The rain came down in sheets, drumming against the limousine roof as Eleanor Hayes stared blankly out the window. Her hands—clad in lace gloves—trembled slightly in her lap. The pristine white gown clung to her like a curse, and the heavy diamond pendant around her neck felt more like a shackle than a wedding gift.
(What am I doing?
This isn't how my life was supposed to go.
I was supposed to fall in love... not be sold off like a business asset.)
She was getting married.
To a man she had never met.
To Zavian Reyat—the notoriously ruthless CEO of Reyat Global Enterprises. A man whispered about in elite circles as brilliant, cold, and dangerously powerful. And now, her husband.
"This is the only way, Eleanor," her uncle had said just hours earlier. "If you want your father's company to survive, you will marry him. Tonight."
(Survive. That's all this is. A transaction. A sacrifice.
He gets a wife for show. We get to breathe another day.
God, I don't even know what he looks like.)
---
The chapel was nothing like she'd imagined. No flowers. No warmth. Just glass, stone, and silence. Faint candlelight flickered along the edges of the long aisle. At the altar, a tall man stood, his face hidden in shadows, expression unreadable.
He didn't turn to look at her when she walked in.
(Not even a glance. Not even fake interest.
What kind of man doesn't meet his bride's eyes on their wedding day?)
No music played. No friends, no family, no vows written from the heart. Just a priest and a contract waiting to be signed with gold ink and cold blood.
"Do you, Eleanor Hayes, take Zavian Reyat as your lawfully wedded husband?"
Her lips parted, but nothing came out.
Her eyes searched the pews until she saw her father—pale, sick, defeated. He nodded slightly, as if urging her to do it. As if begging.
(You did this for him. Just say it. Say it and survive.)
"I… I do."
The man beside her was silent.
"Zavian Reyat, do you take Eleanor Hayes to be your wife?"
A long pause.
Then, his voice.
"I do."
Deep. Unhurried. Rich with something dark and unfamiliar. It wasn't cruel. But it wasn't kind either. It sent goosebumps down her arms.
(That voice... it doesn't sound like I expected.
It's not polished. Not stiff. It's... dangerous.)
"You may now kiss the bride," the priest declared.
He didn't.
He merely reached out, took her hand in his, and slid the wedding ring onto her finger with deliberate care. His touch was cold.
(Not even a kiss? What is this marriage?
He couldn't look colder if I were a corpse.)
---
The bridal suite was massive—marble floors, floor-to-ceiling windows, a fire crackling in the hearth. Eleanor stood in the center, arms wrapped around herself, still unsure if this was real.
She turned when she heard him enter. He shrugged off his black coat, setting it down with precision.
"Why didn't you show your face before the wedding?" she asked, voice quiet but firm.
No answer.
He slowly unbuttoned his cufflinks, rolled up his sleeves. Every move was intentional. Unreadable.
(Is he going to ignore me all night?
Is this what the rest of my life will look like? Cold silence?)
"You owe me that much," she added.
He looked up then. The first clear look she got of him.
And froze.
This… wasn't the man she'd seen in the photos. The Zavian Reyat she'd Googled a hundred times had sharp, polished features and emotionless grey eyes. This man had a faint scar under his lip. His eyes burned gold when they caught the light—not grey. His aura wasn't cold, but electric. Like a storm hiding behind a calm sea.
"You're not him," she whispered, backing a step away.
(Wait... who is he?
If he's not Zavian... then who did I just marry?)
He smiled—slow, dangerous, beautiful.
"No, Eleanor," he said, voice velvet smooth and laced with something lethal. "I'm not the man you were supposed to marry."