Morning broke over the Harrington estate like a reluctant confession—pale, bleached, drained of warmth. The sun did not rise so much as uncover itself, stripped bare and wan, spreading across the mansion's slate roofs and tall glass windows with the delicate, indifferent touch of a doctor examining a patient too far gone to recover. The grounds around the estate were still—almost reverent, as if aware that something profoundly unnatural was about to be sealed inside these walls, something that should never have existed yet had been forced into being by desperation, guilt, and a shared inability to escape the ghosts that controlled them both.
Seraphina stood in one of the smaller reception halls, her posture rigid, fingers gripping the hem of her dress as though she were afraid she would fall through the earth if she let go. She had slept hardly at all—more accurately, she had drifted in and out of half-consciousness throughout the night, gasping every time her mind replayed the memory of her attempt to end her life, the slicing thought of What if he hadn't come? What if he arrived minutes later? It terrified her in a way she had never been terrified before, because the answer had been simple: she would be dead. A pathetic, frightened death, in a house she had forced her way into, surrounded by people who pitied her, married to a man who had once adored her and now wished to erase her like a stain.
Yet she lived. And because she lived, she was bound.
Bound by a signature written in trembling hands on a contract that stripped her of every right, every possible claim, every illusion she once held about what marriage might be. Bound by her own selfish terror. Bound by his fear of another death on his conscience. Bound to him, yet utterly, irrevocably unwanted.
She swallowed, the sound harsh in the silence. Her wedding dress—hurriedly chosen from the estate's collection of ceremonial garments meant for private functions—felt like a costume borrowed from a better woman in a better story. It was soft white satin, understated, almost austere. No lace, no glittering stones, no veil flowing like a dream behind her. Just a simple dress meant to avoid the scrutiny of the media, meant to signify nothing beyond legality.
A marriage meant to exist only on paper.
Her hands kept trembling. She pressed them against her sides, forcing herself to breathe evenly.
Footsteps sounded behind her.
Seraphina turned.
Adrian stood there, perfectly composed, dressed in a charcoal suit that drew lines of severity around his already severe frame. His hair was slightly damp, showing he had showered recently—perhaps again, she realized with a pang, as if trying to wash away the way she had clung to him the night before. His eyes were unreadable, carved from a stone no archaeologist would ever excavate, because no one would dare dig that deep.
He looked at her in silence for several seconds. Not a long stare. Not a lingering gaze. Just a measured acknowledgment of the woman he was about to marry—or rather, the woman whose life he had just chosen not to allow to unravel into catastrophe.
Then he spoke.
"Your parents have arrived."
The words were simple, clipped, delivered with the precision of someone performing a duty, not participating in a life event.
Seraphina stiffened. "I… I see."
A ghost of something—resentment? exhaustion? quiet bitterness?—flickered behind his lashes before he turned slightly, gesturing towards the adjoining hall.
"They need to sign the civil acknowledgment papers. The contract has already been forwarded to their devices."
She nodded, throat dry.
Her parents were furious. Of course they were. They had expected wealth, status, access to the Harrington empire—and instead they received a daughter married into a prison she had begged for, with no rights, no privileges, no advantage. They would see this as betrayal—not by Adrian, but by her.
Yet they could do nothing. Adrian Harrington, even at twenty-two, had become an immovable force. With the conglomerate under his fist and his influence woven into the political and economic backbone of the country, no one challenged him. Especially not two parents who had gambled their daughter's future for prestige and now found themselves outplayed by the very man they had once pitied as a spoiled, obese, embarrassing fiancé.
Seraphina walked beside him toward the hall where the officiator waited, her heartbeat thudding against her ribs in frantic, irregular patterns.
Her mother's voice pierced the silence even before they entered.
"Seraphina, what have you done!?"
Her father followed, voice low and cutting, "A zero-benefit marriage? No access to assets? No negotiation rights? He can end the marriage at will? Have you lost your mind?"
