions, and Aria smiled politely, carefully, as if nothing inside her had shifted. But the truth was, the warmth of the crowd did nothing to thaw the icy walls Damian carried around him. He remained statuesque, composed, and impossibly intimidating.
After the ceremony, the reception began. Waiters moved gracefully, serving champagne and canapés. Guests mingled, complimented, and whispered. Aria floated through it all, her smile practiced, her movements elegant, yet her mind raced. Every glance at Damian reminded her that this man was not a partner in love but a master of control. Every subtle smirk or cold nod could mean a hundred different things—and she had no way of reading him.
"Do you understand the terms?" Damian's voice cut through the hum of conversation. It was low, smooth, and somehow commanding even amid the clinking of glasses.
Aria's spine stiffened. "Crystal clear," she said, keeping her tone neutral. No emotion. Nothing that betrays me.
"Good," he said, and for the briefest moment, his gaze lingered on her lips, then returned to neutral. Why did that feel… significant? She shook her head again, scolding herself.
Throughout the evening, the tension between them was palpable. Damian never raised his voice, never made unnecessary gestures, but every slight movement—his hand brushing his glass, the tilt of his head, the subtle narrowing of his eyes—made her hyper-aware of his presence. It was exhausting and thrilling all at once.
And yet, amidst the formalities, she caught glimpses of contradictions. A soft sigh when no one was watching, a rare flicker of patience—or was it boredom?—in his otherwise impenetrable demeanor. The man she had been forced to marry was a fortress, and she had just crossed the drawbridge.
By the end of the night, Aria returned to the car that would take her to Damian's mansion. She settled into the plush leather seat, her mind replaying every glance, every word, every spark of tension. Her hands still trembled slightly from the ceremony, but not from fear—no, this was something else. Something far more dangerous.
Damian entered the car after her, sitting opposite, his posture rigid, expression unreadable. The silence between them was thick, almost tangible. Aria wanted to speak, to break it, but every word felt like a misstep on a tightrope.
Finally, she exhaled softly. "I… I'll do my best to follow the rules," she said, keeping her tone calm.
He didn't respond immediately. Then, in his usual measured tone: "See that you do. This marriage is just business. Don't expect anything else."
Aria's jaw tightened. She lifted her chin, masking the flutter in her chest. I will never fall for you, she thought. Not him. Not this man.
But as the city lights blurred past the car window and Damian's steady gaze met hers in the rearview mirror, a small, unsettling part of her whispered: This is only the beginning.