The Wedding Day

The sun rose quietly over the estate, casting golden rays through the tall glass windows of the master suite. The morning was still, but heavy with anticipation. The halls buzzed softly with preparation — the rustling of gowns, the clinking of glassware, whispered instructions from staff rushing to finalize every detail.

Rosita sat in front of a grand mirror, her hands clasped tightly in her lap as the makeup artist dusted soft gold shimmer over her eyelids. She looked like a painting—too still, too perfect, too quiet. Not from nerves, but from resignation. Her eyes didn’t sparkle with the giddy joy of a bride; they held something deeper. Conflict. Confusion. Maybe even heartbreak.

She didn’t want to marry a stranger. Not like this. Not in front of a hundred people who knew nothing about her, yet would witness one of the most permanent decisions of her life. But she knew she had little choice now. The press already had the date. The guests were arriving. There was no running.

From the other side of the estate, Sebastian stood before his mirror, straightening the cuffs of his tailored black tuxedo. He looked refined. Powerful. Cold. But there was an unusual tightness in his chest today—something he didn’t recognize at first. Nerves? No. Not nerves. Anticipation.

He wasn’t a man to second-guess his decisions, and Rosita was no exception. There was something about her that pulled him in, something he couldn’t quite describe. She was fire under ice—fragile but fierce. Even now, when she looked at him with disdain, he found himself addicted to her every reaction.

When the time came, Rosita was led out of the bridal suite in a gown that shimmered like stardust. The dress was custom-made, covered in hand-sewn diamond crystals that clung to her skin like a second layer of light. The veil, long and sheer, cascaded down her back like mist. She looked like a dream. An unwilling, breathtaking dream.

The garden had been transformed into something out of a fantasy novel. White roses twisted around gold arches, delicate strings of pearls hung from trees, and the aisle was lined with ivory petals. Guests stood as soft piano music floated through the air.

Sebastian turned, and the world slowed.

His breath caught as his gaze locked on her.

There she was. A vision. His bride. She looked like she belonged in another world—untouchable, exquisite, ethereal. For a moment, the always-composed Sebastian couldn’t speak. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t blink.

Rosita’s lips curled, only slightly. “I guess you like it,” she whispered beneath her breath as she approached him.

He smirked, lowering his head just a bit. “Like is an understatement.”

The ceremony moved quickly, like a blur. The vows were short—more legal than romantic. There were no emotional declarations of love. Just a priest reading scripted words, two rings, and a kiss that made her spine lock in place when Sebastian’s lips brushed hers with a dangerous kind of control. Gentle, yet possessive. Like a man sealing a contract, not celebrating a union.

When the officiant announced them as husband and wife, the applause followed, polite and proper.

But inside, Rosita’s heart was anything but calm.

As they walked down the aisle together, Sebastian’s hand slid into hers. His grip was firm. Like he owned her now. And in many ways, he did.

She didn’t look at him.

He didn’t stop looking at her.

The reception was set inside a grand white tent, dripping in chandeliers and crystal. Every detail was curated to perfection. Rosita sat next to Sebastian at the head table, surrounded by flowers, a thousand candles, and a cake taller than any person in the room.

He leaned in, whispering low. “You wore the dress well, sweetheart.”

She didn’t respond, just sipped her wine and kept her gaze on the dance floor.

“You’re angry with me,” he said.

Rosita smiled tightly. “Wouldn’t be the first time.”

He chuckled softly. “You’ll come around.”

“I didn’t agree to any of this. You forced my hand.”

“I didn’t force anything,” he murmured, brushing his thumb against the back of her hand beneath the tablecloth. “I just made sure you had no other option.”

She pulled her hand away.

Sebastian didn’t react. Just picked up his glass, raised it in a toast with his brother, and returned to sipping it coolly, as if nothing had happened.

Later that night, when the first dance began, Sebastian stood and extended his hand. “Shall we, My dear wife?”

Rosita hesitated, but all eyes were on them. She took his hand.

He guided her to the center of the floor with a slow, elegant grace, pulling her close. His hand pressed into the small of her back, his lips close to her ear.

“You’re mine now,” he whispered, voice smooth and firm. “No more dreams, Rosita. This is real.”

Her throat tightened.

The music played. They moved as one. A perfect picture of romance.

But inside, Rosita wasn’t dancing.

She was surviving.