The Wedding in Chains
The chapel smelled like roses and secrets.
Cynthia stood beneath an arch of white blooms, the lace veil clinging to her cheek like a spider’s web. The press lined the back of the room, lenses flashing in slow bursts. A hundred eyes watched her take the hand of the man who ruined her life and swore to destroy her father.
There were no vows. No tears. No love.
Only a contract signed in ink and sealed with silence.
The pastor read from a small black book, voice steady. “Do you, Caleb Reyes, take Cynthia Harlow to be your lawfully wedded wife, for the duration of this marriage contract, under the terms and limitations therein?”
Caleb didn’t flinch. “I do.”
His voice was quiet but commanding. Unbothered. Icy.
“And do you, Cynthia Harlow…”
She didn’t hear the rest. Her pulse drummed in her ears. Her hands felt like glass.
“I do,” she said.
The cameras flashed. The papers were official. Somewhere in the front row, her father wiped his face and avoided her eyes.
And just like that, she became Mrs. Reyes.
---
The reception was held in one of Caleb’s luxury penthouses, overlooking the gray Manhattan skyline. The room smelled like cold marble and expensive indifference.
Caleb stayed at her side just long enough for photos. His hand on the small of her back was light but possessive, like a man touching a trophy he never wanted but would never let go of.
“You haven’t said a word,” she said quietly.
“I married you. That’s more than enough conversation for one day.”
She turned to him. “Is this how it’s going to be?”
He smiled—but it didn’t reach his eyes. “You’ll get used to it.”
Cynthia felt her stomach twist. “Why me?” she asked again, softer this time. “Why really me?”
His eyes shifted to her face, studying her like a riddle. “You already know the answer.”
“No. I know the revenge part. I want to know the rest.”
He said nothing. Only lifted his glass and drifted into the crowd, shaking hands with men who once feared him and women who watched him like a prize stallion.
Cynthia stood alone in a silk gown worth more than her car. Her life had become a photo op for a war she didn’t start. And somewhere in the buzz of champagne and violin music, she wondered if she had made the worst mistake of her life—or if it had been made for her before she ever had a choice.
---
Later that evening, after the guests were gone and the room was empty, Cynthia walked into the master bedroom Caleb had assigned her. It was sterile, gray, modern—beautiful and cold.
A knock came at the door.
She turned. Caleb stood there, the top button of his shirt undone, the jacket gone.
“There are rules,” he said.
She crossed her arms. “Let me guess. Don’t talk unless spoken to?”
His mouth twitched. “No cameras. No leaks. No reporters. You smile when we’re in public. You keep your head down in private.”
“And if I don’t?”
His voice didn’t change. “Then your father’s name burns. And I don’t bluff.”
Cynthia nodded once. “Anything else, husband?”
He looked at her for a long moment.
“Don’t fall in love with me,” he said. “It would be a waste.”
Then he left.
---
Downstairs, Caleb stepped onto the private elevator that led to his underground garage. He waited until the doors closed before pulling out his phone.
“Send the driver,” he said. “I’m ready.”
“Should I alert the clinic?” the voice on the line asked.
“Yes. I want the doctor prepped and in the private wing.”
“Yes, sir.”
He hung up.
The elevator doors opened to a black SUV waiting with tinted windows. Caleb climbed in, his expression unreadable.
As the car pulled into traffic, he looked out the window, his wedding ring catching the city lights.
“She signed the contract,” he said quietly. “Now we see if she can give me what I need before time runs out.”
The driver glanced at him through the mirror. “You really think she’ll agree to the second part?”
“She doesn’t have to agree,” Caleb said. “She just has to survive it.”
The driver didn’t reply.
They drove in silence toward a private clinic no one else knew about. A place where secrets lived and time ticked louder than heartbeats.
