You know it's not your wedding when there are snipers on the roof and a kill switch in your bouquet.
My mother used to say that every girl dreams of her wedding day.
She was wrong.
No girl dreams of being married off to her own bodyguard by executive order.
And no one dreams of saying I do with five hundred camera drones whirring over their head like a mechanical swarm of vultures.
I take a breath.
The cathedral is marble and menace. White roses trail down the gold-etched aisle. Rows of Aurelia's elite are seated like witnesses at a corporate funeral. The cameras zoom in as I step into the light.
My gown is off-the-shoulder, sharp at the waist, designed by someone who clearly hates breathing.
My veil is lace.
My lipstick is warpaint.
My heels could kill if I angle them right.
I walk like I'm not about to set my own life on fire.
The closer I get to the altar, the more it feels like I'm walking into a sniper's crosshairs.
And standing at the end of it?
Killian Blackwood.
Tuxedo black. Tie blood red.
And under the left side of his jacket — I know it's there — a holstered gun.
Because he's not here to be my husband. He's here to be my weapon.
I reach him. We lock eyes.
He doesn't offer his hand.
Good.
Because I wouldn't take it.
The bishop begins the farce. "Dearly beloved…"
My ears buzz.
The crowd watches like this is their favorite episode of Thorne Family Implodes, Season 8.
Jackson is somewhere in the fourth pew.
Alyssa sits beside him like she didn't destroy me three nights ago.
My father is front row, flanked by his legal team.
And I?
I'm reciting vows I didn't write for a man who won't kiss me.
"…to have and to hold…" the bishop drones.
Killian's jaw ticks.
"…in sickness and in health…"
I swear I see the flicker of a smirk on his face. Bastard.
"…until death do you part."
At that, Killian glances sideways — to the security guard stationed at the east wall.
Subtle. But I catch it.
And then, it's my turn.
The bishop nods. "Phoebe Thorne, do you take Killian Blackwood to be your lawfully wedded husband?"
The entire cathedral holds its breath.
I smile.
A perfect, practiced, dead-eyed debutante smile.
"I do."
I lie.
The bishop turns. "Killian Blackwood, do you take Phoebe Thorne to be your lawfully wedded wife?"
His eyes hold mine.
And his voice is smooth. Controlled.
"I do."
He lies better.
The bishop lifts the rings. Polished symbols of a prison I didn't choose.
Killian takes mine first.
He slides the diamond onto my finger like he's arming me with something sharp.
I do the same.
Our fingers touch.
Static.
Not real.
Not soft.
Just charged. Electric. Dangerous.
"You may now—"
The bishop pauses.
Killian leans in. Just enough.
He presses his lips to my cheek. A whisper of contact.
Calculated. Controlled. Cold.
Cameras click like gunfire.
He pulls back. His face is unreadable. Like I'm already a memory he's had to bury.
Applause thunders.
Aurelia is watching its newest power couple walk out of the cathedral like a walking ceasefire.
The motorcade is waiting. Bulletproof. Black-tinted. Dipped in PR gloss.
Inside, silence.
I sit beside him, veil draped over my shoulder, heart beating like a metronome set to rage.
Finally, I speak.
"No love, huh?"
He doesn't look at me.
"Was that clause for my sake or yours?"
Still nothing.
So I twist the knife.
"You know, most husbands at least kiss the bride."
His jaw tightens. "You didn't want me to kiss you."
"Right. Because this is about what I want."
That gets him. A flicker. A flash of fire in those steel-gray eyes.
"You think I want this?" he hisses.
I face him. "You think I don't?"
He exhales. Rough. "We didn't have a choice."
"No. We had a choice. We just didn't take it."
His hand curls into a fist. "You want the truth?"
"I dare you."
"I didn't kiss you because I wouldn't have been able to stop."
Silence.
Air.
Too much of it and not enough.
I open my mouth. But no words come out.
The car stops. We've arrived.
Killian steps out first.
I follow, heels clicking like countdowns.
We walk into Thorne Manor — now ours — cameras trailing, reporters screaming, flashbulbs going off like seizures of light.
Inside, everything's been staged. White flowers. Gold-rimmed champagne. "Just Married" signs hand-picked by Livia's PR team.
Our bags are already unpacked.
Two matching monogrammed robes hang on the bathroom door.
One bed.
King-sized.
Untouched.
Killian locks the front door. The moment it clicks, I rip off the veil.
He watches. Silent.
I turn to him.
"Ground rules," I say.
"Hit me."
"No touching."
"Fine."
"No interviews without me."
"Done."
"No lies in private."
That gives him pause.
I raise a brow. "Too much?"
He shrugs off his jacket. "I've lived on lies. Let's see how long the truth lasts."
He disappears down the hall. I don't follow.
Instead, I walk into the bedroom and stare at the bed.
It's too big.
Too clean.
Too real.
I sit on the edge. My dress swishes around my ankles like water.
And for the first time today… I let myself feel it.
Not sadness.
Not shame.
But something colder.
Resolve.
This marriage isn't a fairy tale.
It's a power play.
And if I have to burn the world down to take my life back, so be it.
The door creaks open behind me.
Killian's voice is low.
"We have a problem."
I look over.
He's holding a tablet.
"What kind of problem?"
He hands it to me.
Breaking News:Leaked security footage shows Thorne heiress in violent altercation with best friend at charity gala. Public backlash mounts. Protesters gather outside wedding venue.
My stomach drops.
There's more.
A second leak: intimate surveillance of Killian escorting Phoebe out of a stairwell — her dress torn, eyes red, his hand on her waist. "Are they faking it?" headlines scream. "Or is this the real scandal?"
I look up at him.
"What is this?"
Killian's expression is tight. "Someone's playing both sides."
"Who leaked it?"
He shakes his head. "Not sure. But this doesn't feel like a tabloid cash grab. This feels… targeted."
By who?
Alyssa?
Jackson?
My father?
All of them?
My throat dries.
Killian steps closer. "This isn't over."
I nod. "It never is."
Then, quieter—
"What do we do now?"
Killian doesn't answer.
Not right away.
He walks over to the table. Picks up the contract.
The one with both our names.
The one with the clause that still echoes in my head.
No falling in love.
He looks at it.
Then at me.
His voice is low.
"You asked if the clause was for you or for me."
I don't speak.
He sets the contract on fire.
A single match. A soft flick.
Flames lick the edge of the paper.
He drops it in the fireplace and turns to me.
His eyes unreadable.
"I'm starting to think," he says softly,
"it was for both of us."