The doors of the ceremonial hall slammed shut behind Alira with a force that echoed through her bones. The sound was final, like a lock clicking, sealing her fate. Her pulse raced, loud and frantic, as though it was trying to outrun her own body. She stepped forward because the guards behind her left her no other choice. Every movement in the heavy wedding gown felt stiff and suffocating, as if she were wrapped in someone else's life—a life meant for a sister who had chosen freedom, leaving her in this nightmare.
The hall was dimly lit, the chandeliers above casting cold, pale light across marble floors. Wealth radiated from every corner—gold accents, carved pillars, velvet drapes—but the oppressive air of power drowned any sense of beauty. The guests stood at attention, their whispers falling silent the moment she appeared. Their gazes were sharp, curious, gleaming with something close to pity… or anticipation.
Maybe both.
Alira swallowed hard. Her palms were cold and damp inside her gloves. Every step echoed too loudly, as if announcing her presence to an audience she never asked for. But nothing prepared her for the moment she lifted her gaze to meet the man waiting for her at the altar.
Damon Vargaz.
The man she was supposed to marry.
The man her sister was meant to marry.
The man feared across the city.
He stood there like a dark monument carved from stone—unmoving, unreadable, dangerously silent. His suit was black and sharp, tailored to perfection, the kind that screamed power without needing ornament. But it was his presence—cold, heavy, and sovereign—that made the air feel colder around him.
His eyes, a deep steel-gray, cut through her like a blade the moment she entered.
He didn't blink.
He didn't welcome her.
He didn't offer a single sign of warmth or recognition.
He simply watched.
Those eyes, emotionless and sharp, followed her every step. Alira's throat tightened. She wondered if he could already see the truth. Could Damon tell that the woman walking toward him wasn't the one promised to him? Could he sense the fear beneath her makeup, the tremor in her breaths, the frantic beating of a heart that did not belong in this place?
She tried to look down, to escape his piercing stare, but her body refused to obey. The air around him seemed to pull her in, forcing her to face the man whose name alone could silence a room.
When she reached the altar, she was close enough to smell the faint scent of him—clean, crisp, almost clinical. It wasn't the scent of cologne; it was the scent of a man who lived with precision, discipline, and an edge of danger. A scent that held no softness.
Alira stopped beside him. Her legs trembled slightly under the gown, but she forced them still.
Damon didn't offer his arm.
He didn't greet her.
He didn't even look away.
He simply stood there, assessing her—cold as winter, sharp as a predator studying a creature it wasn't sure whether to spare or devour.
Seconds stretched. Long, unbearable, suffocating seconds.
Alira felt her lungs tighten, her breaths shallow. She forced her eyes to the priest, desperate for any distraction from the man beside her. But her gaze drifted back to him, as if drawn by some gravitational force she couldn't resist.
His jaw was set in a hard line. No emotion touched his face. No hint of approval or displeasure. Just that unblinking, razor-edged stare.
Why isn't he saying anything?
Does he know?
Can he tell I'm not Helena?
A wave of panic crawled up her spine. She felt her heartbeat thudding in her ears, drowning out the priest's opening words.
Damon finally shifted ever so slightly—a small turn of his head, a narrowing of his eyes. But even that tiny movement radiated authority. It was a reminder that she was standing beside a man who ruled with silence as easily as others ruled with words.
When he spoke at last, his voice was low, smooth, and impossibly calm. A voice that could lull or threaten depending on how he chose to use it.
"You're late."
Just two words.
Yet they struck her like a whip.
Alira's breath hitched. She parted her lips, unsure if she was supposed to answer, unsure if her voice would even come out. But she said nothing. She couldn't. Anything she said risked exposing the lie she embodied.
Damon didn't press. He returned to silence, but something in his gaze sharpened. As if her lack of response confirmed a suspicion he hadn't voiced.
The ceremony resumed.
The priest recited vows that Alira barely heard. Her world had narrowed to the man at her side—his stillness, his cold aura, the unseen violence lurking beneath his quiet exterior.
When it came time for the exchange of vows, Damon moved first. He took her hand—not gently, not harshly, but with an assertive grip that reminded her he wasn't a man accustomed to hesitation or denial.
His fingers were warm. Hers were ice.
He repeated the words with a calmness that bordered on chilling. There was no affection, no tenderness. Only a sense of inevitability, as though this union meant nothing more or less than a contract being fulfilled.
When it was her turn, her voice shook on the first word. She hoped no one noticed—but Damon did. She felt the subtle tightening of his hand as her voice wavered, the faintest sign of displeasure, or curiosity, or both.
She finished her vows with her pulse hammering dangerously fast.
Then came the moment that sealed everything.
The priest gestured for Damon to lift her veil.
Alira's chest tightened as Damon reached for the lace. His movements were controlled, deliberate. When the veil rose, his eyes locked onto her exposed face—a face he had never seen before today.
Something flickered in his expression.
Not recognition.
Not softness.
But calculation.
A silent, dangerous question.
Damon lowered the veil to the side and studied her as though she were a puzzle that didn't fit its box. His gaze traveled from her eyes to her trembling lips to the slightest tremor in her chin.
Alira fought to remain still.
Then, slowly—so slowly it sent a shiver through her—Damon leaned closer.
Not to kiss her.
Not yet.
But close enough that his breath brushed her ear and his words sank straight into her spine.
"You're different."
Her heart stopped.
He pulled back before she could react, before the panic crawling through her veins could take shape. He didn't say anything more, and the priest continued as though nothing had happened.
But Alira knew.
He sensed it.
He felt it.
He saw something was wrong.
And yet he allowed the ceremony to continue.
Why?
The question burned through her mind as Damon finally touched his lips to hers—a cold, reserved kiss, merely a formality. But even in that brief contact, she felt the weight of the man she had been forced to marry.
A man who had noticed the lie…
and was choosing to wait.
That terrified her more than anything.
Because Damon Vargaz was not a man who waited without reason.