Elara had always imagined weddings as loud, warm things.
Flowers.
Laughter.
Music that filled the air.
This one was silent.
The private hall inside the Blackwood estate smelled like polished wood and roses that hadn't been chosen for love — only for appearance. White fabric hung from the ceiling. Golden chairs stood in perfect lines.
Guests whispered.
Powerful people.
Cold people.
She stood at the altar in a white dress that didn't belong to her dreams.
Her hands trembled.
Then he arrived.
Dominic didn't walk.
He commanded the room without trying.
Black suit. Cold eyes. Calm face.
He looked untouched by the moment.
Elara looked at him.
He looked at her.
The priest cleared his throat.
"Do you, Dominic Blackwood, take Elara Verne as your lawfully wedded wife?"
There was a pause.
Years of pain lived in that breath.
"Yes."
The answer was solid.
Unshakeable.
Her turn came.
She hesitated.
Not because she didn't want to.
But because this felt like stepping off a cliff.
"Yes," she whispered.
The world shifted.
A ring was placed on her finger.
His fingers brushed hers.
Lightning.
Not heat.
Not hunger.
Emotion.
He leaned closer just enough that only she could hear him.
"You're safe now."
The words wrapped around her heart like chains made of silk.
The kiss wasn't given.
There was no music.
No cheers.
Only quiet.
Only power.
Only them.
That night, she sat alone in her room, staring at the ring.
A wife without love.
A bride without hope.
Then a soft knock.
Her heart jumped.
"Come in."
The door opened.
Dominic stood there again.
Always calm.
Always controlled.
"I wanted to check on you," he said.
Her voice came out smaller than she wanted.
"Why?"
His eyes softened — just for a breath.
"Because someone should have."
Silence fell.
Then softer:
"I won't harm you. In any way."
She swallowed.
"I know."
He stepped back.
"I'll be down the hall."
The door closed.
And for the first time, Elara didn't feel alone.