Everything else happened too fast in just a few hours. Damian hadn't allowed her to leave after she accepted his proposal. He had asked one of his staff to show her to her new room, and now she was standing in front of a mirror without getting a single wink of sleep.
The dress wasn't white.
It was silver, sleek, a shimmering silk dress. Damian had sent it that morning without a note, without a choice. Just a box the size of her coffin and a whispered command from his staff: "Be ready by seven."
Seven!. As though this were an appointment, not a wedding. She had no idea everything would happen too fast, she didn't even get enough time to process what she was getting into.
Ava stared at her reflection in the mirror, the gown clinging to every curve, her hair coiled high in a style she hadn't chosen. Strangers came into her room and had painted her lips, lined her eyes, and slid diamonds against her throat. She looked nothing like herself. She looked like Damian Cross's possession.
Her fingers curled tight around the vanity edge. Her pulse rattled.
This wasn't how she'd imagined standing at an altar. Not with lies stitched into her skin. Not with a man who had dragged her into his world, bound her with the sharpest of chains: a secret only he could destroy.
The door clicked open. She whipped around abruptly.
Damian stepped inside without knocking, tailored in black, the bow tie at his throat neat as a blade. He didn't pause. He didn't falter. His gaze swept her once, it was a measured, searing pass from head to toe and lingered only long enough to make her throat dry.
"You'll do," he said.
Ava's nails bit into her palms. "You make it sound like an interview."
"It is." He closed the distance between them; the way he walked was smooth and predatory. "One you can't afford to fail."
Her chest constricted. He stopped inches from her, his reflection filling the mirror behind her. For a heartbeat, she was caught between two versions of him: the man in the glass and the man who breathed the same air as her, both equally unshakable.
"You're trembling," he murmured.
"I'm not."
He tilted his head, watching her. His hand lifted, not to touch her, but to fix the diamond at her throat, turning it until it caught the light. The smallest, most intimate gesture. And yet it felt like a shackle closing.
"Good," he said softly. "Fear looks honest on you."
Her jaw clenched. She wanted to spit the words back, to tell him she feared nothing, no one. But Lily's face flickered in her mind, and Ava swallowed the defiance down. She couldn't risk it. Not yet.
Damian stepped back. "Come. The car's waiting."
The ceremony wasn't in a church. Of course not.
It was in one of his hotels, a towering glass cathedral that clawed at the clouds. The penthouse had been transformed into a cathedral of excess roses dripping from chandeliers, crystal flutes lining the tables, and a string quartet weaving music through the air.
And guests. So many guests. Politicians, CEOs, men with too-smooth smiles and women with eyes like polished knives. Ava recognised some from magazines, others from whispered stories. Each one had come to watch Damian Cross do the unthinkable, bind himself, even if only on paper. How did he get everyone to be here within a few hours? She had just accepted his proposal; had this been his plan from the very beginning?
The moment they arrived, cameras flashed.
Damian's hand slid against hers, firm and commanding. He didn't look at her when he whispered, "Smile."
Her lips obeyed before she could stop them.
The officiant stood at the end of the aisle, waiting. Everything felt choreographed. Every step, every note of the quartet, every flicker of candlelight. Damian had orchestrated this, just as he orchestrated everything.
Ava's legs felt heavy, but his grip guided her forward. Every pair of eyes followed. Every smile was sharp.
The vows were stripped bare. No poetry. No tenderness. It was just straightforward; everything was happening.
"Do you, Elena Sinclair, take Damian Cross to be your lawfully wedded husband…"
Her breath caught. The name wasn't real. Not hers. Not anymore. But she forced it through her lips. "I do."
The officiant turned. "And do you, Damian Cross..."
"I do." His voice was smooth, final, leaving no room for hesitation.
Ava blinked. He hadn't even let the words finish. He hadn't needed to.
The rings slid onto their fingers. The kiss, if it could be called that was brief, calculated, the press of lips meant to satisfy cameras, not hearts. And yet Ava felt the shock of it shoot through her like fire, her pulse stumbling in betrayal.
Applause erupted. Champagne poured. Cameras flashed again and again.
Mrs Ava Cross. No or rather Elena Sinclair
The title thundered in her ears.
The reception blurred. Toasts, laughter, polished speeches. Damian moved through it like a king at his coronation, every gesture smooth, every smile calculated. He kept her at his side, never letting her drift more than an arm's length. His hand on her back was constant, steady, possessive, as though she were both a shield and a trophy.
But every so often, his lips brushed her ear. Words for her alone.
"Keep smiling."
"Don't drink too much."
"They're watching."
Every whisper was a reminder: this wasn't a marriage. It was a theatre.
And Ava? She was the lead actress.
By the time the final toast ended, her cheeks ached from forced smiles. Her skin burned beneath his hand. Her heart was a caged bird, frantic against her ribs.
When the last guest drifted out, the doors shut, leaving only silence.
Damian turned to her. His bow tie was loosened now, his jacket undone. But his gaze was sharper than ever.
"You did well."
Ava's voice was tight. "Like a good little liar, right?"
His mouth curved faintly. "You learn quickly."
Her breath shivered. "And now? What happens now?"
For the first time, something flickered in his eyes, dark amusement, maybe, or something else she couldn't name.
"Now," he said softly, "you move into my house. You sleep in my bed. You play the role until I say otherwise."
Her blood ran cold and colour drained completely from her face "Your bed?"
Damian stepped closer, shadows pooling around him. "Did you think this would end at a ring?"
Her lips parted, her throat was tight. She wanted to argue, to refuse. But his hand lifted, his fingers brushing the ring on her finger, the diamond catching the dim light.
"This isn't pretend anymore, Elena," he whispered. "You wear my name. You wear my ring. And until this year is over, you belong to me."
Her heart slammed, her breath catching sharply.
And in that moment, she realised: the wedding had been the easy part.
It was the marriage that would devour her whole.