Her mother stormed toward her, eyes blazing with a kind of rage Seraphina had only seen when money was involved. "How could you sign something like this? Do you have any idea what this does to our family? To our reputation?"
Seraphina flinched, but before her mother could seize her arm, Adrian stepped forward.
"Mrs. Moretti," he said, his voice cold enough to stop the argument midair, "your daughter is now under my protection. And you will speak to her with restraint while you remain in my home."
Her mother froze. It was not politeness that stopped her—it was fear.
Her father tried to salvage pride. "Adrian, the terms are—"
"Final," Adrian cut in. "Non-negotiable. And already signed."
His gaze turned to Seraphina briefly, unreadable, before he continued in that immaculate, merciless tone:
"If you attempt to coerce her, pressure her, manipulate her, or visit her without invitation, I will sever all contact permanently. Today is the last day either of you intrudes on her mental state. She will not be subjected to the environment that drove her to attempt suicide."
Seraphina's parents blanched.
Her mother stuttered, "Suicide—? She—"
Adrian's eyes sharpened. "Yes."
Silence fell, thick and humiliating.
Seraphina felt her face burn. Her parents' expressions shifted—from shock, to annoyance, to a calculation so transparent she could almost hear the gears grinding: A mentally unstable daughter is an inconvenience. But losing Adrian is worse.
Her stomach twisted.
She had become a liability, not a daughter.
Adrian continued, "She will remain here after the marriage. Your contact will be limited. If she is harmed by anything you attempt—social, emotional, political—you will be blocked entirely."
Her father finally exhaled, his voice thin. "We… understand."
Her mother forced a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Of course. Her health comes first."
Seraphina wanted to laugh—to break into hysterics. They didn't care about her health; they cared about the thin thread tying them to the Harrington name remaining intact under any conditions.
The officiator approached.
"Mr. Harrington, Ms. Moretti. If you are ready…"
Ready? No one was ready. Not for this monstrosity of a union. Not for a marriage built from fear and obligation rather than affection or reconciliation.
But they signed.
Two signatures binding them.
Two signatures sealing her to a man who could discard her at any moment.
Two signatures marking the point of no return.
When the papers were done and the officiator bowed himself out, her parents were escorted away—coldly, efficiently—by Adrian's staff.
The doors closed behind them with a finality that sucked the warmth from the room.
Seraphina and Adrian stood alone.
For a moment, neither spoke.
She stared at the floor, clenching her hands so tightly her knuckles whitened. "I'm… married," she whispered to herself, the words tasting foreign. "I'm your wife."
Adrian's voice was soft, but distant. "Yes."
Her heart fluttered painfully. "Does it mean anything to you?"
He didn't even hesitate.
"No."
The coldness struck her like a blow.
His gaze, sharp and exhausted, flicked to her. "This marriage exists for one purpose: so that you don't try to die again."
She felt her throat close.
"I don't love you," he said—blunt, honest, merciless. "And I won't pretend otherwise. I will give you medical support. Space. Stability. But nothing more."
Her vision blurred. Whether from shame, heartbreak, or pure self-disgust, she couldn't tell.
"If I divorce you," he continued, "you will be transferred to a psychiatric facility. That is not a threat. It is a safety measure—for both of us."
She nodded shakily.
He turned, dismissing her with a gesture of his hand as he walked toward the corridor that led to his office.
"Settle into the east wing," he said without looking back. "Your things have been moved. Staff will assist you."
"And you?" she whispered.
He paused for half a heartbeat.
"…I have work."
Then he left.
Seraphina sank to the floor, trembling, her wedding dress pooling around her like spilled milk—fragile, pale, already stained with the first shadows of a marriage born without love.
And in the far wing of the mansion, Adrian pressed a shaking hand to the wall, breath uneven, heart thundering with the realization that if he had arrived moments later, he would have lived with her death tormenting him forever.
This—this unwanted marriage—was the lesser hell.
For both of them.