Chapter 2 CHAPTER TWO
Amelia’s POV
The lace scratched against my skin, though no one else would have believed it. To the world, I was perfection. A Vera Wang gown spun from dreams and stitched with diamonds. Layers of silk and tulle flowed behind me like a waterfall of white, the corset hugging my waist until breathing was something I had to remind myself to do. Pearls traced the neckline, and a veil heavy with Swarovski crystals crowned me like a trophy.
Every girl’s dream. Every girl but me.
Sophia’s reflection appeared in the mirror behind mine, her green eyes sharp with worry. She smoothed the veil over my shoulders and bent close enough for me to hear her whisper.
“You’re stronger than this, Amelia. Don’t let them see you break. Even if it hurts, walk out there like you own every step.”
Tears stung my eyes. “What if I can’t?”
“You will.” Her voice softened, her hands warm on my arms. “And when you think you can’t, remember, I believe in you.” She touched her forehead to mine, her perfume sweet and grounding. “Survive this, and one day, you’ll have more than survival.”
The cathedral doors groaned open, and the music swelled.
I stepped forward, bouquet trembling in my hands. Cameras flashed. The air was heavy with roses and incense, but all I smelled was iron, all I felt was dread.
Damian stood at the altar, tall and immovable, his storm-gray eyes locked on me. Armani suit cut to perfection, broad shoulders rigid with command. He was handsome, the way fire is beautiful: dangerous, consuming, cold.
My father’s face gleamed with triumph as I passed, his pride shining brighter than the chandeliers. His eyes told me I was exactly where he wanted me: a pawn placed well.
My mother dabbed delicately at her eyes, her tears shimmering but hollow. Her lips formed the words, I’m proud of you. Then she tilted her chin toward Damian, silently urging him to kiss her. Seal it. Play your part.
The priest’s words blurred together. Vows. Promises. Forever. I repeated them because that was expected of me, each syllable scraping like glass down my throat.
“I do,” I whispered, and the sound of it shattered something inside me.
Damian’s lips brushed mine in a kiss that wasn’t a kiss, a contract signed in silence. Applause thundered, music swelled, and I felt nothing.
The reception glittered with champagne and gold. Guests congratulated us with practiced smiles, their laughter hiding whispers of power and alliances. I posed for endless photographs, each smile heavier than the last. Damian moved through the crowd like a king inspecting his subjects, his hand heavy on mine, his gaze already searching for his next handshake.
And then I saw him.
A man weaving effortlessly through the throng, his chestnut hair tousled, his golden-brown eyes alive with warmth. He reached Damian first, his grin wide as he clapped his brother’s shoulder.
“Congratulations,” he said lightly. “Happy married life, brother.”
Brother. The word rang in my ears.
Damian offered nothing more than a curt nod before turning away, already claimed by the crowd.
The man chuckled softly, then turned to me. His smile was effortless, his eyes steady and unguarded. He extended his hand.
“You must be Amelia. Adrian Blackwood.” His grip was warm, grounding, nothing like Damian’s possessive hold. “Welcome to the family. And… you did well up there. I know it couldn’t have been easy.”
The words caught me off guard, and for a breath too long, our eyes held. In his gaze, I saw something no one else had shown me all day: pity. Concern. Understanding.
When he released my hand, the absence felt like cold air rushing in. He slipped back into the crowd, laughter following him, but the spark lingered, quiet and dangerous.
Hours later, the limo carried Damian and me away from the noise. The leather seats gleamed, the city glittered beyond the tinted glass. Everything about it screamed wealth, comfort, and success.
And yet, I had never felt so suffocated.
I turned toward him, searching for anything real. “Do you always look this serious?”
He didn’t lift his eyes from his phone. “I don’t see the need to pretend when the cameras aren’t around.”
My throat tightened. “So… all that tonight. The smiles. The kiss. It was just for show?”
Finally, he looked at me. His gray eyes were sharp, cold, and empty. “What else did you expect?” His tone was clipped, dismissive. He returned to his phone, already lost to another world.
The silence pressed in, louder than the city rushing past outside. I turned to the window, and in the reflection, I saw myself. Pale, painted, hollow.
The car pulled through towering black gates, guarded and gleaming like the entrance to another world. Beyond them stretched a compound that could have been mistaken for a palace. The driveway wound through manicured gardens, flowerbeds bursting with color even under the night sky. Rows of white lilies and crimson roses lined the paths, their fragrance drifting faintly into the car. Water fountains danced under golden lights, sculpted marble figures spouting arcs that shimmered like liquid glass.
It was the kind of home little girls dream of marrying into. It was the kind of home my father had probably salivated over, picturing his daughter as queen of it all.
The limo stopped at the grand entrance. Guards in black suits lined the doors, silent and watchful, while maids in crisp uniforms rushed forward. As soon as I stepped out, the chill of night was replaced by the warmth of polished marble beneath my heels.
The lobby opened into a vast living room, its ceiling stretching impossibly high, the walls dressed in gold-accented moldings. A chandelier the size of my family’s dining room hung above, glittering with thousands of crystals. Plush velvet couches framed a fireplace carved from white stone, its flames dancing as if welcoming me home. Everything gleamed from the grand piano, polished to perfection, to the glass wall that opened onto a balcony overlooking the city skyline.
But it didn’t feel like home.
Damian said nothing, only handed his coat to a waiting butler before pressing the elevator button. The lift doors slid open with a soft chime, revealing an interior lined with mirrors and gold railings. I caught my reflection as we stepped inside the veil slightly askew, mascara smudged from exhaustion, eyes that no longer looked like mine.
The elevator rose smoothly, higher and higher, until the doors opened to the top floor: the penthouse suite.
It was a masterpiece of design. A king-sized bed dressed in silk sheets sat beneath recessed lighting that glowed softly and golden. The walls were lined with shelves of books and art pieces worth more than my father’s company. A balcony stretched the length of the room, glass doors offering a breathtaking view of the city below, where skyscrapers twinkled like scattered diamonds. Every detail screamed wealth, from the Persian rugs underfoot to the marble bathroom that gleamed through open double doors.
Maids crept around me, unpacking my things, hanging my gowns in a walk-in closet big enough to swallow my old bedroom whole. Another arranged my jewelry in a glass case, each piece sparkling under the lights. I stood in the center of it all, feeling less like a bride and more like an artifact being displayed.
“Everything is arranged, sir,” one of the staff said with a bow before retreating with the others.
Silence filled the room once more.
Damian loosened his tie, already unbuttoning his shirt as if I wasn’t there. His phone buzzed, and he checked it before glancing at me. “Get some sleep,” he said, as though dismissing a servant.
I sat on the edge of the silk-draped bed, my hands folded in my lap, my chest hollow. Around me stretched everything anyone could ever want, the kind of life fairy tales promised. But lying there beneath the weight of the crystal chandelier, in sheets softer than clouds, I had never felt further from peace.
I closed my eyes against the golden glow, and in the darkness, I whispered to myself, “This is not home. This is not love. This is a cage.”
